THE HARE 
 
THE HARE 
 
 BY 
 
 ERNEST OLDMEADOW 
 
 Author of “Coo gin,” “Antonio,” etc. 
 
 boston college library 
 
 CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 1921 
 
\ 
 
 pp, 
 
 5712- 
 . % 
 ft 3 
 /P./ 
 
 Copyright, 1921, by 
 The Centuey Co. 
 
 / 
 
To E. F. G. 
 
 Not urith a pen of gold , 
 
 In blood of roses dipt ; 
 
 Not on fair vellum scroll’d , 
 
 I wrought you this my script . 
 
 Here are no colors gay, 
 
 Here are plain black and white m 
 The white for eager Day, 
 
 The black for kindly Night . 
 

 N 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 J 
 
BOOK I 
 
 THE DELIVERER 
 
In ipsa node erat Petrus dormiens inter duos milites, vindus 
 catenis duabus: et custodes ante ostium custodiebant carcerem . 
 Et ecce Angelus Domini adstitit: et lumen refulsit in Inab - 
 itaculo: percussoque Petri , excitavit eum dicens: Surge 
 vel-ociter. Et ceciderunt catenae de manibus ejus. Dixit 
 autem Angelus ad eum: Praecingere y et calcea te caligas tuas . 
 Et fecit sic . Et dixit illi: Circumda tibi vestimentum tuum y 
 et sequere me. Et exiens sequebatur eum y et nesciebat quia 
 verum est quod fiebat per Angelum: existimabat autem se 
 visum videre. Transeuntes autem primam et secundam custo- 
 diam y venerunt ad port am f err earn quae ducit ad civitatem: 
 quae ultro aperta est eis. Et exeuntes processerunt vicum 
 unum: et continuo discessit Angelus ab eo . — actus apostolo- 
 rum, xii, 6-10. 
 
THE HARE 
 
 CHAPTER 1 
 
 I T ’S Batwood — Puffer Batwood ! ’ 7 
 
 “By Jove, it’s Redding! Hanged if it isn’t good 
 old Teddie Redding ! I thought you were in Spain. ’ ’ 
 “No. I ’m in Bulford.” 
 
 “It ’s ages since I last saw you, Teddie.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Ages. Let me see. How many years ? What ’s to-day ? ’ ’ 
 “It ’s Tuesday, the seventeenth of May, eighteen-sixty- 
 four. 9 9 
 
 ‘ 4 Thanks. I knew it was Tuesday, and I even had some 
 faint suspicion of the May and the ’sixty-four. But thanks 
 for the seventeen. I always forget the day of the month, 
 May the seventeenth, ’sixty-four. Puffer, it ’s twelve years, 
 almost to the day, since my father left Bulford ; and it ’s 
 nearly thirteen years since you and I last met.” 
 
 “I remember, Ted. You all went away to Italy for the 
 winter, didn’t you? Now, tell me something about your- 
 self.” 
 
 “Look here, Puffer, I ’ve just had a happy thought. I ’m 
 at ‘The Bulcaster Arms.’ If you ’ve nothing better to do, 
 come and dine with me. It would be a great charity. I ’m 
 all alone.” 
 
 “It ’s tempting. But I don’t live in Bulford now. I live 
 at Sharley, and the last train goes just before eight. ’ ’ 
 
 “We can get over that,” answered Edward Redding, after 
 glancing at his watch. “Instead of waiting for dinner, we 
 
4 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 could have a bit of cold salmon straight away, and a dish of 
 cutlets to follow. And a bottle of hock. My father has 
 often told me how good the Rhine wines are at ‘The Bulcaster 
 Arms/ To speak the simple truth, you ’ll be doing me a 
 service. I ’ve eaten nothing to speak of since breakfast, and 
 I shall jump at any excuse for wolfing some food this very 
 minute. ’ ’ 
 
 The old inn stood barely a hundred paces away; so the 
 walk thither allowed time for nothing more than an inter- 
 change of chaff on the corpulence of Bat wood and the scrag- 
 giness of Redding. As they entered the hall of “The Bul- 
 caster Arms,” Oakes, the new landlord hurried forward. 
 When, an hour before, young Mr. Redding had booked a room, 
 the name of Redding meant nothing to Oakes, who was not 
 a Bulford man; but he greeted Mr. Redding’s guest obse- 
 quiously, saying: 
 
 “Good evening, Sir George. It is a long time since you 
 did us the honor.” 
 
 When they were seated at the table, Redding asked: 
 
 “What did the landlord mean by calling you ‘Sir George’?” 
 
 “It wasn’t my doing,” his friend replied. “Probably 
 you never knew that my uncle was Sir Rigby Batwood, the 
 impecunious squire of Shari ey. I didn’t use to talk about 
 it. Why should I? It was no good to me. Besides, there 
 were three lives between me and the baronetcy. Blame the 
 Sharley doctor, not me. He killed off three baronets in eleven 
 years.” 
 
 “Instead of a bottle of hock, I must make it a bottle of 
 champagne, Sir George.” 
 
 “Don’t ‘Sir George’ me, Mr. Redding, or P’m off.” 
 
 “I ’ll call you Sir Puffer, and we will stick to hock; but 
 it shall be the best bottle in the house. Now, tell me. How 
 have you been puffing these long years and years? And, 
 first of all, is there a Lady Batwood?” 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 0 
 
 “There is a Lady Batwood. We were married only last 
 month. You know her. Four weeks ago she was Sylvia 
 Witherington.” 
 
 “Miss Sylvia Witherington? You luckiest of lucky dogs. 
 I remember her as if we ’d met yesterday. Miss Sylvia was 
 the youngest of the delicious maidens we called the Nine 
 Muses. Eh ? ” 
 
 “Quite so. The youngest. Strangely enough, Sylvia and 
 I were both born on the same day — the tenth of June, eight- 
 een thirty-seven.” 
 
 “How extraordinary.” 
 
 “Stranger still, we were married on the same day too — 
 the thirtieth of April, eighteen sixty-four. ’ ’ 
 
 “How remarka — ” Redding began. But he saw the booby- 
 trap in time, and made up for the unuttered syllable by lung- 
 ing playfully at the baronet’s head. 
 
 Charles, the waiter, approached. Teddie Redding recog- 
 nized this veteran, who had survived two changes of proprie- 
 torship at the old hostelry, and no time was lost in agreeing 
 on the Rhenish. A bottle of Johannisberger soon came up 
 from the famous cellars cut deep in the living sandstone. 
 It was delectably cold on so warm an evening. When the 
 glasses were filled, the host said heartily: 
 
 “Here ’s to Lady Batwood.” 
 
 They drank. Then Sir George demanded: 
 
 “Can we drink to Mrs. Edward Redding?” 
 
 “We cannot,” was the answer, spoken in tones of mock 
 despair. ‘ ‘ There will never be a Mrs. Redding. At the early 
 age of ten, I saw and adored the lovely and only Sylvia. 
 Since then I have thought of no other woman. And to-day 
 I revisit the scenes of my youth, only to find that I am too 
 late.” 
 
 “Then the only thing for it is to drink to Sylvia again.” 
 
 “Let us drink,” assented Teddie in a still more doleful 
 
6 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 voice. “By the way, this wine is capital. For one reckless 
 moment it almost reconciles me to my blank and hopeless 
 existence . 9 9 
 
 The fish, a generous shoulder-cut of true Deme salmon, 
 appeared on the table, and the hungry young men quickly 
 removed it from sight. While the cutlets were grilling, Sir 
 George enquired about his friend’s parents. Having ex- 
 pressed unaffected regret at learning that Edward’s mother 
 had been irrevocably sentenced to life-long exile from the 
 English climate, and that her husband’s health left almost 
 as much to be desired, he asked, a little awkwardly : 
 
 “Is your father still a Roman Catholic?” 
 
 “Most decidedly.” 
 
 “And — and yourself?” 
 
 “No, still Church of England. Not one of the Church’s 
 brightest ornaments and trustiest pillars, I ’m afraid, but not 
 a Papist. You see, the venerable parent has never put the 
 slightest pressure on my mother and me, nor tried to influence 
 us in any way. He keeps a good deal to himself. When we 
 get tired of one mild spot, we fold our tents and look for an- 
 other mild spot; but he always chooses a town where my 
 mother can attend an English church service. Yet he inva- 
 riably hits on a place within easy reach of some big monastery 
 with a library, and then he causes no more anxiety to us. 
 You know, his hobby is liturgiology. ” 
 
 “Heavens! What the deuce is that?” 
 
 “I suppose it ’s got to do with church music and services 
 and all that sort of thing. The pater grubs away at old books 
 and manuscripts, and makes notes by the rod, pole, or perch.” 
 
 “Hasn’t it put him off a bit, seeing the Roman Catholic 
 religion at home, on its native heath ? ’ ’ 
 
 “Bless you, no. What you hear and read in that strain 
 is exaggerated. I grant there is dirt and superstition in 
 some places, and that you often meet a slovenly, coarse-grained 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 7 
 
 priest. But are n’t there heaps of things to put pious people 
 off in the Church of England? Our clergy are better bred, 
 better off, better behaved; but, as my father often used to 
 say, thousands of them regard the cure of souls first and fore- 
 most as 4 a living. ’ In Romish countries the priests are often 
 social outsiders. In Portugal, for instance, I wish they shaved 
 as often as they spat. Yet I can’t help noticing how they 
 stick to their job, getting up in winter before daybreak for 
 their services, saying Mass on empty stomachs, turning out in 
 the middle of the night to visit the dying, and so on. I expect 
 to die a Protestant. Yet it sometimes comes over me that 
 the Church of England is mainly successful as a social 
 institution, and that the Church of Rome, from the stand- 
 point of poor devils who want guidance and comfort and help, 
 is unquestionably a religion. But don’t let ’s talk theology. 
 You started it, Puffer. Hooray, here are the cutlets.” 
 
 There were four cutlets; and these, together with a small 
 head of cauliflower, went the way of the salmon. A wedge 
 of ripe Skilbury cheese concluded the meal, and before the 
 knives ceased clinking it had been minished and brought low. 
 
 ‘ ‘Pardon my asking,” said Sir George. “It is not idle 
 curiosity. Are you and your parents free from anxiety? I 
 had heard that your father gave away all his savings before he 
 left Bulford. I ’m a poor man myself, and I know what 
 money worries are; but I have a good deal of influence, and 
 I do beg you to let me use it if I can be of any service.” 
 
 “You were always a brick, Puffer,” Redding answered 
 warmly. “Thank heaven, we are all right. Twelve years 
 ago things looked black. My mother’s fortune was lost — I 
 ought to say stolen. But soon afterwards my father came 
 unexpectedly into a very useful sum; more than what my 
 mother lost. Besides, I have a sort of profession. I am 
 called an artist. Don’t laugh. I do illustrations for novels — 
 for the monthly magazines, you know. They send me the 
 
8 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 printer’s proofs, and I draw Lucy standing beside the old mill- 
 stream, hallowed by a hundred dear memories, with Edgar’s 
 letter in her little hand.” 
 
 4 'The devil you do,” snorted Sir George. "Now I under- 
 stand where you learned that high-flown language about my 
 poor Sylvia just now. I hope they pay you properly.” 
 
 "Improperly. That is to say, they pay me more than I 
 deserve, and more than I spend. This evening I ’m deter- 
 mined to get rid of some of my hoard. We ’ll have a bottle of 
 port, Puffer. My father, when he heard I was coming here, 
 told me to Jook out for the ’47. They had a big bin of it — 
 twelve pipes, I think. Charles! Here, Charles, what about 
 your ’47 port ? It ought to be drinkable by now. ’ ’ 
 
 "It ’s beautiful, sir,” replied Charles, with conviction. 
 "We ’ve been drinking it these five years. For that matter, 
 there was gents as thought it beautiful more ’n twelve years 
 ago, when it wasn’t hardly used to the bottles. No offense, 
 sir, but you ’ve heard tell of the torchlight procession in 
 Bulford, same year as the Great Exhibition, the night young 
 Coggin was chaired round the town ? Well, there was gents as 
 drank our ’47 that same night. A sin I called it: begging 
 pardon.” 
 
 Edward Redding’s heart leapt. The conversation had sud- 
 denly moved within an inch of the very business which had 
 drawn him to Bulford. He dissembled his relief, and waited 
 patiently until the wine had been decanted and served. 
 When Charles had left the room, Redding remarked, in an 
 off-hand way: 
 
 "People were always talking about that precious torchlight 
 procession. I was away from Bulford, and I didn’t see it.” 
 
 "Didn’t see it? By Jove, I’m glad I saw it. It was 
 something to see. Wait a bit, though. Surely you weren’t 
 clean out of that Coggin affair, Teddie. Don’t I remember 
 you being in Coggin’s rag-and-bone yard the afternoon when 
 
THE DELIVERER 9 
 
 we played Red Indians? You were at the school that 
 year ? ’ ’ 
 
 “Of course I remember the Red Indians. As if I could 
 ever forget it! But I didn’t see the end. What happened 
 after the mammas arrived? Did you all trot home like good 
 little boys ? ’ 9 
 
 Sir George tossed off his port. If it had been raw stuff 
 costing two shillings the bottle he could not have gulped it 
 down more inattentively. Warming up, he bubbled over with 
 reminiscences. As the moving spirit of the Red Indian 
 revels, he had often been asked to tell the story of that riotous 
 afternoon, and without conscious untruthfulness, he had grad- 
 ually intensified and adorned the narrative until it attained 
 to epic largeness. Edward Redding heard, for the first time, 
 that two horses had been pressed into service; that “High” 
 Hall and Chibuall Primus, after arming themselves cap-a-pie, 
 had tilted at each other on horseback, with lance*, nade of 
 withered laths, which snapped and splintered gloriously 
 against the oilcloth breastplates; that Chalky Parkyns and 
 Duck Lorimer had fought a gladiatorial combat on foot, 
 Chalky playing the part of retiarius with a toasting fork and a 
 remnant of tarred netting, while Duck stood up to him as 
 mirmillo with a blunt old carving knife; and that Jawbones 
 Feber, the ugliest boy in Bulford School, had beamed down 
 on the rivals from a rocking throne of packing-cases, where 
 he sat crowned with a soiled wreath of cotton roses as Queen 
 of Beauty. It transpired further that, growing tired of the 
 marine-store yard, the boys finally poured out along the 
 canal bank ; that they had swarmed into some empty barges ; 
 and that they had fought a small Battle of Actium, which 
 did not end before three or four heroes had tumbled into 
 the dirty water. 
 
 When this lively recitation had been delivered, Redding 
 sought news of several old school-fellows. He learned that 
 
10 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Charlie Dolling had been drowned, as a midshipman, off the 
 coast of Japan; that Fred Venn-Venning had run through 
 two fortunes, and was already a bankrupt at the early age 
 of twenty-five; that Lippy Vaughan was about to be thrown 
 out of his curacy at Napperton for ritualistic excesses; that 
 Bully Tranter was growing a long beard, and doing nothing 
 else; that the Honorable Ralph Cotterton had married a 
 tallow-chandler’s daughter with pots of money; and that 
 Walter Garnett was standing for Parliament. Mentioning 
 other names, Edward Redding found that most of the old 
 boys had settled down quietly in Bulford, as might have been 
 expected. At last he decided that the right moment had 
 come, and he asked: 
 
 4 ‘ What about Slogger Coggin?” 
 
 “Coggin? Oh, he ’s still in town,” answered Sir George. 
 “He gave up the rags and bones when his father and mother 
 died. Deals in old furniture now.” 
 
 “Is he doing well?” 
 
 “I ’m afraid not. They say his heart isn’t in his business. 
 He is a victim of music-mania. You will laugh when I tell 
 you about him. Some years ago the Methodists began to get 
 above themselves. Some of their members had made money. 
 So they decided to build a new chapel, almost like a church, 
 near to Victoria Park. They put the old chapel up to auction. 
 There wasn’t one single bid. Next day Slogger Coggin went 
 round and got it on a seven years’ lease. What attracted 
 him was the organ — not a bad little organ — in a gallery be- 
 hind the pulpit, over the preacher’s head. Funny arrange- 
 ment. He uses the body of the chapel as a store-room, 
 show-room, sales-room for old furniture. I saw it once, and, 
 ’pon my word, it doesn’t look bad. There are grandfather’s 
 clocks between the windows, and pictures covering every inch 
 of the walls — some of ’em skied higher than at the Royal 
 Academy. The floor is covered with decent carpets and thick 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 11 
 
 rugs, and there are so many settees and easy chairs, and sofas 
 and ottomans, that you feel as if you ’re in a drawing-room. 
 Coggin only shews clean, sound stuff, and his windows are 
 always open. I suppose he has to buy frowsy things as well, 
 hut I did n ’t see ’em in the chapel. ’ ’ 
 
 “You said the organ attracted him?” 
 
 “Yes. That ’s where the fun comes in. He ’s gradually 
 made the organ four times bigger than it was to start with, 
 and he spends half his time playing it. There are big mir- 
 rors fastened in front of the gilt pipes. When a customer 
 walks into the chapel, Coggin sees him at once. They say he 
 always plays a few more notes, because he can ’t bear to break 
 off anyhow. Then you lose sight of him for two or three 
 seconds. He ’s rigged up a comical arrangement like a cylin- 
 der, where the pulpit used to be. It ’s covered with old crim- 
 son cloth and edged with gold braid, and looks quite solid. 
 But there ’s a rope-ladder hanging down the middle of it. 
 Coggin slips down the rungs — he ’s as thin as ever — just like 
 a monkey, and he steps out to meet the customer as if there ’s 
 no such thing as an organ in the world.” 
 
 “That doesn’t look like neglecting business.” 
 
 “Yes, it does. Ne sntor ultra crepidam. Only bit of Latin 
 I remember. People don’t like it. How would you relish it 
 yourself if you had a Bach ’s fugue banging at you every time 
 you went to buy a kitchen fender?” 
 
 “I don’t agree with you, Puffer. If this has been going 
 on a long time I should have thought it ought to be doing 
 Coggin a power of good, and that collectors of antiques must 
 be coming from far and near to buy from such a unique 
 shop-keeper.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ They did, until lately. But, you see, Coggin ’s got rather 
 a bad name. Strangers hear nothing very good about him 
 when they enquire the way to his chapel now-a-days. They 
 either give him a wide berth, or just drift in and hear him 
 
12 THE HARE 
 
 play and waste his time, and sail out without buying a shil- 
 ling’s-worth. ” 
 
 Edward Redding flushed angrily. “What do you mean 
 by saying Coggin ’s got a bad name ? ” he demanded. 
 
 “I think it was something about some pictures. He sold 
 some oil paintings as originals, and they turned out to be 
 copies. There was going to be a law suit; but he paid and 
 hushed it up.” 
 
 “Who told you this?” 
 
 “ ’Pon my word, I forget. Two or three fellows. Let me 
 see, Rambury told me — and Tranter — and — I forget exactly, 
 but others told me as well.” 
 
 “Good heavens, Puffer, I ’m astounded at you. Were you 
 on the tow-path that afternoon when Coggin chucked Sniveller 
 Currington into the canal?” 
 
 * ‘ Rather. ’ ’ 
 
 “That was the first time we called Harry Coggin ‘Slogger’ 
 Coggin. And why? Because he began by knocking down 
 Rambury and Bully Tranter like nine-pins, though they were 
 nearly twice his size. Are you believing evil of Coggin on 
 such testimony as theirs?” 
 
 ‘ ‘ I don ’t see why not. They are glad to see him in disgrace, 
 no doubt, but that ’s only natural. And I ’m sure they ’re 
 not the sort to dare to slander anybody unless there ’s some- 
 thing in it. They ’d be afraid of having to pay damages, or 
 of getting a damned good thrashing. Hang it all, Teddie. 
 Excuse my bluntness, but both you and your father went a 
 bit silly over that boy Coggin. You can’t deny it. Indeed, 
 we all lost our heads a little when he stood up to Bully Tranter, 
 and when he pitched that dirty little worm Currington into 
 six feet of water. But you can’t make a silk purse out of a 
 sow’s ear. Slogger was the son of a canting old-clo’ man, 
 and I ’m afraid it ’s in his blood to cheat. Leaving Ram- 
 bury and Tranter out of it, I know for a fact that Coggin 
 
THE DELIVERER 13 
 
 put down hard cash to hush up the affair. His own solicitor 
 told me so.” 
 
 “His own solicitor — told you so?” 
 
 “Yes. Woodley, of Woodley, Baker & Woodley.” 
 
 “Hold on. Puffer. Think. How does it strike you on 
 second thoughts?” 
 
 “Strike me? Oh! I see what you mean. But come, Ted. 
 After all, this fellow Coggin — ” 
 
 As he did not finish the sentence, Edward Redding took it 
 over and said, in low tones : 
 
 “If I make a wrong guess at your meaning you will put 
 me right. I think you were going to say this fellow Coggin, 
 after all, is only Coggin. If Woodley had been acting for 
 you or me he would have felt bound either to hold his tongue 
 about our affairs, or to put them in the best light. But 
 Coggin is only Coggin — a joke, a butt, an outcast. I don’t 
 doubt that Woodley welcomed him as a client, and charged 
 the full ordinary fees or more. ’ ’ 
 
 “Go it, Teddie. In future, I shall always call Slogger’s old 
 chapel ‘St. Coggin ’s.’ According to you, he ’s both saint 
 and martyr. Canonize him, if you must, in your own mind, 
 but I can be the devil’s advocate, if I want to.” 
 
 Redding laid his hand on the baronet’s arm and said, 
 sadly and earnestly: “No. You can’t. There are enough 
 mean curs in Bulford to take the devil’s part against Coggin, 
 without you joining in. Look here. Puffer, I ’ll confess. 
 When I asked, a few minutes ago, in such a casual way, about 
 Slogger Coggin, perhaps I wasn’t quite candid. But now 
 I ’m going to put all my cards on the table. The truth is 
 that I ’ve come to Bulford to-day expressly on account of 
 Coggin. My father hears from him every three months, as 
 regular as clockwork, but we ’re not satisfied. The poor devil 
 always writes cheerfully; yet we sniff something between 
 the lines. He ’s wretched in Bulford, and he ’s missing his 
 
14 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 destiny. My plan was to make him sell up and clear out. 
 I ’ve brought some tin with me in case his liabilities exceed 
 his assets. My father has just had this extra bit of money 
 left him, and he wants Coggin to borrow it and to start fresh 
 in another town, where he can make music his sole profession.” 
 
 “He ’ll jump at an offer like that.” 
 
 “We shall see. But surely you understand. I can’t make 
 the offer till we ’ve settled this affair you have mentioned — 
 this allegation of fraud.” 
 
 “I tell you it ’s settled already. Dead and done with.” 
 
 Redding drew his hand away. “Pardon me,” he asked 
 coldly. “Is Sir George Batwood the individual I went to 
 school with, or is he somebody else?” 
 
 “I ’m not here to be preached at,” growled Sir George, 
 reddening. ‘ ‘ If you want me to stay, kindly come down from 
 your high horse.” 
 
 “No. I sha’n’t come down. You must come up. You 
 want me to believe you sordid, and I won ’t. If you had been 
 accused of dishonor, and if you had been cheated into what 
 looks like a confession, would you let the matter rest there? 
 Coggin cannot leave Bulford till his detractors have eaten their 
 words. ’ ’ 
 
 “Confound it, Redding, how do you know that Coggin 
 did n’t try to swindle somebody with those pictures? You ’re 
 not a judge and jury.” 
 
 “I ’ll tell you how I know. If somebody met me and said 
 that Puffer Batwood had turned out a sneak and a coward, 
 I should tell him straight that he was a liar ; because I know 
 you could never be either. It ’s the same with Coggin. You 
 are a baronet, and he is an old-clo’ man’s boy; but it makes 
 no difference. Let me tell you just a single fact. Before my 
 father left Bulford, he raised a sum of money for Coggin ’s 
 education. The cash came from Lord Bulcaster and others, 
 and it was paid quarterly through solicitors, not as a loan, but 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 15 
 
 as an out-and-out gift. Listen. Harry Coggin has repaid 
 every penny of that money, with compound interest, and it 
 is being used to educate other poor boys. Is that the act of a 
 man of honor, or is it the act of a cheat ? ’ ’ 
 
 “By George!” 
 
 “Puffer, I swear not to leave Bulford until justice has 
 been done. I have the funds and the leisure. Whether I 
 have the ability, events will shew. Now, I ’m going to ask 
 you one thing. If it is proved to your satisfaction that 
 Coggin has been falsely accused, will you stand by him and 
 by me?” 
 
 Sir George whistled uneasily. He poured out another 
 glass of wine and drank it. At last he replied : ‘ ‘ Ted, I ’m 
 not a hero. I tell you candidly that I wish you had run 
 against somebody else this evening, instead of me. Now, 
 why did you think Sylvia remained unmarried till she was 
 twenty-six? Her age is no secret.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ I don ’t doubt Miss Sylvia was waiting for you. ’ ’ 
 
 “Thank you. But let us be serious. Sylvia had many 
 offers, but her mother’s ideas were high. Two suitors were 
 cold-shouldered because their families were connected with 
 trade. Sylvia’s mama declares that she has simply thrown 
 herself away on me, a poor baronet. And here ’s Teddie Red- 
 ding, like a bolt from the blue, suddenly demanding that I 
 shall associate myself with a marine-store dealer’s son, in a 
 public row.” 
 
 “You sha’n’t be dragged into anything public. Promise 
 me, Puffer, old fellow.” 
 
 After swallowing more wine, Sir George said gloomily: 
 “I promise you my help, behind the scenes. But if you can 
 find some other Don Quixote instead of me, for heaven’s sake 
 let me off. Great Jupiter, a quarter to eight ! Twelve min- 
 utes to catch my train.” 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 E DWARD REDDING rose so early on his first morn- 
 ing at Bulford that he found the entrance-hall of 
 “The Bulcaster Arms” empty, and the big front door 
 still shut. Having drawn the bolts and turned the great key 
 very gently, he stepped out into bright sunshine. Not even a 
 milkman was in sight. 
 
 His walk through one deserted street after another sad- 
 dened the young man. Many fine old gabled houses had been 
 pulled down to make room for emporia, establishments, and 
 commodious premises, with large sheets of plate glass below, 
 and silly gothic or feeble renaissance facades above. Most 
 of the delightful little tuck-shops and book-shops had changed 
 hands, and their windows were filled with up-to-date stocks, 
 conventionally displayed. 
 
 He remembered every alley, every turning ; and therefore he 
 found himself within ten minutes, standing under a gateway 
 almost opposite the building he was seeking. The words 
 “Wesleyan Chapel” could still be seen, incised in a stone tablet 
 over the door. Below them had been fixed a neatly-framed and 
 boldly-painted board, bearing the inscription : 
 
 HENRY COGGIN 
 
 DEALER IN FURNITURE 
 AND MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS 
 
 Redding shrank back into the shadow. On the further 
 side of the hot belt of sunlight, a tall, thin young man in a 
 coarse shirt, corduroy trousers, and hob-nailed boots was 
 
 16 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 17 
 
 crouching over a gay rug. He held one corner of the rug 
 in his hand, and it soon became apparent that he was mend- 
 ing it with an upholsterer’s needle. He must have been 
 engaged on the job for some time, for within two or three 
 minutes of Redding’s arrival, he shook the rug with an air 
 of satisfaction and carried it back into the chapel. A few 
 minutes later he came out again, carrying an arm-chair, and 
 began to repair one of the castors. Both the rug-darning and 
 the chair-mending were accompanied by music. At first the 
 young man whistled; then he sang a little; and finally he 
 hummed. Whistling, singing, and humming were all so soft 
 and reticent that Edward Redding, on the other side of the 
 lane, would have failed to hear them if the morning had not 
 been breathless and the neighboring streets clear of traffic. 
 The fragments of the melody which reached him were un- 
 familiar, and he would not have called them tunes. 
 
 During his work with the needle, the tall, thin young man ’s 
 back was turned towards Redding, and when he emerged from 
 the chapel with the arm-chair, his face was hidden by the 
 bulky load ; but there could not be a moment ’s doubt that this 
 was Harry Coggin. The coarse garments could not hide their 
 wearer’s litheness ; and his every movement was full of the old 
 quick, sure, attentive mastery which had been so remarkable 
 in him as a lad. Yet there was some immense change. That 
 Harry Coggin should have ceased to be a boy was only natural ; 
 but somehow he seemed to have outgrown his young manhood. 
 Although the strong shoulders were unbent, Edward Red- 
 ding felt that the strange and lonely soul was bowed down 
 under an almost intolerable load of disappointment and humil- 
 iation. Those softly hummed and faintly sung melodies were 
 not the blithe and bird-like outbursts of a workman happy in 
 his work. They were like croonings over hopes long dead. 
 
 As Harry stepped briskly back into the chapel for some 
 screw or tool, Edward Redding slipped out of his hiding- 
 
18 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 place and took the first turning, so as to escape unobserved. 
 He could not have controlled his feelings sufficiently to speak 
 with Coggin at that moment. Besides, he knew that it would 
 be more considerate to postpone the meeting until the cordu- 
 roy trousers and the hob-nailed boots had given place to less 
 rude attire. 
 
 The pavements began to echo under the noisy tread of jour- 
 neymen going to their work. In the High Street, a cart laden 
 with sacks of flour went grinding and creaking past. Red- 
 ding did not wish to be recognized, so he chose a narrow street 
 which led to the rectory and to St. Michael’s Church. Round 
 his old home the trees and shrubs had been encouraged to 
 grow so thickly that nothing could be seen of the rectory, save 
 the gable-end and a twisted chimney. He entered the church 
 and saw, with deep pleasure, that his father’s successor had 
 been carrying on the work of restoration with zeal and with 
 admirable discretion. A wooden singing-gallery no longer 
 blocked up the glorious wheel-window in the north transept, 
 and the cruciform ground-plan of the church was once more 
 revealed. Redding made his way to the Denniker chantry. 
 Time had mellowed the new stone and the heraldic colors; 
 and there were his father’s initials, still plain to see, on the 
 tiny disc of brass. 
 
 At breakfast the young man felt ashamed of his appetite, 
 until he remembered that twelve hours had passed since his 
 meal with Sir George. Eased in conscience, he helped himself 
 once more to the kidneys and bacon and mushrooms and 
 poured out another cup of coffee, better than any he had 
 drunk in Spain. Having consumed these good things, he 
 drifted out into the courtyard, where there was a cheerful 
 noise of splashing water, of stamping hoofs, of jingling har- 
 ness, of ostler’s chaff; and there he made and lit a cigarette, 
 as he had learned to do in Spain. Cigarettes, however, were 
 a novelty in Bulford, and a gathering crowd of gaping stable- 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 19 
 
 boys drove him away. He left the yard by the side entrance 
 in Coldwell Lane. As the lower end of this narrow way had 
 been in his boyhood one of the quietest parts of Bulford, he 
 counted on smoking a couple of cigarettes in peace ; but almost 
 immediately he came face to face with Rambury Primus and 
 Rambury Secundus. 
 
 These frost-bitten young gentlemen, like their bloodless 
 father, knew how to maintain inscrutability of countenance. 
 Not giving Redding time to notice the dull sparks of annoyance 
 which kindled for half a twinkling in the depths of his fishy 
 eyes, Rambury Secundus became fluent with cordial greetings. 
 
 “What brings you to Bulford, Mr. Redding?” asked Ram- 
 bury Primus, after these friendly interchanges were finished. 
 
 “Important business,” Redding answered, rather coldly. 
 
 “We won’t keep you from it,” retorted Primus, holding out 
 a clammy hand. 
 
 “Especially as we are late for important business of our 
 own,” added Secundus. 
 
 When they w 7 ere round the corner, Redding threw away 
 his cigarette, and walked boldly towards the principal streets. 
 Now that the Ramburys had seen him there was nothing to 
 be gained by lying low. In Market Street he recognized two 
 or three old friends. Others he might have passed by without 
 knowing them; for many young men of Bulford favored 
 mustaches, whiskers, and even long beards. Redding himself, 
 however, was clean-shaven, and one bearded man after an- 
 other pounced upon him, instantly remembering the frank and 
 pleasant young face. 
 
 Gratefully declining half-a-dozen offers of brandy-and-soda 
 and of sherry and biscuits, Edward managed to extricate him- 
 self from the bustle of the main streets, and to turn, all alone, 
 into the crooked ways which ran down to Coggin’s warehouse. 
 The chapel doors stood wide open, and there was nobody with 
 whom to parley. 
 
20 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 As Redding entered the scanty vestibule a blare of fierce 
 music burst full in his face. It was as if the great scorching 
 tongue of a prairie fire had suddenly licked him from top to 
 toe. For a moment he was stupefied. Then he remembered 
 what Batwood had told him, and he strode forward into the 
 chapel. The savage chords went bumping on, heedless of the 
 little staccato sounds which pattered and rattled all over them, 
 as sharp and stinging as hailstones. Suddenly the hulking 
 towers of harmony sank down, like palaces built on sand, and a 
 tender strain brought the extemporization to an almost inau- 
 dible close on the soft full chord of the key-note. Ten seconds 
 later, Coggin came quietly along the floor of the chapel to 
 meet his visitor. 
 
 “It ’s Redding, Teddie Redding,” said Edward in a loud 
 whisper. “Be quick. If anybody has followed me, is there 
 a window we could spy him from? Hurry up.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ The roof, ’ ’ said Coggin. Although he had turned pale at 
 the sight of Redding, he recovered himself in a flash, and be- 
 came his old, nimble, efficient self at the suggestion of danger. 
 
 They scrambled up a comer stairway. Progress was dif- 
 ficult because the stairs had been used for the storage of 
 hundreds of odds and ends, and there was a clear space only 
 a few inches wide in the middle. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Keep your head down and look through the round hole in 
 the gable,” said Coggin. “If there ’s nobody, dodge over the 
 slates and look through the hole on the other side. You can 
 see both Chapel Street and Weighbridge Lane.” 
 
 As Redding squinted through the first hole he grinned 
 jovially. Then he popped up his head, and shouted out at 
 the top of his voice : 
 
 “H’llo, Mr. Rambury. What about your important busi- 
 ness?” 
 
 Rambury Secundus came out from an archway with un- 
 abated dignity and unruffled composure. “My business has 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 21 
 
 been attended to,” he said icily. “I never waste time. By 
 the way, Mr. Redding, I hope your own important business 
 progresses satisfactorily. ’ ’ 
 
 “Quite, thanks. I ’m engaged upon it now. So good 
 morning, Mr. Rambury.” 
 
 Coggin led the way down. When they were once more on 
 the floor of the chapel, Redding asked: “Are we alone here?” 
 
 “Yes,” Coggin answered. “My assistant is out with the 
 cart, and no customer will call so early.” 
 
 “Not so fast. I ’m a customer myself. I ’ve come to buy 
 your entire stock — your lease and the whole thing, lock, stock, 
 and barrel. What is the price ? ’ ’ 
 
 The furniture dealer wheeled forward a vast arm-chair, 
 luxuriously padded and covered with dark green leather. 
 As his visitor settled himself comfortably in the soft depths, 
 Harry Coggin knew that a crisis was at hand. He divined 
 that Edward Redding’s words were the first rumblings of an 
 eruption which was about to overwhelm his old landmarks 
 and to change the whole configuration of his life. His usually 
 firm voice shook a little as he gripped the back of the chair 
 and said : 
 
 “First of all, Mr. Edward, I ask leave to say how glad I 
 am to see you, and to enquire about your parents. ’ 
 
 “My parents are at Barcelona, and they are fairly well. I 
 am at ‘The Bulcaster Arms,’ with time on my hands. That 
 is all you need to know about me and mine. Now, about 
 yourself. We won’t beat about the bush. My father and I 
 aren’t satisfied with your letters, Harry Coggin. You dwell 
 always on the bright side, but you don’t deceive us. I ve 
 come to Bulford with a firm resolve to root you up and to 
 transplant you. There is no success and no happiness for 
 you here — that is, unless you have some affair of the heart. 
 
 “The heart?” 
 
 “Yes. Are you engaged, affianced, betrothed? Or hoping 
 
22 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 to be? Are you wooing, courting, keeping company? Have 
 you a sweetheart, an inamorata, a young lady ? If so, it will 
 make a difference. ’ ’ 
 
 “Oh, no, Mr. Edward.” 
 
 “Don’t say ‘oh, no’ like that, as if I ’ve asked whether 
 you ’ve a glass eye. You ’re twenty- four. Still, I ’m glad 
 to hear you have no entanglement. Now, tell me. Just be- 
 fore I left Barcelona, we had a letter from you saying that 
 Mr. Daplyn had retired from the St. Michael’s organ, and he 
 had recommended you as his successor. Have they given you 
 the post?” 
 
 “No. Mr. Duck is appointed.” 
 
 “Duck? Duck who used to play at St. Peter’s? Why, 
 he ’s no good at all.” 
 
 “They have given him the appointment, Mr. Edward.” 
 
 Redding paused to think. He was vexed by the reiterated 
 “Mr. Edward,” and by Coggin’s precise and deferential 
 phrases. Yet, on reflection, he felt that there was indeed an 
 immense difference in their social status, and that they would 
 understand each other best as “Mr. Edward” and “Coggin.” 
 Changing the subject abruptly, he enquired : 
 
 “When your father was killed in that frightful collision on 
 the Demehaven line, why did you claim nothing from the 
 railway ? ’ ’ 
 
 ‘ ‘ I could n ’t have taken money to make up for my father. ’ ’ 
 
 “Railway companies keep a reserve for such claims. The 
 reserve is replenished with part of the money we pay for 
 fares. You were entitled to compensation.” 
 
 “I was not a loser, Mr. Edward, in a pecuniary sense. 
 When my father was gone, I sold the yard and the old busi- 
 ness at a very fair price.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ In your letters you always say that business is good. Have 
 you put money by? Of course, there ’s a lot of stock here. 
 Do you owe money on it?” 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 23 
 
 “Not a penny. And I should have five hundred pounds in 
 the bank if — ” 
 
 He did not finish the sentence, so Redding asked: 
 
 “The business makes progress? ” 
 
 Coggin loosened his hold on the chair-back and turned 
 away. The inbred pride which underlay his habit of humility 
 made him hate to confess failure ; and he was still more upset 
 at the thought that his answer must disappoint Edward Red- 
 ding, and that offers of pecuniary aid were imminent. But 
 he gave a truthful answer, saying quietly: 
 
 “It has gone down lately. All the same, I make a com- 
 fortable living / 9 
 
 To Coggin’s great surprise his visitor jumped up and ex- 
 claimed warmly: “Forgive me, Slogger. I oughtn’t to have 
 asked that question. It was not frank, because I learned last 
 night that things were not well with you. Puffer Batwood 
 — Sir George Batwood — told me. He didn’t know the de- 
 tails. Tell me all about the trouble, and we ’ll get you out 
 of it.” 
 
 “You have heard?” Coggin asked in dismay. “Mr. Ed- 
 ward, I give you my solemn word that I have done nothing 
 to be ashamed of; no, and nothing that you or Mr. Redding 
 would blame me for. I swear it.” 
 
 “Swear nothing,” returned Redding, even more warmly 
 than before. “And as for your solemn word, give it me when 
 I ask for it. Slogger, I know you are as honest as the noon- 
 day sun. If you seem to stand in a bad light, I am sure that 
 some damnable scoundrels have pushed you into it. Such 
 curs as the Ramburys, for instance. You heard what I said 
 to Rambury just now? I caught him sneaking. I deliber- 
 ately insulted him. In other words, I took your side, Slogger, 
 before knowing the facts of the case. Could I give any 
 stronger proof of loyalty and confidence than that? But 
 come. Let ’s both sit down in a quiet comer and have it out. ” 
 
24 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 He strode along the chapel until he found two heavy oak 
 chairs and a Chippendale escritoire, set out on a small Persian 
 carpet, behind a five-fold Chinese screen. When they were 
 seated, he said : 
 
 “I know nothing more than this, that you made a blunder 
 in buying and selling some pictures. Go ahead. ’ ’ 
 
 Coggin replied: “I was successful and very happy until 
 about two years ago. You know that your father gave up the 
 living of Bulford in ’52, when I was twelve years old. I 
 stuck to my Latin, as I had promised, till I could read any 
 Latin author at sight. Not that I neglected my parents’ 
 business. I worked at that nine hours every day; but some- 
 how there was plenty of time for study, although I gave most 
 of my leisure to music. It sounds conceited, Mr. Edward, but 
 I want you to hear the exact truth. On my seventeenth birth- 
 day, Mr. Daplyn said I knew as much as he did himself about 
 counterpoint and harmony and fugue. And although he used 
 to pick holes in my compositions, he often played them in 
 church. ’ ’ 
 
 “Did the congregation know they were yours?” 
 
 “No. He said it wouldn’t do. And events have proved 
 he was right. After my father was killed, we sold the marine- 
 store, and we did well in business. My mother was very clever. 
 Most of our profits we invested in good furniture and cut- 
 glass and musical instruments, but even then we had more 
 money than we wanted in the bank. That was why I felt 
 justified in publishing some of my music.” 
 
 “And you lost a hundred pounds. You told my father so 
 in your letter. But let us skip that, for the moment. Later 
 on you shall tell me about the music.” 
 
 “I have mentioned the music, Mr. Edward, for a reason. 
 You see, my mother and I had kept to ourselves till I was 
 twenty-one. On fine Sundays we often drove out to Skil- 
 bury. Some of the farmers’ wives, who wouldn’t know 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 25 
 
 mother when she was a rag-and-bone dealer’s wife, were quite 
 anxious to prove that they were her distant relations as soon 
 as we could show a horse-and-trap, and clothes as good as 
 theirs. But we made no friends in Bulford. 
 
 “Mr. Edward, your father used to write to me telling me 
 to cultivate more ambition, and not to hide myself. It is 
 true that I was entirely without ambition at that time, because 
 I was perfectly happy. Our little home was so snug. With 
 business increasing every year, we did not stint ourselves of 
 cheerful fires and good candles. At the workshop we were 
 always accumulating odds and ends of old wood; and from 
 October to May there was always a blazing hearth at supper- 
 time. From eight till half -past nine I used to read aloud to 
 my mother, or play the piano. Books often went dirt cheap 
 at auctions, and we read one novel every month, except when 
 we found some good biography or book of travels. ’ 9 
 
 “I want you to come to the affair of the pictures,” said 
 Edward Redding, kindly. 
 
 “Iam coming to it. We had no friend, except Mr. Daplyn 
 who came in now and then for a chat and a glass of wine. 
 But, after I took this chapel over, I began to have business 
 acquaintances. I am a valuer. One day I was called to value 
 a houseful of furniture in Victoria Park. There was a sheriff’s 
 officer in possession. Old Mr. Rambury met me in the hall ; 
 I never knew why. The things were worth less than four 
 hundred pounds, but Mr. Rambury took me on one side and 
 said I had made a slip, and that no doubt I meant seven hun- 
 dred. I stuck to four hundred, and he was very angry. Next 
 day a strange lawyer arrived in Bulford, with a valuer from 
 London, and they valued the things at three hundred and 
 fifty. The London valuer came to see me in the afternoon, 
 and was very polite and pleasant ; but old Mr. Rambury cut 
 me dead in the street. A little while after that I was sent 
 for again to another house. Mr. Rambury met me quite cor- 
 
26 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 > 
 
 dially. You know lie was always getting special jobs, such 
 as liquidating bankrupts’ affairs, or realizing estates under 
 wills. This tune he chaffed me, and said that, as I was so fond 
 of cutting him in half, it might save my time if he told me 
 that the furniture was worth twelve hundred pounds. ‘So 
 that will be six hundred, Mr. Cogging he said. He laughed, 
 like geese cackling. The stuff was really worth over a thous- 
 and; in fact, the parties couldn’t agree, so there was an auc- 
 tion which brought in a thousand, clear of expenses.” 
 
 “We are a long time coming to the pictures, Slogger,” said 
 Redding, somewhat impatiently. “You used to be a boy of 
 few words.” 
 
 “I am very sorry,” Coggin replied, flushing a little. “But 
 you must needs understand that these two clashes with old 
 Mr. Rambury, and several similar affairs with other people in 
 Bulford, seemed to revive all the animosity that burned so 
 strongly against me thirteen years ago, when I won the Rob- 
 son Scholarship.” 
 
 “I understand,” said Redding. “There has always been a 
 little gang in Bulford intriguing together to get all the pick- 
 ings. My father often calls old Rambury ‘ the Robber Chief. ’ 
 You were the disobliging cat that wouldn’t pull the chestnuts 
 out of the fire for them ; so they decided to tie a brick round 
 your neck and drown you. ’ ’ 
 
 Coggin darted a grateful look at his friend. “You have 
 summed it up exactly,” he said. And, after a long pause, he 
 burst out bitterly: “But no. They didn’t try to drown me. 
 They put poison in my food. That ’s what they did, through 
 the pictures. They tried to poison me through my business, 
 my living.” 
 
 “What happened?” 
 
 “One day young Mr. Venn-Venning came here — ” 
 
 “Freddie Venn- Yenning? Let me see, what did I hear 
 
THE DELIVERER 27 
 
 about him last night ? I remember. Bankrupt. Squandered 
 two fortunes. Decamped to Boulogne.’ ’ 
 
 “I know that now, Mr. Edward, but I didn’t know it the 
 day he came here. He was expensively dressed — ” 
 
 “ Bad sign.” 
 
 “Very high in his manner. ” 
 
 “Worse still.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ He ordered me about at the top of his voice. He needed 
 some ready cash. Would I buy two pictures, by Constable? 
 They were studies, not finished paintings, so he did not like 
 
 them. He could only endure properly finished works on his 
 walls. The pictures had come to him through an uncle. ’ ’ 
 
 “You ought to have declined them with thanks, there and 
 
 then. Confound it, Slogger, no man can know everything, 
 not even you. Picture-dealing is a ticklish job. You ’re a 
 Latin scholar and a musician. Isn’t that enough?” 
 
 As Redding posed this question, a silvery little bell tinkled 
 just over his head. This meant that a customer had entered 
 the chapel, and had set in motion a hidden spring and a 
 wire which rang the bell. Coggin went forward to meet the 
 new-comer ; but he returned a moment later and said quietly : 
 
 “You will excuse me for a few minutes. The pictures are 
 on that wall over there, between those bookcases. To 
 draw the curtains, pull the cord downwards. ’ ’ 
 
 Crossing the floor, Edward Redding found himself in a 
 wide recess, which had been formed by setting two lofty and 
 massive bookcases at right angles to the chapel wall. The 
 shelves of these cases held statuettes, vases, ivories, and old 
 china. A good light struck into the recess from an upper 
 window on the north side of the chapel. He tugged a silken 
 cord, and the curtains puckered away, revealing two paintings, 
 in frames which were indisputably old. Redding could not 
 repress a whistle of surprise. The larger canvas appeared to 
 
28 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 be a bold and lively study for Constable’s “ Leaping Horse,” 
 while the other shewed a tree-girt harvest-field in bright morn- 
 ing light, after a shower of rain. If they were not Constable ’s 
 own work, these pictures were forgeries of almost incredible 
 cleverness. 
 
 Redding’s first scrutiny was barely finished when the cus- 
 tomer went away, and Coggin returned. “You are an artist 
 yourself, Mr. Edward,” he said anxiously, “I know that you 
 have brought at least two forgotten masterpieces to light in 
 out-of-the-way places in Spain and Hungary. And please re- 
 member that I believed Mr. Venn-Venning to be an honest 
 gentleman. I had read in the newspapers that he had in- 
 herited a great deal of money, and a grand house full of 
 works of art. Was I an utter simpleton?” 
 
 c ‘ 1 still think, ’ ’ said Redding slowly, as he moved back from 
 the wall without taking his gaze off the canvases, “that you 
 ought to have referred Mr. Venn-Venning to a picture dealer. 
 But I will be candid. In the circumstances you describe, I 
 should myself have been deceived by these paintings. Now 
 finish the story.” 
 
 “I did just what you say I ought to have done. I referred 
 him to a London dealer, and said he would get a better price 
 that way. He flared up and swore, and said the dealers were 
 thieves. After trying to discourage him in every way from 
 the sale, at last I gave in. The price he asked was a hundred 
 guineas, and I only beat him down to a hundred pounds.” 
 
 “Hard cash down?” 
 
 “Yes. It is usual in this kind of business, so I keep a 
 reserve of money in a strong box. Our conversation took place 
 at this very escritoire, where you and I are standing now. 
 I still felt uneasy and out of my depth ; so before handing him 
 the gold, I was determined that his receipt should be explicit. 
 I opened the lowest drawer in the escritoire — mark this, Mr. 
 Edward, because it is important — and took out a sheet of 
 
THE DELIVERER 29 
 
 my best paper and an envelope. Here are the words I dic- 
 tated to him.” 
 
 Coggin picked up a piece of paper, and while Redding looked 
 over his shoulder, he wrote quickly: 
 
 Received of Henry Coggin one hundred pounds sterling 
 in full payment for two oil-paintings (a canal-bank and a 
 harvest-field) by John Constable, R.A., formerly the prop- 
 erty of my uncle. 
 
 “Excellent,” exclaimed Redding. “And Venn-Venning 
 signed?” 
 
 “Not on the instant. At first he said: ‘After all, perhaps 
 I ought not to sell ’em.’ I was relieved at that, and I told 
 him so. But, just then, the bell rang, and a customer came 
 in. He made up his mind all of a sudden. ‘I came to sell 
 ’em, and they shall be sold,’ he said. He signed the receipt, 
 and took the money. I put the receipt in this top drawer and 
 he followed me towards the lobby, laughing and talking. He 
 had wished me good-day, and I was busy with my customer, 
 when he ran back and said, ‘My gloves.’ He found his gloves 
 on the escritoire, and went off. That ’s the last I ’ve seen of 
 him.” 
 
 “Great — God,” said Redding. “Freddie Venn-Venning 
 not only a cheat, but a thief? I can hardly believe it. You 
 mean, he stole the receipt ? But tell the tale your own way. ’ ’ 
 “ Half-an-hour afterwards, I opened the drawer. There 
 was my envelope. I peeped inside and recognized my docu- 
 ment, without having to unfold the whole sheet. It was trans- 
 ferred at once to the strong box. That evening, I began to 
 feel much pleased with my bargain. It was more for my own 
 pleasure than for selling them that I arranged the recess 
 where they are hanging now. But, three days later, Mr. 
 Tranter came here to buy some cut-glass decanters, and he 
 saw the pictures. There was no curtain then.” 
 
 “Which Mr. Tranter? Not Bully Tranter, as we used to 
 
30 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 call him — the boy you knocked down along with Rambury 
 Primus on the canal bank.” 
 
 “The same gentleman. I admit I was surprised to see 
 him. But, after all, it ’s thirteen years since I knocked him 
 down, so he could forgive and forget. He bought two inexpen- 
 sive decanters, and then he asked about the pictures. He 
 said: Air. Albert Rambury ought to see these,’ and the next 
 day he brought Mr. Albert here.” 
 
 “Albert is Rambury Secundus — the one I spoke to this 
 morning from your roof ? ’ ’ 
 
 “Yes. I was not very glad to see him when he came with 
 Mr. Tranter. You see, Mr. Albert had already been against 
 me; partly because his father hates the sight of me; partly 
 because he married a Miss Currington — ” 
 
 “Pardon my reminding you of all your assaults and bat- 
 teries; you mean a sister of Sniveller Currington, whom you 
 pitched into the canal ? ’ ’ 
 
 “No. A cousin. But the main reason why Mr. Albert de- 
 tests me is a curious jealousy. He sets up to be the young 
 leader of Bulford’s music and art. He collects engravings. 
 And he wants to succeed Mr. Daplyn as conductor to the 
 Choral Society, although he could not read a full score to 
 save his life. He paints a little, and plays the piano a little, 
 and has a thin tenor voice. When I published my music, he 
 was very angry, and he wrote the sneering paragraph in The 
 Bulford Courier. And I believe it was Mr. Albert who 
 wrecked my concerts.” 
 
 “Concerts? What concerts? No. We ’ll have that an- 
 other time. Hurry up with the story. I see a glimmer of 
 light.” 
 
 “Mr. Albert looked at the pictures and asked how much I 
 wanted for the larger of the two. As I didn’t wish to do 
 business with him, I said a hundred guineas. It was the better 
 picture as well as the larger, but I would have taken eighty 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 31 
 
 pounds in the ordinary course. Well, he didn’t haggle at all. 
 He paid me cash, and sent Mr. Tranter for a fly to carry the 
 picture away. He asked me for an invoice ; but all the Ram- 
 burys are methodical, so I wasn’t surprised at that. The in- 
 voice was for ‘an oil-painting, Canal Scene, by J. Constable, 
 R.A., in gold frame.’ I receipted it, and he put it in his 
 pocket-book.” 
 
 “Go on, go on,” said Redding eagerly. 
 
 “A few days later, two perfect strangers came to see the 
 other picture. I wondered how they had heard it was here; 
 but they were very stiff, so I couldn’t enquire. One of them 
 bought the small painting for sixty guineas. I gave him a 
 receipt, like Rambury’s. Of course, I was much pleased. 
 Never before had I made so much money on one transaction ; 
 yet the whole thing had hardly taken one hour of my time. 
 But a fortnight afterwards the storm burst. The postman 
 put a letter in my hand just as I was going to the station. 
 I read it in the train, on my way to Demehaven. It was from 
 Mawby & Mawby, the solicitors, who ’re always working with 
 the Ramburys. They wrote in legal language. Their client had 
 consulted them in what appeared to be a grave matter ; they 
 had perused what purported to be my receipted invoice for 
 &n oil-painting by one John Constable, deceased, formerly a 
 member of the Royal Academy of Arts ; they were credibly in- 
 formed that the work was an impudent forgery; their client, 
 who had not examined it, but had bought the painting on my 
 guarantee, had been seriously damaged in his reputation in a 
 quarter where he had offered the picture for re-sale ; and they 
 were considering the proper course to take. 
 
 “I was upset, until I reminded myself that this was merely 
 one more instance of Mr. Albert’s antipathy to me. On the 
 back of the envelope, as I sat in the train, I penciled the 
 draft of a reply to the effect that I had bought the pictures 
 from a gentleman of position, who had stated in writing that 
 
32 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 they were Constables, but that Mr. Rambury could have his 
 money back if he felt dissatisfied, provided he withdrew the 
 insinuation that I had been dishonest.” 
 
 ‘ * The proper reply. ’ ’ 
 
 “When I came back here in the evening, another letter, 
 with the London postmark, was awaiting me. A firm of 
 solicitors wrote me on behalf of a Mr. George Brassington. 
 Their client, they said, bought pictures for a nobleman, and 
 he had been gravely compromised on account of a forged paint- 
 ing, alleged to be a Constable, which I appeared to have guar- 
 anteed as genuine.” 
 
 * * What did they threaten to do ? ” 
 
 “Nothing. They wound up by saying that I would doubt- 
 less perceive the extreme seriousness of the affair. I tore up 
 my penciled draft for Mawby, and sat down here to think it 
 all over. Naturally, I soon went to the strong box for Mr. 
 Venn- Venning’s receipt. By the light of a candle I began 
 reading it ; and then I found that the original phrase ‘by John 
 Constable’ had been altered to ‘after John Cons'table.’ Mr. 
 Venning, when he slipped back for his gloves ” 
 
 “Of course. You don’t need to tell me that. Go on.” 
 
 “I locked up the chapel and went straight to a few trades- 
 men whom I had obliged in one way or another. Mr. Cottle, 
 of Cottle & Evans, the tailors, told me at once that Mr. Venn- 
 Venning had fled the country, and that his checks and bills 
 were simply waste paper, and that he was a cheat. 
 
 ‘ ‘ That night, Mr. Edward, I did n ’t go to bed. I played the 
 organ until it wouldn’t have been right to make a noise any 
 longer. Then I paced up and down this chapel — miles and 
 miles. You see, there was only my unsupported word that 
 Mr. Venn-Venning had altered the receipt behind my back; 
 and he had altered it in such a hurry that you could n’t be 
 sure which had been written first, the ‘by’ or the ‘after.’ I 
 knew what people would say, that I was trading on Mr. Venn- 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 33 
 
 Venning’s bad name, and taking advantage of bis absence to 
 concoct an excuse for my own fraud. I shall never forget that 
 night. In the morning this little basket overflowed with torn- 
 up drafts. Please tell me, Mr. Edward, what I ought to have 
 done.” 
 
 “You ought to have gone to the best solicitor in Bulford.” 
 
 “That was what I wanted to do. But perhaps you do not 
 quite realize that I am still regarded by most of the profes- 
 sional gentlemen in the town as a rag-and-bone man’s son. 
 They wouldn’t let me open an account at the Bulford Old 
 Bank, for instance. The only solicitors I knew were Woodley, 
 Baker & Woodley, who had acted for me when I leased this 
 chapel. They used to be a first-class firm, but they have gone 
 down. Anyhow, I knew no other solicitor, so I went to them 
 as soon as their office opened. Mr. Woodley took both the let- 
 ters, as well as Mr. Venn- Venning’s receipt.” 
 
 “What instructions did you give him?” 
 
 “To furnish an exact account of the trick that had been 
 played on me; to lay strong emphasis on the fact that I only 
 discovered it after receiving the lawyers’ letters; to offer to 
 take back the pictures, returning the money in full; and to 
 add that the assistance of all parties would be required in 
 bringing the swindler to justice. Was that right, Mr. Ed- 
 ward?” 
 
 “You might have done much worse. Continue.” 
 
 “Mr. Woodley warned me that my story was uncorroborated, 
 and that Mr. Venn- Venning might ruin me by a slander action. 
 He said : ‘ The less letter-writing the better. Let me see these 
 solicitors in person.’ I agreed.” 
 
 “And you did right, Coggin. I hope Woodley did right, 
 also.” 
 
 “The affair dragged out for weeks. The London man, Mr. 
 Brassington, said it was a cock-and-bull story, and that he 
 wasn’t sure he would be acting in the public interest if he 
 
THE HARE 
 
 34 
 
 merely accepted his money back. Mawby & Mawby took the 
 same line, in different language. They dangled over my 
 head vague hints of criminal prosecution. Of course, I told 
 Mr. Woodley that there must be nothing that would look 
 like buying them off or paying them hush-money. I would 
 have gone to prison for five years rather than that. In the 
 long run, Mr. Woodley sent for me, and announced that they 
 would return the pictures in exchange for their money and 
 their out-of-pocket expenses, and that the matter would then 
 be at an end, as they declined to be drawn into my transac- 
 tions with Mr. Venn- Yenning, which were not their business. 
 Mr. Woodley pointed out that it was simple justice to recoup 
 their expenses, and that he did n’t think they would be heavy. 
 I consented, because the swindler was out of reach, and there 
 seemed no other way. But when the bills came in, Mr. Ram- 
 bury’s was over sixty pounds, and Mr. Brassington’s was 
 eighty pounds, and Mr. Woodley’s nearly a hundred. He 
 had charged me the whole expense of several journeys to Lon- 
 don, though I know he had to go there on other business. So 
 those two pictures have cost me nearly three hundred and 
 fifty pounds, which was more than my whole working cap- 
 ital.” 
 
 4 ‘ They ’ve kept their bargain? They have dropped the 
 suggestion of fraud absolutely? ” 
 
 ‘ e I do not doubt they have. But somehow the matter leaked 
 out. There have been paragraphs in the Courier about a local 
 art-dealer who is buying experience rather dearly. Anony- 
 mous letters come to me. Sometimes I find insulting words 
 chalked on the door. It even happens ” 
 
 Coggin’s words were cut short by a ting of the bell. A 
 rotund and rubicund gentleman waddled in. He wanted a 
 pair of small bronze horses. 
 
 “I mean the pair you bought at Mrs. Garrowby’s sale,” 
 he said. “If you haven’t sold them in the meantime.” 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 35 
 
 Coggin led him up to the horses. They were standing on a 
 broad window-sill, just behind Edward Redding. 
 
 “ These are what I bought at Mrs. Garrowby ’s, ’ ’ said Cog- 
 gin. 
 
 “You are sure they are the same — perfectly sure?” 
 Edward Redding stepped forward and asked sharply : 
 “What do you mean, sir? Your question has already been 
 answered.” 
 
 “Well — you see,” the customer answered, with a nervous 
 half-giggle, “one hears funny things. One hears about cer- 
 tain paintings by Constable ” 
 
 “And one is going to hear something else,” thundered Red- 
 ding, who had inherited his father's great voice. “One is go- 
 ing to hear the plain order, ‘Get out.’ If you think Coggin — 
 Mr. Coggin — is a dishonest dealer, you ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself for encouraging him. Right-about-face! Quick 
 march, you simpering humbug! ” 
 
 Redding led the way towards the door at such a speed that 
 the astounded stranger could not keep pace, and had to 
 change his waddle for a comical run. As Redding regained 
 his old place near the bronze horses, he saw that Coggin was 
 pale and trembling. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Forgive me — Harry, ’ ’ Edward blurted out. He shared his 
 mother’s pride of birth, and it cost an effort to say “Harry”; 
 but he got the word out clearly and warmly. “Forgive me for 
 interfering. But if this is the life you are living among 
 snobs and curs, my blood boils. Has it happened before ? ’ ’ 
 “It happens every day,” Coggin answered in low tones. 
 Then, losing all control, he suddenly blazed up and cried: 
 “I thank God my mother is dead. She died in peace. This 
 would have killed her. I can stand it no longer. ’ ’ 
 
 “You ’re not going to stand it any longer, Harry,” said 
 Edward Redding. “Within a month you shall be out of this 
 accursed town, never to set foot in it again.” 
 
36 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “No, Mr. Edward, no, no!” cried Coggin desperately. “If 
 this hadn’t happened, I might have said Yes. But I can’t 
 go now. They ’ve tried their hardest to drive me out and 
 they ’ve failed. Here I stay, till I ’ve lived down the last 
 breath of slander. Oh, Mr. Edward, surely you can see it. 
 If I slip off like a thief in the night they ’ll say it ’s true. 
 Your father fought for my mother and for me. It ’s a com- 
 mon saying that he would be in Bulford to-day but for ‘ Raggie 
 Coggin,’ ‘Boney Coggin.’ No. For his sake I will clear my 
 name before them all.” 
 
 Redding took a few strides down the chapel and up again, 
 and thgi said: 
 
 “You are not going to slip out of Bulford like a thief in 
 the night. You are going to leave in broad daylight, with all 
 flags flying. I can promise you that. Now get on with your 
 work and I will get on with mine. Can I see you to-night? 
 To save time, perhaps you would provide a little bread and 
 cheese and a jug of ale.” 
 
 “We close the chapel at seven. I have a meal at half-past,” 
 Coggin replied. And he added, with a sudden return of his 
 old humility: “If I am not taking too great a liberty, Mr. 
 Edward, perhaps you would . . . perhaps I might ask you to 
 do me the very great honor of ... of dining with me.” 
 
 At the word “dining,” Edward Redding started. Bill 
 Coggin ’s son dining late! He concluded, however, that the 
 furniture-dealer had merely been fumbling for an acceptable 
 word, and that the meal would be a substantial tea, which the 
 Reddings had always detested. Still, he could not easily re- 
 fuse ; and it suited his rapidly-forming plans to be absent from 
 “The Bulcaster Arms,” where Rambury’s emissaries would 
 certainly try to keep him under observation. So he answered : 
 
 “With the greatest pleasure. Dinner, here, half-past 
 seven.” 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 S he stepped out of Coggin’s cool chapel into the dusty 
 
 street, Redding instantly took one small, preliminary 
 
 decision. He must clear out of 4 ‘The Bulcaster 
 
 Arms’ ’ without a moment’s delay, before anybody could em- 
 barrass him there by calls or messages. So he hurried back to 
 the inn, paid his bill, packed his things and left word that he 
 would send a messenger for the valises later on. If no better 
 plan occurred to him, he could easily take the last train to 
 Demehaven, where there was a modern hotel. 
 
 To evade acquaintances, the young man slipped down Perry 
 Lane to the landing-stages on the banks of the Deme. It was 
 pleasant to see the broad clean stream once more ; and when a 
 boatman came forward with seductive praises of the lovely 
 morning, Edward could not resist the temptation of a light 
 skiff. Although a gentle current opposed him, he shot for- 
 ward at a prodigious rate up the lonely reaches, never paus- 
 ing until he could see the white gable of “The Anglers” at 
 Minnowbridge reflected in the bronze-colored water. He had 
 sculled nearly five miles, and it was one o ’clock. 
 
 In an arbor built out over the running water, Redding 
 sat for at least an hour after disposing of his cold mutton and 
 bread and cheese and bitter ale. While he brooded, he saw 
 the first streaks of daylight. It seemed prudent to hold his 
 brains back from a theory and a plan until he had put certain 
 questions to Coggin. But the sun was hot, and he knew he 
 must wait a little before sculling home again ; so he sharpened 
 a pencil and began a letter to his father. After a paragraph 
 about his journey, he wrote: 
 
 37 
 
 
38 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Now for Coggin. You were right when you said something 
 teas wrong. lie has told me part of the story, and there will 
 be more to-night. 
 
 His health seems good. My first sight of him this morning 
 — he did n’t see rne — was outside the old chapel, now his ware- 
 house and shop. I saw him working like a nigger, in a flannel 
 shirt and corduroys. When I met him later , he looked thor- 
 oughly presentable. Good navy-blue serge, dark blue cravat. 
 
 What strikes me most is his command of words. Now and 
 then he relapses into that abominable old ’ umble manner of 
 his, and he still forms sentences too deliberately, but in the 
 main he speaks like an educated man of the world, except that 
 every Tom , Dick, and Harry is “Mister.” 
 
 Honestly, his organ-playing is magnificent. We must get 
 him out of this hole of a Bulford. 
 
 After his mention of Coggin’s deliverance from Bulford, Ed- 
 ward Redding ceased scribbling. How was the deliverance to 
 be wrought? He felt it could be achieved: indeed he had 
 promised Harry Coggin that he would achieve it. Yes. It 
 should be done — done before Midsummer Day. 
 
 The drift homeward was not like the pull outward. At 
 least twenty times the oarsman ceased rowing altogether, 
 watching the drops as they fell from the idle blades or merely 
 keeping the skiff in mid-stream by a light stroke now and again. 
 Thrice he tied up under the willows and smoked the full- 
 flavored cigarettes he had brought from Spain. Yes. It 
 should be done. He saw a way. 
 
 The closer his feet drew to the chapel and the nearer the 
 hands of his watch approached half -past seven, the more un- 
 savory to Edward Redding became the thought of a dinner 
 with Coggin. Although he held Liberal opinions in politics 
 and was always ready to break a lance on behalf of the op- 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 39 
 
 pressed, he was so fastidious and aristocratic in his personal 
 habits that he could not help holding off the oppressed at an 
 arm’s length. It was true that he had always found Coggin 
 the pink of cleanliness and wholesomeness. But talking with 
 a self-educated genius was one thing and eating with him was 
 another. Although Redding did not dare to speculate on the 
 menu, he felt horribly sure that he would eat strong and 
 greasy dishes in a sealed-up kitchen, nauseous with odors of 
 past fryings and onion-choppings innumerable. And after his 
 : long day in the living air on the clean river, amidst the sweet 
 young leaves, such an experience would be doubly disgusting. 
 The chapel door was closed; but all the windows were open, 
 and through these windows came delicate music which seemed 
 i to climb and cling all over the gaunt building, beautifying it 
 like bright and fragrant creepers on an old barn. Redding 
 had hardly pulled the bell when a bolt was drawn, and Harry 
 Coggin opened the ponderous door. The two young men en- 
 tered the chapel. Redding had expected to find it stuffy ; in- 
 deed he had been pitying himself as a much-suffering mortal 
 for having to do errands of mercy in a second-hand furniture 
 shop. But “St. Coggin’s,” as Sir George Batwood called it, 
 smelt almost as cool arid fresh as the open river. Redding 
 could not help saying so. 
 
 “Yes,” agreed Coggin, looking pleased, “everything here is 
 sweet and clean. If you will pardon my saying so, it is cleaner 
 than most houses. Look. ’ ’ 
 
 He thwacked in succession two or three padded arm-chairs 
 and a luxurious divan. Hardly a speck of dust flew out. 
 
 | “In houses,” he explained, “they beat carpets, scrub floors, 
 paint doors, paper walls and ceilings; but furniture like this 
 | often goes a life-time with nothing more than dusting and 
 | brushing. Whatever comes in here is picked open and puri- 
 ! fled inside and out. Often we put in entirely new stuffing. 
 
 | You would be astounded at what we find, even in furniture 
 
40 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 from first-class shops — rags and straw and dirty rubbish. I 
 have a very clean upholsterer, and most of these things are 
 better than new.” 
 
 The spacious and lofty chapel, softly carpeted and warmly 
 lighted by the setting sun, was certainly attractive. Although 
 it was a shop and warehouse, it seemed to be permanently 
 furnished, like a grand hall, rather than stocked with priced 
 and numbered bits of furniture for sale. As Edward glanced 
 at the patches of noble bronze, of imperious brass, or lordly 
 mahogany, of legendary oak, of antique marble, of intimate 
 china, of seemly silver which caught the ruddy light here and 
 there, he had an inspiration. 
 
 “Why not have our bits of bread and cheese and our tank- 
 ard of beer here, where it ’s so airy and comfortable ? ’ ’ he 
 asked. “Truly, I don’t wish for anything better.” 
 
 “But I do, Mr. Edward,” retorted Coggin, with unusual 
 gaiety. “The dining-room is quite as airy. Shall we go?” 
 
 He led the way into what had been, in the days of the Wes- 
 leyan services, the minister’s vestry. Redding cried out. He 
 saw a well-proportioned room, oak-paneled half way up the 
 walls. In an old-fashioned little grate a heap of fir-cones 
 burned merrily. Two wax-candles, still unlit, had been set in 
 heavy brass candlesticks on a massive oval table. The table- 
 cloth was snowy-white, and the few pieces of silver and glass 
 reflected the last slanting sunbeams. When his first surprise 
 was over, Redding noticed four choice engravings, judiciously 
 hung; a bowl of yellow roses, between the brass candlesticks; 
 two high-backed chairs; a claret-jug, and a crystal decanter. 
 The upper sash of the window had been pulled down as far 
 as it would go, and a life giving breeze kept tossing into the 
 room and dragging back again into the garden the light stems 
 and crisp leaves of a Virginia creeper. 
 
 “You would wish to wash?” said Coggin. 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 41 
 
 “No. I was splashing only half-an-hour ago,” Redding 
 made haste to answer. It was true. On giving up the skiff 
 he had attempted some awkward ablutions at the boatman’s 
 cottage. His fear and prejudices were dying hard. Even 
 with the spotless table-cloth before his eyes, and with the de- 
 licious air in his nostrils, he shrank in dismay from Coggin’s 
 upper regions, where he felt sure there would be disorder 
 and dirt and stateness, Edward had so often heard his 
 father say that, although a clergyman had a pleasant life on 
 the whole, nothing could quite set off the horror of sitting in 
 the bedrooms of the poor. 
 
 Coggin seemed disappointed at the refusal. He asked to 
 to be excused for a few moments, and disappeared through a 
 narrow doorway in the far corner of the room. Very soon 
 he emerged, carrying a soup tureen and two deep plates on a 
 small tray. Guest and host sat down to table. Alluring odors 
 filled the room. 
 
 “Perhaps you will say grace, Mr. Edward,” Coggin said. 
 
 “Confound it all,” retorted Redding, “I ’m a parson’s 
 son, not a parson, say grace yourself.” 
 
 “ Benedictus benedicat,” Coggin said, rather shyly. Then 
 he uncovered the tureen and served a kidney soup, hot and 
 clean and fragrant, with sippets of still firm toast a-float 
 in it. After a first hesitating spoonful, Redding fell to. Al- 
 ways a hungry young man, he felt ravenous after his day on 
 the river. Meanwhile the host bent down and took from a 
 pail of cold water under the table a small bottle of Moselle. 
 Having wuped it carefully, he drew the cork and filled two thin 
 green glasses. The guest opened his eyes wide. After such 
 a soup, was it likely that there would be bad wine ? He raised 
 the glass to his lips. At first sip he quailed. After the heavy 
 juices of Spain and the vinous hock of “The Bulcaster Arms” 
 this wine cut his palate for a moment, like an exquisitely tern- 
 
42 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 pered blade. Then the memory of summer days at Trier and 
 in the Moselle valley rushed back upon him, and he knew how 
 fine a bottle had been opened in his honor. 
 
 Coggin carried away the soup-plates and returned with a 
 homely brown dish, of oblong shape, wherein lay two strange- 
 looking packets. When the packets were opened, Redding saw 
 and smelt two speckled trout which had been baked in buttered 
 paper. With these toothsome little fishes the Moselle tasted 
 better than ever. 
 
 “By Jove, Slogger,” exclaimed Redding heartily, when 
 nothing but a skeleton remained on his plate. “ I ’ll try and 
 say a gr£ce now, if you like. What a soup ! And what trout ! 
 And what wine ! But really, it is too bad — going to all this 
 trouble and expense. If there ’s another dish to follow, for 
 heaven’s sake don’t get up from the table. Let the cook 
 bring it herself. Never mind if she ’s a bit unpresentable. 
 We ’re not standing on ceremony. Besides, I ’d like to see 
 her. She ’s a genius. Call her in.” 
 
 * ‘ This is my regular dinner, every night save Sunday, ’ ’ ex- 
 claimed Coggin, in his most modest tones. “I ’ll admit that 
 to-night we have an extra dish and two kinds of wine instead 
 of one. As for the cook . . . well, I ’m cook myself. So 
 please excuse me again.” 
 
 He retired with the fish-plates. Redding gazed after him 
 in astonishment. Then he sprang up and followed. Push- 
 ing open the narrow door he found himself in a tiny kitchen, 
 where every utensil shone and where there was not a dirty 
 knife or a potato-paring or a ragged clout to be seen. Cog- 
 gin was bending down and taking a shapely earthenware pot 
 out of the oven. Redding, who could do nothing domestic 
 himself, had always been a little frightened of people who 
 could cut up animals and whet long knives and play with 
 scorching fire : so he recoiled and sat down again at the table. 
 The shapely pot was set down on a straw mat, and Coggin pro- 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 43 
 
 duced from its depths the legs of a plump chicken, together 
 with many little dice of various colors cut from young carrots, 
 young turnips, and young potatoes, and moistened with a won- 
 derful sauce or gravy, the color of old mahogany. He trans- 
 ferred these good things to the piping-hot dinner-plates, and 
 then poured out very carefully two glasses-full of claret. 
 
 “Please eat while it ’s hot,” he said. 
 
 Edward Redding obeyed. The delicate white meat came 
 away from the bone at a touch ; yet it had not been cooked to 
 rags, and, thanks to the sauce, flavor had gone into the 
 chicken instead of being stewed out of it. And when he 
 tasted his Bordeaux he knew that the Queen in London was 
 drinking no better. 
 
 “Slogger,” he said at last, “you have deceived me. This 
 morning I came here offering to lend you some money. How 
 you must have smiled. You say you dine practically like this 
 every night. So you are not only a genius but a Croesus . 9 ’ 
 
 “Not quite,” retorted the other. “My breakfast is like a 
 navvy ’s. But I do think it is not a waste of time to spend an 
 hour in cooking a proper evening meal and another hour in 
 eating it. I do it on principle, Mr. Edward. Living by my- 
 self like this, there is a temptation to go on playing the organ, 
 or to finish some interesting book, and to be untidy and care- 
 less about meals. I overdo it, perhaps; and if any of the 
 Bulford people knew it they would call me a ridiculous up- 
 start and snob. But if I didn’t overdo it . . . well, I should 
 underdo it. And as for expense, it is cheaper to dine well 
 than to dine badly . 9 9 
 
 “But these wines?” 
 
 “Wine and music are my only luxuries; and they both earn 
 me more than they cost. You see, Mr. Edward, I go to big 
 sales now, at grand houses* and I buy all sorts of things. If 
 I don’t make so many mistakes as other dealers when I buy 
 wine or a piano or a harp, and if I get better bargains, it is 
 
44? 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 because I study wine and play the piano. As a rule though, 
 I drink only a little ordinary claret, bottled by myself, and 
 it does n ’t cost sixpence a day. ’ 7 
 
 The bare chicken-bones gave place in due time to the dessert 
 — a glass bowl containing about a dozen large, handsome, ripe, 
 dry strawberries, and some ratafia biscuits with a small wedge 
 of Cheshire cheese. The rest of the ’38 Chateau Pape Clement 
 went down well with these good things. And as the wine 
 dwindled in the decanter, the daylight outside weakened until 
 the diners were glad of the cheerful flame in the hearth which 
 Coggin had replenished with small pieces of fragrant old 
 wood, saved from his workshop. They did not light the 
 candles, as this would have meant shutting the window. 
 
 “And now,” said Edward Redding, after he had praised 
 his dinner for the tenth time, “let us have the story of your 
 music. You mentioned concerts.” 
 
 “My music,” Harry Coggin answered directly, “was a com- 
 plete failure. There were two selections: ‘Ten Pieces for the 
 Organ,’ and ‘Six Preludes and Fugues’ for the pianoforte. 
 They fell absolutely flat.” 
 
 “You sent us them both. My mother plays well, but we 
 were none of us musical enough to understand your composi- 
 tions merely by reading them on paper, and there was no piano 
 where we were staying. At Freiburg the organist of the 
 cathedral played them over for us. We thought them fine. 
 So did he. In fact he borrowed them, to copy them ; and by 
 the way, we never got them back. Surely some people praised 
 them here.” 
 
 “I never heard of one.” 
 
 “Well, Coggin, we enquired about it; and months after- 
 wards, when it was too late, we learned the truth. The peo- 
 ple you went to are no good. They call themselves publishers, 
 but they don ’t publish. They engrave music beautifully, on 
 paper that will last a thousand years; and then they fold 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 45 
 
 their arms and wait for the public to find out that the com- 
 position exists and to buy it in reams. What did it cost 
 you ? ’ ’ 
 
 “Over a hundred pounds. It can’t be helped now, and it 
 did me good to put music in print. Perhaps I should n’t have 
 had such a failure if it hadn’t been for the concerts. I 
 know the Bulford Mercury meant to review the compositions 
 favorably; but the concerts frightened them.” 
 
 “ I ’m waiting for the concerts. ’ ’ 
 
 “My idea was to give two concerts, one in the afternoon, 
 the other in the evening. You see, Mr. Edward, the music- 
 shops here would not show my compositions in their windows : 
 because I am now a dealer in musical instruments myself, and 
 they resent the intrusion. So I decided to give two short 
 chamber concerts, and to play two of my own things at each 
 concert. The programs were really good — Handel and Bach 
 on a real old harpsichord, and afterwards modern composers, 
 especially Schumann, who ’s hardly known in Bulford. I 
 engaged the Victoria Rooms. The booksellers were very kind. 
 All of them, except Tucker and Slann, shewed the program 
 and sold tickets. 
 
 “At first we were immensely encouraged, my mother and 
 I ; because Mr. Rixon sent round within a few hours for more 
 tickets. I went to Prout and Hopkinson’s, but they ’d sold 
 all their tickets too, and it was the same everywhere. And 
 that was three weeks before the day. 
 
 “The afternoon came. My mother had a new black silk 
 dress and bonnet, very plain but very good. She insisted on 
 having a seat at the back, in a corner. We were a little sur- 
 prised at being the first to arrive, until I remembered that, as 
 the seats were all reserved and numbered, there was no need 
 for anybody to come early. Three o’clock came. At five 
 minutes past, one man came in. It was the reporter of the 
 Bulford Mercury . He glanced round, and was just going to 
 
4*6 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 beat a retreat when I ran after him to ask if my watch was 
 wrong. He shewed me his own watch, and looked very much 
 embarrassed and a bit upset. I drew him into the ante-room 
 and begged him to speak. lie wouldn’t at first. Then he 
 said: ‘Mr. Coggin, I heard half a hint of this last night, and 
 I hoped it wasn’t true. I say it ’s a shame. If I were the 
 Editor, instead of a poor devil of a reporter, the Mercury 
 would speak out on this. Bulford is a damnable town.’ He 
 went away, and I guessed what had happened. The front 
 seats were half-a-crown each and the others a shilling. Some- 
 body had spent over fifteen pounds buying up all the tickets 
 and not using one of them.” 
 
 “You take my breath away,” burst out Edward Redding. 
 “What you tell me is vile beyond belief. Yet . . . are you 
 sure ? If anybody did this deliberately, he put fifteen pounds 
 in your pocket.” 
 
 “No, Mr. Edward. I had announced that the whole pro- 
 ceeds would go to the Infirmary. ’ ’ 
 
 “Some thoughtless people may have bought all the tickets 
 for the sake of the Infirmary ; not to spite you at all. ’ ’ 
 
 “When you have heard the rest, you won’t say so. Well, I 
 sat down and went right through the whole program. The 
 windows were open; and the hall-keeper told me afterwards 
 that while he was smoking in Dark Alley, the narrow little lane 
 alongside the Victoria Rooms, young Mrs. Albert Rambury 
 and another lady walked up and down and listened. My 
 mother cried that night as I had never seen her cry before; 
 and I made up my mind to come out victorious at the second 
 concert, just for her sake. 
 
 “Mr. Rixon told me, first thing next morning, that while my 
 first concert was going on, people he did not recognize had 
 bought up all the tickets for the second. At the other book- 
 sellers’ it was the same. I seized the bull by the horns and en- 
 gaged the Assembly Rooms that very morning. I advertised 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 47 
 
 that, owing to the tickets being all sold a week ahead I had 
 taken a larger concert-room, and that the Victoria Rooms 
 tickets would be available there. The news of what was going 
 on flashed round the town, and there was a big demand for 
 tickets. We sold at least two hundred, mostly shilling ones, 
 to genuine applicants. 
 
 4 ‘ On the night, the shilling people came early ; but right up 
 to eight o’clock the front seats were nearly all empty. Of 
 course those were chiefly the seats I had had to keep for the 
 mysterious people who ’d bought the Victoria Rooms tickets, 
 and I felt glad they were staying away. The recital began 
 with the first of Schumann’s Noveletten. Perhaps you know 
 it.” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “The beginning is massive and loud. But a tender pas- 
 sage follows, and just as this had begun I heard stamping and 
 jostling and loud talking. The front seats were filling up. 
 Still, I did n’t take my eyes off the music. When the piece was 
 finished, the back seats began to applaud. Instantly the front 
 seats sent up cat-yells and yelled 4 Rags- and-bones,’ over and 
 over again. I looked ; and instead of seeing, as I ’d expected, 
 the fast young men of Bulford, I saw what looked like the 
 whole population of Pig Lane. I found out afterwards that 
 somebody had put all the Victoria Rooms tickets into en- 
 velopes and had caused them to be thrown into the Pig Lane 
 houses, about half-past seven on the very evening of the 
 concert. ’ ’ 
 
 ‘ ' All this is astounding, ’ ’ said Edward Redding. ‘ ‘ But I ’m 
 puzzled. Why did Pig Lane yell 'Rags- and-bones’? Surely 
 the Pig Lane people ought to have been your champions.” 
 
 “Not at all. You don’t understand, Mr. Edward. Even 
 when we had the marine-store on the canal-bank, long before I 
 won the Robson Scholarship, we had no friends in Pig Lane. 
 You see, my mother married a good deal beneath her, as people 
 
48 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 say. The Croxons, of Skilbury, her family, used to be well- 
 to-do yeomen. My mother always considered herself above 
 Pig Lane. And the Pig Lane people always considered 
 themselves above the old-clo' man's family. When we closed 
 the yard and got on, Pig Lane resented it. We had to drive 
 that way whenever we went out to Skilbury ; and although the 
 horse and trap and harness and our own clothes were never 
 showy, people often jeered at us.” 
 
 “You didn't mind, Slogger?” 
 
 “A little. I wanted to be friendly with the young working- 
 men; and they thought I was patronizing them. I wanted to 
 work with the educated people, on the Choral Society and the 
 Antiquarian Society, for instance; and they thought I was 
 presumptuous. ’ ’ 
 
 “Finish telling me about the concert.” 
 
 “Well, as soon as there was a, lull, I began to play Mozart's 
 Fantasia and Sonata. It was of no use. The uproar drowned 
 the piano. Then a few gentlemen, who were ashamed of the 
 mob, came down the gangway and began chucking out the 
 noisest lads. That led to a free fight. The worst of it was 
 that a man named Ned Clegg, a bruiser — the Napperton 
 Chicken they called him — wanted to take my side. I had 
 helped him a bit when he was going to be sold up for the 
 rent. This Ned Clegg hurt his hand at the beginning of the 
 fight, so he unfastened his belt and laid about with it, right 
 and left. It had a heavy brass buckle, and it made some 
 ugly wounds. I was blamed for them all. They said I 'd 
 hired the Chicken in case of a row. At last the police poured 
 in, and the manager of the Assembly Rooms rushed up to me 
 and ordered me to stop playing as they must clear the hall be- 
 fore more damage was done. They turned everybody into 
 the street and put out the gas ; but the fighting went on in 
 nooks and corners for nearly an hour. The worst thing was 
 that somebody hustled my mother and asked what fine lady's 
 
THE DELIVERER 49 
 
 left-off silk gown she was wearing. My mother was never the 
 same after that night.” 
 
 Henry Coggin paused in his narration. The fire, which had 
 been burning low, happened to flame up at that moment, and 
 Edward Redding saw the narrator’s pale face harden. Cog- 
 gin ’s voice hardened too as he added slowly : 
 
 “If I could have found out who it was, I believe I should 
 have killed him. ’ ’ 
 
 Dimness grew again, and there was a dead silence. At 
 length Redding asked : 
 
 “You did not accept this damage and these insults with- 
 out retaliation?” 
 
 “Immediately afterwards, my mother fell ill,” Coggin an- 
 swered. “They said there was no hope for her. She 
 would n’t leave Bulford ; so when I heard that this chapel was 
 to let, with the old Sunday School behind, I jumped at it. I 
 cleaned and altered the old school into quite a cheerful little 
 house. The view over the Deme from the back window is 
 beautiful, and the position is high and healthy. It was living 
 on the canal-bank all those years that broke her constitution. 
 But she never set foot in this place. My plan was too late 
 . . . And, after her death, when I was settling here, I hadn’t 
 the heart to remember the concerts. Then came the affair of 
 the forged pictures. No, Mr. Edward, I have not retaliated. 
 But perhaps you will consent to our saying no more about it 
 to-night. There is a special reason why I want you to drink 
 a glass of really good wine — a very old Madeira. May I close 
 the window and light the candles?” 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 W HEN the window was closed and the candles were 
 lit, Henry Coggin poured out his ancient Madeira. 
 Although it had been grown at the time of the 
 French Revolution, the handsome-looking juice was still hale. 
 The arrogance of its youth had given place to quiet strength. 
 Differences of birth and station were forgotten for the moment 
 as the two young men held their glasses up to the candle- 
 light, inhaled the reticent fragrance, and finally received the 
 honorable draught within their lips. 
 
 For a short time the conversation was about nothing save 
 wine. Coggin declared that, at a sale of a man’s possessions, 
 you could generally guess whether the contents of the cellar 
 would be good, bad, or indifferent, merely by casting your eye 
 over the books, the pictures, the furniture, the plate, and es- 
 pecially the glass. He added some reminiscences, to prove his 
 point. 
 
 “You told me there was a special reason for opening this 
 magnificent, stunning, marvelous, insurpassable, never-to-be- 
 forgotten bottle to-night, ’ ’ said Redding, at the second filling 
 of his glass. “I ’m waiting.” 
 
 Several moments passed before Coggin replied : 
 
 “You will think me foolish and sentimental. The special 
 reason is this. Every evening of my life, I sit here and drink 
 one small glass of fine wine in memory of Mr. Redding, your 
 father.” 
 
 “Good Lord! But the guv ’nor isn’t dead.” 
 
 “I ought to have said in his honor, not in memory of him,” 
 exclaimed Coggin. But he added hastily: “No. Memory 
 
 50 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 51 
 
 is the right word. I could write down every action I ever 
 saw him perform, every syllable I ever heard him utter. And 
 in this room, all by myself, I go over it all, again and again/’ 
 
 Edward was on the brink of a chaffing rejoinder. He would 
 have let it slip out, if the almost religious exaltation of the 
 other’s looks had not compelled him to be silent. Coggin 
 went on: 
 
 “I cannot bear that you should go away from Bulford 
 thinking of me as a conceited upstart. That I should dine in 
 state six nights a week, by the light of wax candles, and that I 
 should drink fine wines out of old cut glass . . . this could be 
 misunderstood. Perhaps even you, Mr. Edward, will not 
 quite see my meaning. 
 
 “I hold your father, Mr. Edward, in such reverence that 
 some people would call my feeling a sin. If it were not for 
 the sacred memory of what he was, and of what he bade me 
 be, I should have let everything go — Latin, French, English, 
 philosophy, history, everything except music. None but my- 
 self can ever know what it has meant to study alone, to be 
 high of purpose and conscientious in execution, grinding on 
 alone, all alone, month after month, living a secret life to 
 escape ridicule and persecution. The first time I ever tasted 
 wine was one afternoon when your father drank a glass of 
 T5 port at our cottage. He turned and made a jest to me, 
 about having a cellar of my own some day. This nightly 
 wine ... I shall shock you, Mr. Edward, but there ’s no other 
 way of explaining it ... it is my cup of communion with 
 him. When I play the organ, he does not come into my mind ; 
 but when I sip my few drops of old grand wine he seems to be 
 in the room with me. I seem to see his hand spread out over 
 the top of his glass to prevent my mother filling it again; a 
 thin hand it was that day, after his long illness. Then I 
 say to myself: ‘At this moment, in France or Switzerland, or 
 Italy or Spain, he is tasting his little glass of wine,’ and I 
 
52 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 raise my own glass to my lips. Mr. Edward, the empty glass 
 you see at my elbow is the very glass he took from my mother ’s 
 hand twelve years ago. Nobody else shall ever use it. Every 
 night I put it away in a box lined with soft wool. Perhaps 
 you don ’t understand ; but I ’m sure you will drink his health 
 with me.” 
 
 He stood up shyly. Redding, deeply touched, rose also. 
 Then Coggin said : ‘ ‘ Here ’s to the patron saint of this house. 
 Wherever he goes, may God bless him in all he does and all 
 he suffers.” 
 
 They drank the toast and sat down again. The silence 
 which followed was broken by Redding. “May I tell my 
 father about this nightly toast ? ” he asked gently. ‘ ‘ I invited 
 myself to dine with you, and I feel I have perhaps intruded on 
 your secrets.” 
 
 After musing a little, Coggin answered : “ I should like you 
 to tell him. And, now that this is a secret no longer, I should 
 like you to tell him a little more. Not only does his empty 
 glass stand at my elbow already ready for him, but his room 
 is ready too.” 
 
 “His room?” 
 
 “Yes. Don’t laugh at me. A few months ago he wrote 
 that he was determined to come and see me, but that it would 
 be a flying visit, and that nobody in Bulford was to know. 
 The day I got that letter I began to prepare his room. I 
 know it sounds like a great liberty, but . . . but perhaps you 
 will look at the room, Mr. Edward, and tell him what it is 
 like. I ’ll go and light the candles in the room and on the 
 stairs. ’ ’ 
 
 He went out through the door into the chapel, leaving it ajar. 
 His footsteps soon died away along a corridor. But the weird 
 stillness did not last long. From the chapel came a pleasant 
 clangor. Edward jumped up and peeped into the huge, dark 
 place. Although nothing could be clearly seen, he knew that 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 53 
 
 ever so many old clocks were striking the hour. One big fel- 
 low was rippling out the Westminster quarters while several 
 others were slowly hitting their mellow gongs. When the sym- 
 phony ceased, a cuckoo-clock blithely mocked its grave com- 
 panions. Edward counted the cuckoo-calls and found it was 
 nine o’clock. 
 
 He started. Nine o’clock. And the last train to Deme- 
 haven left Bulford at nine thirty-two. To pick up his lug- 
 gage at “The Bulcaster Arms” and to reach the station would 
 take half-an-hour. He began groping along the corridor, 
 meaning to bawl out a hasty farewell and to promise that he 
 would call again in the morning. Suddenly, however, a bright 
 thought leapt up to his brain : and, when Coggin re-appeared 
 carrying a hand-lamp, Redding went straight to the point. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Look here, Slogger, ’ ’ he cried. ‘ ‘ I have an idea. There ’s 
 no limit, y’know, to my impudence. I invited myself to 
 dinner, and I ’ve drunk up all your best wine. Now I ’m 
 going to invite myself to pass the night here as well. ’ ’ 
 
 Coggin nearly dropped his lamp. “Mr. Edward,” he said, 
 “you don’t mean it?” 
 
 At dinner the furniture-broker, helped by the dimness of 
 the room and by the consciousness that he had scored a signal 
 success, both as cook and as host, had gradually lost the sense 
 of inferiority, and had poured out his thoughts to the clergy- 
 man’s son almost on equal terms. Now, however, after five 
 minutes of diligence upstairs as a chambermaid, he was once 
 more Mr. Edward Redding’s very humble and obedient serv- 
 ant. He had descended the stairs, hotly ashamed of his off- 
 hand presumption in taking it for granted that Mr. Oswald 
 Redding, Master of Arts, sometime Rector of Bulford, hus- 
 band of Sir Adrian Shrivenham’s haughty daughter, and a 
 great scholar and traveler, would ever come and hob-nob at 
 his second-hand table and swallow his auction-room wines, and 
 even sleep under his makeshift roof. 
 
54 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “I do mean it, Slogger,” said Edward, still more heartily. 
 “To tell you the truth, I meant to catch the last train to 
 Demehaven and to sleep there. You see I didn’t know I 
 could sponge on you for a room. Yes or no? My father’s 
 room, of course; because I ’ve come to Bulford in his place. 
 Any shakedown will do.” 
 
 Coggin recovered his composure and asked : * 1 Had n ’t you 
 better see the room first? It might not . . . quite suit you, 
 Mr. Edward.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ I tell you any old truckle-bed will do. But confound it ! 
 Here ’s a bother. My things! They ’re all packed up at 
 ‘The Bulcaster Arms,’ and the bill ’s paid. How shall I get 
 them here ? You see, Slogger, I ’m forming a plan for dealing 
 with Rambury, Tranter & Woodley, and it ’s most desirable 
 that they should not know where to find me. ’ ’ 
 
 “That ’s easy,” Coggin answered. “My young assistant is 
 calling here at nine, for to-morrow ’s instructions. Scribble him 
 a note for the landlord and he shall bring your luggage here 
 without a word to anybody. There, he ’s ringing the bell now. 
 You ’ll find pen and paper in the dining-room, in the drawer of 
 the little table.” 
 
 He strode off through the chapel to open the door. Two min- 
 utes later the messenger was on his way to the inn, and Cog- 
 gin once more began leading the way to what his visitor called 
 “The Redding Chamber.” At each awkward turn of the 
 stairs a candle burned on a wall-bracket, and there were 
 two candles on the landing. It was a strange climb. As the 
 old chapel did not afford much wall-space between its many 
 windows, most of the oil-paintings which Coggin had acquired 
 at sales were hung on the landing and stairs. These works 
 were mainly old over-varnished copies of pictures by Raphael, 
 Murillo, Rubens, Rembrandt, and Titian, and had been bought 
 for less than the value of their massive frames. By candle- 
 light they made a grand show. 
 
THE DELIVERER * 
 
 55 
 
 The master of the house threw wide a door and stood back 
 on the landing, so that his guest might pass alone into the bed- 
 chamber. But Edward Redding had hardly advanced three 
 steps from the door-side when he cried out and fell back. 
 
 “ Where are you, Coggin?” he demanded, almost angrily, as 
 if a trick had been played upon him. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I am here , 9 ’ said Coggin quietly. 
 
 They went into the room together. With another human 
 being close beside him, Redding’s fear left him. After the 
 soft richness of the stairs and landing, with deep carpets under 
 his feet, and with dull gold and warm brown and cheerful red 
 and heavenly blue covering nearly every inch of the walls, he 
 had expected a bed-chamber almost like the boudoir of a royal 
 favorite ; and the first glimpse of the reality frightened him. 
 
 The Redding Chamber measured about twelve feet by ten. 
 No carpet lay on the polished boards of the floor. A narrow 
 iron bedstead stood behind the door, and Edward saw that the 
 sheets though spotless, were coarse. There was a mat 
 beside the bed. On one wall, facing the head of the bed, 
 hung a great crucifix, fully three feet high. On the 
 other walls were several religious paintings and engrav- 
 ings — an Assumption, a Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, an 
 Ecce Homo, a Miraculous Draught of Fishes, and a poor por- 
 trait of Pio Nono. As for furniture, it comprised simply the 
 bed, a table, a chest of drawers, a corner wash-stand, two 
 chairs, a bookshelf, and a home-made prie-dieu . The drawn 
 curtains were of unbleached linen. 
 
 Edward Redding took up a candle from the table and 
 cast its light along the titles of the volumes in the shelf. 
 Having read the words De Imitatione Christi, “The Garden of 
 Piety,” Breviarium Romanum, “The Life of St. Charles Bor- 
 romeo , 9 ’ he put the candle down in a hurry. 
 
 “I was afraid this room wouldn’t do,” said Coggin. 
 
 “Of course it will do. I hate feather beds and dusty hang- 
 
56 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 ings. But come, come, Slogger. You ’ve worked up a rather 
 fanciful picture of my poor old guv ’nor in your own mind. 
 Now I think of it, he ’s a saint, without doubt. He simply 
 lives for other people, and never lets her know he ’s disap- 
 pointed when my mother upsets his plans by some sudden 
 move. Still, he isn’t this sort of a saint. No bones sticking 
 out through his hair-shirt, no scourging himself, no hard peas 
 in his boots, you know.” 
 
 “I think he might like this little room,” persisted Coggin, 
 humbly. “But -what about yourself, Mr. Edward? Hark! 
 There ’s the luggage.” 
 
 “This is my room, if you ’ll give it me, for at least a week 
 and perhaps longer,” Redding answered. “If I can’t have 
 this, I ’ll snooze on a sofa in the chapel. Give your messenger 
 this half-crown. When he ’s off the premises, we ’ll bring the 
 luggage up. I ’ll wait here. ’ ’ 
 
 Within half-an-hour Coggin had placed his guest’s luggage 
 in the Redding Chamber and had also carried up two large 
 rugs, an arm-chair, and a wonderful little writing-desk with 
 lock-up drawers. When everything was in order, the host 
 set a match to the shavings and the old knobs of wood in the 
 grate. A lively fire soon began to chuckle in their faces, 
 and the two young men settled down beside it. 
 
 “You have done the talking to-night, Harry Coggin,” Red- 
 ding said. “Now, do some listening. I won’t be long; be- 
 cause I know you keep early hours and you work hard. 
 
 “I ’m not as clever as you are, Harry Coggin, but I have 
 the advantage of bringing a fresh eye to your affairs. You 
 have grown stale. Now, my father’s instructions are to get 
 you out of Bulford. Me you would refuse. Him you will 
 obey. 
 
 “Certain persons want to drive you away from this town. 
 You are going away; but they shall pay you for going — and 
 
THE DELIVERER 57 
 
 pay you jolly well too. They shall eat humble-pie, plenty of 
 it, with no old Madeira to wash it down. 
 
 “To-day I have spent three hours on the river, thinking. 
 Remember that, while I was sculling and puzzling, puzzling 
 and sculling, I knew nothing about the concerts. Only the 
 pictures, the Constables. Let me ask you what is your theory 
 about that affair. To save time, I ’ll state a theory now, 
 and you ’ll say if it agrees with your own. 
 
 “Venn-Venning, unknown to you, had made ducks and 
 drakes of his second fortune and sold his bequest of pictures. 
 Prom some unprincipled dealer with whom he was doing busi- 
 ness, he borrowed 'or begged these clever forgeries. He hoped 
 simply to cheat you with them. When you asked for a receipt 
 in definite terms he was frightened. But he simply had to 
 have money, to fly to France One more fraud did not matter 
 greatly. So he signed and took your cash. Then you turned 
 your back. He seized his chance and altered the receipt.” 
 
 “Of course, Mr. Edward. But is this a theory? Isn’t it 
 only the facts ? ” 
 
 “Perhaps so. But listen carefully. We are agreed, are we, 
 that the episode of the receipt had not been premeditated by 
 him? ” 
 
 ‘ ‘ It could n ’t have been. He could n ’t have guessed that I 
 would put a receipt where he could put his hands on it again.” 
 
 “Quite so. Excuse such obvious comments. Now we ’ll 
 get on. Bully Tranter drifted in here to buy decanters and 
 saw the pictures? Drifted, I say.” 
 
 Redding paused. Coggin said nothing. 
 
 “Then Bully Tranter knocked up against Rambury Secun- 
 dus, quite by chance, and said he ’d seen two Constables here. 
 Quite by chance, I say. ’ ’ 
 
 Again he paused. Again there was no answer. 
 
 “Rambury bought. No haggling. Too busy to examine the 
 
58 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 picture. Relied on your guarantee. Just like the Ramburys, 
 eh — careless, impulsive, happy-go-lucky, generous creatures?” 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 “Now for Brassington. Those London solicitors— did they 
 ever tell you Brassington ’s address?” 
 
 “Yes . . . no. When I come to think of it, they didn’t. 
 Is it usual?” 
 
 “Did Rambury know Brassington before they made com- 
 mon cause against you?” 
 
 “I cannot say.” 
 
 “Have I hinted plainly enough at my theory, Coggin? 
 Don’t be afraid to answer. I am bound to speak gravely. 
 My visit to Bulford is to be the turning-point in your life. 
 Speak. ’ ’ 
 
 “You mean,” said Coggin, after a long time, “did any- 
 body put it into Mr. Venn-Venning’s head that he should 
 come here? Or, did somebody who had got to know that 
 I had been swindled merely take advantage of my misfortune ? 
 You mean : Has there been a conspiracy against me?” 
 
 * ‘ Exactly. Yes or no ? ” 
 
 ‘ ‘ I have no proof. ’ ’ 
 
 Redding was about to dissent. But he checked himself 
 and sat still for a few moments shading his eyes with one 
 hand from the brightness of the fire. At length he asked 
 quietly : 
 
 “If it were proved, what would you do, Harry Coggin ? I 
 don’t ask if you would take revenge. But would you invoke 
 justice? Would you feel bound to punish the guilty and to 
 cut a foul ulcer out of the poor body of this ancient town? 
 I ’ve told you already that my father wants you away from 
 Bulford forever. If I can lead you out of it in triumph; 
 if I can set your feet on a new path towards success and happi- 
 ness in the profession you love; and if, without injustice or 
 ^excessive severity, I can obtain reparation from those who 
 
THE DELIVERER 59 
 
 have sought to blast your life, will you give up this chapel 
 and this business and follow me?” 
 
 Coggin shrank back afraid. In throwing down the chal- 
 lenge, Edward Redding had abandoned his teasing manner, 
 and his voice had deepened until it sounded in the listener’s 
 ears just like that other voice which Coggin would have fol- 
 lowed to the end of the world. 
 
 Suddenly Edward Redding got up and extinguished the 
 candles. Wheeling his arm-chair out of the firelight he de- 
 manded again, in tones still more like his father’s: 
 
 “Will you? Don’t think of me. Try to imagine it is my 
 father sitting here, my father speaking, my father asking. 
 Will you, Harry Coggin?” 
 
 Harry Coggin answered: “Yes.” 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 H UNDREDS of singing-birds awakened Edward Red- 
 ding before five o’clock the next morning. He rolled 
 out of bed and made the curtain rings rasp on their 
 brass pole. Thrusting his head through the open window he 
 could have shouted for joy. Below him lay a young orchard 
 running down a slope; and at the bottom, about a hundred 
 yards distant, flowed the sparkling river. Overnight he had 
 never suspected that he was on the outskirts of Bulford, with 
 never a house between his nostrils and the sweet vale of the 
 Deme. 
 
 Just under the window, in a tiny yard overhung by the 
 nearest trees of the orchard, a roughly dressed man was mov- 
 ing about softly. It was Coggin with a pail of water in each 
 hand. 
 
 “Heavens, Slogger,” Edward called out. “What are you 
 up to?” 
 
 “Your bath,” Coggin answered, meekly, and he vanished 
 into the house. 
 
 Edward Redding opened his bedroom door to expostulate. 
 He nearly fell over a large empty foot-bath, and half a minute 
 later his host, carrying a full bucket, appeared on the landing. 
 
 “There ’s no bathroom,” Coggin explained. “You see I 
 always run down through the orchard and take a plunge in 
 the Deme.” 
 
 “Not in winter?” 
 
 “Winter and summer.” 
 
 “The devil you do! Going this morning?” 
 
 “Yes. I sha’n’t be long away, Mr. Edward.” 
 
 60 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 61 
 
 “Hold on. Look here, I ’m coming too.” 
 
 He jerked back into his room, slammed the door, hastily 
 put on his boots and clothes and rolled up a towel. As St. 
 Michael’s big clock thumped five the two young men were 
 climbing the fence of the orchard. There was no gate. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Hope this is n ’t Rambury ’s orchard we ’re trespassing 
 in,” muttered Redding. 
 
 “No. I have permission to use the path,” Coggin an- 
 swered. “I pay a few shillings a year rent for the bit of 
 ground my bathing-hut stands on.” 
 
 He shewed a key with which, a minute later, he unlocked a 
 little cabin of tarred wood, set snugly between the trunks of 
 four cherry trees. Coggin made his visitor use the hut; and 
 long before Redding was undressed he heard a great splash 
 and knew that Coggin was in the water. 
 
 The morning sun had not yet warmed the air, and when 
 Redding had made only half his run towards the river bank 
 he felt like turning back again. But he trotted on and made 
 the plunge gamely. 
 
 “I was just thinking,” said a voice in his ear as he came 
 to the surface, “that the first time you ever spoke to me was 
 in the water, like this, only it was the canal. Do you remem- 
 ber, Mr. Edward ?” 
 
 Coggin was supporting himself by a quiet stroke or two, 
 now and then, and his tones were as easy as if he had been 
 sitting in a chair by a warm fire-side. He was like a fish in 
 water. Redding, however, felt as if he had been pitched into 
 a bed of nettles. Next came a sensation as of toothache all 
 over his body. He tried to answer, but could only sputter 
 and gasp. 
 
 “Go back and rub yourself down,” cried Coggin earnestly, 
 “you ’ve had enough for the first day. Do please go. ’ ’ 
 
 The novice floundered ashore. While he was drying him- 
 self his teeth chattered like ivory dice rattling in a box. 
 
62 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Coggin swam and sported for five minutes more; and yet he 
 was fully dressed before the door of the cabin opened. A 
 flannel shirt, corduroy trousers, a belt, and a rough jacket 
 did not take long to put on ; nor was it a great task to thrust 
 bare feet into a pair of clogs. 
 
 “What is next on the program in this incredible life of 
 yours, Slogger ? ” the guest asked, as they reentered the house. 
 “Grub, I hope.” 
 
 “Shave and wash,” replied the host. “Here ’s your hot 
 water. Breakfast in twenty minutes. Then a gallop.” 
 
 He gave Redding a steaming can, and having filled another 
 for himself, walked away to his own quarters. Edward sought 
 the stairs. On the way, he espied through an open door a room 
 which the darkness had concealed from him the night before. 
 It had been the principal room in the old Sunday school, and 
 now it was a library and music-room, which housed two or 
 three thousand books, about twenty pictures, and two good 
 pianos. Redding, although he had inherited very little of 
 his father’s bookishness, could not resist the temptation to walk 
 in and look at the shelves. He perceived at once that most of 
 the volumes were of small account; but in a spacious case 
 against the furthest wall were arranged about five hundred 
 good and valuable books, well-bound and well-preserved. 
 
 At breakfast Coggin still wore his rough clothes, but he 
 had put on a collar and had changed his clogs for boots. The 
 meal stood in strong contrast with the delicate and leisurely 
 dinner of the night before. Indeed, if his appetite had not 
 been sharpened by the walk and the swim. Redding might 
 have shrunk from the coarse brown table-cloth, the thick mugs, 
 the peasant’s knives and platters, the gammon of bacon and 
 the big cottage loaf which met his eyes. But the piping-hot 
 coffee, with plenty of new milk, put him into great spirits, 
 and he devoured his bread and bacon with relish. 
 
THE DELIVERER 63 
 
 “What ’s this about a gallop?” he asked, after the second 
 slice. 
 
 “My business takes me all over the country side,” Coggin 
 explained, “so I need a horse. On days when I ’m not going 
 to use him, I try to give him a little run before breakfast. 
 Provided it ’s very early in the morning, the groundsman at 
 the race-course lets me go there. You shall gallop Bay Rum 
 to-day, Mr. Edward. ’ ’ 
 
 “We ’ll take turns. I ’m nearly ready. Yes, just half a 
 cup more. One thing though, Slogger, before we start. You 
 must swear that my being here sha’n’t make any difference to 
 your arrangements. You must n’t alter a single appointment, 
 or make any special fuss at meals.” 
 
 “I always breakfast like this, and there will be only cold 
 beef and cheese at mid-day, ’ ’ said Coggin. ‘ ‘ As for business, 
 I ’m not going to sales just now.” 
 
 “Why? Oh, I ’m truly sorry, Slogger. You mean you 
 haven’t the capital? Those damned pictures? Still, it’s 
 just as well. We don’t want to buy any more stock. We ’re 
 selling off. Enormous reductions. Many lots positively be- 
 low cost. Owner leasing the neighborhood. Remember. You 
 gave me a promise last night. I ’m in deadly earnest. Now, 
 where ’s the gee-gee ? ’ ’ 
 
 Coggin made haste to lead the way, evidently jumping at 
 the chance of evading debate. They passed through the airy 
 chapel just as the clocks were tapping and tinkling and ding- 
 ing and dong-ing the hour of six. When they gained the 
 street they found it deserted. 
 
 A short sharp whistle from Coggin was answered by the 
 creaking of a door a few yards off, and a cheerful youngster 
 appeared leading Bay Rum, a very handsome Cleveland bay, 
 who greeted his owner with much pawing and neighing. 
 Coggin, however, made the boy mount and sent him cantering 
 
6* THE HARE 
 
 on in front, promising to catch him up by a short path 
 through the fields. 
 
 “You can do anything you like, Mr. Edward, with Bay 
 Rum,” said Coggin, when they arrived at the lonely race- 
 course. “Walk him, gallop, put him at that white fence — it 
 will be all agreeable to Bay Rum.” 
 
 “Now look here, Slogger,” confessed Redding. “The 
 shameful truth is I ’ve turned muff. I ’m only a fool of an 
 artist now-a-days. Think how I funked the water an hour 
 ago. Have your gallop ; and when Bay Rum is n ’t quite as 
 fresh we ’ll come back to the subject. I mean it.” 
 
 Coggin leapt into the saddle. His clumsy clothes could not 
 hide the litheness of his limbs and the grace of his movements. 
 He and Bay Rum went off like the wind. As they reached the 
 far side of the field, Edward Redding felt just one prick of 
 mortification. Thirteen years before he had once ridden his 
 own pony on this very turf. At that time Harry Coggin was 
 sorting rubbish in a marine-store. Yet here stood he, Red- 
 ding, all soft and nervous, while Coggin and Bay Rum, like a 
 jockey and a race-horse on Bulford Cup-day, tore along with 
 a thundering of hoofs, hugging the white railings. But he did 
 not allow the pique to last. Mounting Bay Rum in his turn he 
 made a creditable show, and felt the better for it in soul and 
 body. 
 
 “ Solvit ur gallopando,” he chuckled, as he dismounted. 
 “Here is my program. If some land-grabber hasn’t blocked 
 it up, there ’s a track from near the Grand Stand through the 
 meadows to Broken Bridge. I ’m an old man now, with a 
 failing memory ; but I ’d swear Broken Bridge is not a mile 
 away. Half a mile further on stands Leffington Station, on 
 the Demehaven railway. I ’m going to tramp it to Leffington. 
 I shall come into Bulford by train, and to-night I shall go out 
 of Bulford by train, too. Only I shall get out at Leffington, 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 65 
 
 and work home by the riverside, and get back to your kitchen 
 by way of that path through the orchard. That is ... if 
 you’ll have me. Don’t expect me for lunch. And mind you 
 begin packing up. I ’m off.” 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 E ITHER the hand of Providence or an amazing bit of 
 luck delivered the enemy into Edward Redding's 
 hands even before he had given up his ticket from 
 Leffington to the collector at Bulford Station. Gaping at the 
 little book-stall stool Bully Tranter, as lumpish as ever. 
 Redding's first impulse was to dodge him ; but second thoughts, 
 pressing hard on the first, bade him seize his opportunity. 
 
 Tranter's heavy countenance lightened with sincere delight 
 as soon as his sluggish wits had accomplished the task of rec- 
 ollecting his old school-mate. This joy did not spring from 
 any affection for Edward Redding. It was merely his im- 
 mense pleasure at having somebody to talk with whose topics 
 would be of boyish caliber. Tranter had attained the age of 
 twenty-six, and wore a beard and long side-whiskers, but he 
 had not put away childish things, and he preferred the past to 
 the present. 
 
 “Do you do anything, Tranter?" asked Redding, who re- 
 membered that Tranter's family were not reputed opulent. 
 “Are you a lawyer, architect, prize-fighter, doctor, tripe- 
 dresser, poet, gas-fitter, or what? Perhaps you 're a peer of 
 the realm. Met Puffer Batwood the other day and found he 
 was a baronet." 
 
 “I live with my aunt," replied the huge young man's small 
 voice. 
 
 “That 's all? A self-sacrificing profession. Sometimes a 
 lucrative one. But what are you doing this morning ? 
 You 're not living with your aunt in front of this bookstall, are 
 you?" 
 
 66 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 67 
 
 “I ’ve come to buy a paper for my aunt.” 
 
 Redding scrutinized tbe flabby giant narrowly. The plan 
 which he had suddenly formed in his mind was a tremendously 
 risky one. Failure would forewarn and forearm Coggin’s 
 foes, and they might triumph after all. He hesitated. But 
 not for long. Something told him that he had stumbled on 
 one of the enemy’s key positions, and that by a bold rush he 
 might become master of the entire situation. He decided to 
 attack. 
 
 “Then leave the paper at auntie’s, if it is n’t far from here,” 
 he said, “and then, as you ’ve nothing to do, why not join me 
 in a prowl for an hour or so, and tell all about Bulford and 
 the Bulf ordites 1 ’ ’ 
 
 Tranter was delighted. On the way to his aunt’s house in 
 Hanover Grove he chatted like a child, wandering from one 
 story to another and repeatedly taking it for granted that his 
 auditor knew who was who, even in the most complicated 
 narratives of quite recent events. Redding wore the air of an 
 interested listener; but he was intent upon his plan. With- 
 out naming the goal he drew Tranter out of the busier streets 
 through the quiet shade of Beech Lane. In twenty minutes 
 they had reached the spot which suited Redding’s tactics. 
 
 “Why, we ’re at Madman’s Leap!” cried Tranter. 
 
 Madman’s Leap was Bulford ’s great natural curiosity. A 
 small headland or cliff of sandstone, as sheer as a wall, de- 
 scended into a tiny lake. On the opposite shore rose a mag- 
 nificent oak-tree ; and there was a legend that some dare-devil 
 youth had lost his life in trying to spring from the brink of the 
 cliff to a great limb of the tree growing out over the narrow 
 water. A rustic bench had been placed well back from the 
 edge. 
 
 The two climbers were hardly seated when Tranter’s tongue 
 began wagging again. He had a silly bubbling laugh which 
 made a good part of his reminiscences unintelligible. At last, 
 
68 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 however, Redding cocked his ears. The name of Rambury 
 Secundus was pronounced with reverence. Then followed an 
 admiring account of Rambury ’s cleverness, Rambury ’s won- 
 derful wife from London, Rambury ’s singing, Rambury ’s 
 properties, Rambury ’s great acquaintances. It was evident 
 that Tranter felt honored by any kind of association with 
 Rambury. 
 
 “What about Coggin, Harry Coggin, who won the Scholar- 
 ship ?” asked Redding suddenly. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Coggin ? Have n ’t you heard ? Go on ! Everybody 
 knows. Coggin ’s done brown, fairly done brown at last. 
 By Jove, I must tell you. Tremendous fun.” 
 
 He gurgled and bubbled out a spiteful version of the story 
 which Redding had heard from the victim’s own lips the night 
 before — the concerts, the pictures, and even the present im- 
 pecuniosity of Coggin. 
 
 “You seem glad he ’s come to grief, Tranter,” said Red- 
 ding, controlling himself. 
 
 “Of course I ’m glad. There was far too much fuss made 
 over that dirty little old-clo’ boy. He wouldn’t keep his 
 place. Actually thought he could join the Choral Society. 
 He ’s done now, anyhow ; done brown. ’ ’ 
 
 The moment had come. 
 
 Tranter was sitting at the end of the bench, his elbow rest- 
 ing on the curved rustic-work. Redding arose ; turned to face 
 Tranter; planted one knee on the bench so as to pen Tranter 
 in closely ; and then spoke. 
 
 “Mr. Tranter,” he said, in subdued but terrible tones, 
 “hark to me. At school I despised you. We called you Bully 
 Tranter. I despise you now. At six-and-twenty you simply 
 sponge on your aunt. Yet here you are giggling out sneers 
 at a man — d ’ye hear? — at a man, a real man, whose boots 
 you aren’t fit to black. You miserable hound, I ’ve half a 
 mind to chuck you over the cliff.” 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 69 
 
 Tranter tried to titter. But Redding’s eyes were piercing 
 him through, and the sound died on his lips. Surprise 
 changed to stupefaction, and stupefaction to cringing terror. 
 
 “ I . . . did n ’t mean it . . . Mr. Redding, ’ ’ he whimpered. 
 
 “Yes, you did, Bully Tranter, Coward Tranter. And I 
 meant my words too. But I ’m not going to chuck you over 
 the cliff just yet. You are going to tell me, here and now, 
 who played that dirty trick against Coggin’s concerts. An- 
 swer. ’ ’ 
 
 “I . . . don’t know.” 
 
 “You do. Answer. Or over the cliff you go, and a nice 
 ducking you ’ll have, and perhaps a broken head into the bar- 
 gain. ’ ’ 
 
 “On my honor ...” 
 
 “Your honor be damned.” 
 
 Bully Tranter began to cry. He cried in a blubbering style 
 which made him shake like an ill-made, top-heavy jelly. Red- 
 ding ’s lip curled with contempt. He suddenly felt convinced, 
 however, that the big cry-baby was indeed ignorant concerning 
 the wrecker of the concerts. So he attacked in another place. 
 
 “Very well,” he said, sharply. “The pictures. I suppose 
 you ’ll say, on your honor, you were not behind the scenes as 
 regards the pictures? This time you ’re going to answer me, 
 Bully. Stop snuffling and speak up. I give you thirty sec- 
 onds.” 
 
 Tranter’s lips worked, as if attempting to frame words. 
 But instead of words came a moaning cry. At last he whined, 
 “I can’t, oh I can’t!” 
 
 “Now look here,” said Redding, rather less harshly. 
 “You ’ve got to choose. You ’re afraid that if you tell me 
 you ’ll get into trouble with . . . with Rambury. Guessed 
 right, haven’t I, Bully? Very well. But mark this. If 
 you refuse to tell me . . . why, then you ’ll have to reckon 
 with Slogger Coggin. Do you think he ’s going to sit down like 
 
70 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 a lamb and let a cur like Rambury and a jack-ass like you 
 conspire against him and ruin him? No, no, Bully, my boy. 
 That isn't Slogger. He puts up with insults and injuries 
 meekly a long time; but he explodes like Mount Vesuvius at 
 last. Do you remember, Mr. Tranter, how he pitched Curring- 
 ton into the canal, and knocked you and Rambury Primus 
 down like nine-pins, all in two minutes? He was only a boy 
 then. He 's a man now. Look out. He 's going to put you 
 all in prison. Or, if he can't do that, he 'll come and nearly 
 kill the lot of you." 
 
 Tranter put up a huge soft hand as if to ward away the 
 first blow. 
 
 “Yes, Mr. Tranter. He 'll nearly kill you. How will you 
 like two black eyes? And your teeth knocked out? And a 
 few ribs broken ? And your neck wrung ? ' ' 
 
 The terrified giant, wrenching himself clear of his tormen- 
 tor's knee, sprang up and tried to bolt. He did not waddle 
 far. Redding, always fleet of foot, overtook him less than a 
 dozen yards from the bench; and the runaway felt a strong 
 hand gripping his coat collar and hard knuckles kneading his 
 neck. 
 
 Edward Redding's wrath and scorn increased a hundred- 
 fold at the touch of this lumping loafer's unwholesome flesh. 
 He recalled Harry Coggin as he had seen him during these last 
 twenty four hours — Coggin humbly mending arm-chairs, Cog- 
 gin playing majestically on the organ, Coggin sitting over his 
 wine like a gentleman of the old school, Coggin cooking like a 
 cordon bleu, Coggin galloping round Bulford race-course, and, 
 above all, Coggin's clean muscular limbs thrusting through 
 the smarting water of the bright, cold river. To think, that 
 Coggin, at this moment, was alone in his big chapel, eating 
 his heart out, through the foul play of a lout like this ! Ed- 
 ward Redding had not meant it when a few minutes before, 
 he was threatening to tip Tranter over the brink of the little 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 71 
 
 cliff; but, all of a sudden, his palms itched to grab the 
 wretched animal by seat and by scruff and to hurl him out 
 of sight, like something that had gone bad. 
 
 “Don’t try that on again,’’ he commanded sternly, as he 
 forced Tranter back into his old place on the bench. “If you 
 do, I ’ll bundle you straight off to Slogger Coggin. I gave 
 you thirty seconds. The time ’s more than up. Out with the 
 whole truth. ’ ’ 
 
 By this time Tranter was crying gently with his whole great 
 soft body. With a very large and gay silk handkerchief, which 
 he constantly folded and re-folded into an oblong pad, he kept 
 wiping his gray-green eyes. Redding saw that he had better 
 abandon hope of extracting a clear confession from such a 
 creature; so he proceeded to put a long series of questions, 
 such as could be answered with a Yes or a No. 
 
 At the end of half-an-hour Redding could no longer harbor 
 one lingering doubt. There had been a conspiracy against 
 Coggin, and Albert Rambury was at the bottom of it. Red- 
 ding, however, had a judicial mind at the back of his whim- 
 sical manner and he knew that, despite his inward persuasion 
 of Rambury ’s guilt, he had elicited no substantial proofs. 
 He soon perceived that, while Tranter had knowingly acted 
 as cat’s-paw, Rambury had been the soul of prudence, and 
 that he could not be compromised by anything Tranter might 
 say. The plot had evidently been diabolical in its cold- 
 blooded cleverness and completeness. 
 
 When nearly five minutes had elapsed without a further 
 question from Redding, Tranter began : 
 
 “I didn’t think. I never thought. I didn’t ...” 
 
 “Hold your tongue,” rapped out Redding. “Speak when 
 I ask you to. Don ’t you see I ’m thinking ? ’ ’ 
 
 His thoughts lasted a long while. But at last he slapped the 
 bench and grunted: “Good! Now then, I can’t sit here all 
 day. Get up. Come along. ’ ’ 
 
72 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “Not to Slogger Coggin ’s?” squealed Tranter. 
 
 “ No. Not yet, anyhow. Perhaps never, so long as you ’ll 
 do exactly what I tell you. Look here, Bully, to tell the truth 
 I ’m a bit sorry for you. You can’t help being a damned fool, 
 can you?” 
 
 “No, I can’t,” agreed Tranter meekly. 
 
 “Well, I suspect you ’ve been dragged into this and you 
 were n ’t man enough to back out of it. But mark me well. 
 There ’s only one condition on which I can ask Coggin to let 
 you off prison and to leave some whole bones in your body. 
 It ’s this. You helped to get Coggin into disgrace. Now, will 
 you help to get him out?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, yes!” 
 
 “Right. Now, we ’ll go and see your aunt. No, don’t be 
 afraid. I sha’n’t tell her any details. You have simply to 
 agree with all I say in her presence. If you don’t, I wash my 
 hands of you. ’ ’ 
 
 “No, no please,” wailed Tranter. “My aunt mustn’t 
 know anything. ’ ’ 
 
 “She ’d have to know something, would n’t she, if they came 
 to take you to prison ? Or if they brought you home in bits 
 on a stretcher, like sirloins of beef and legs of mutton on a 
 butcher-boy ’s tray ? Trust me to manage it ; and come along. ’ ’ 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 R EDDING’S pleasant feeling of mastery weakened as 
 he strode townward, and it had vanished entirely by 
 the time Tranter unlatched the garden gate of Grove 
 House. To dominate a bulky, pulpy, cowardly muff was 
 child’s play; but to tackle an elderly aunt, a house-holder, and 
 probably as sour as vinegar, might be beyond his powers. 
 The fine up-keep of the lawn and flower-beds disturbed him; 
 and when he entered the house its air of perfect management 
 filled him with dismay. 
 
 This, however, was one of Edward’s lucky days. While 
 he was waiting in the morning-room for Miss Tranter to ap- 
 pear, his glance fell on a pile of magazines, dated June, which 
 had been delivered at the house only a few minutes before his 
 arrival. It was evident that Miss Tranter was a reader. A 
 familiar design on the cover of one of these periodicals caught 
 Redding’s eye. Snapping up the magazine, he turned its 
 pages until he found what he sought — a half-page wood-cut 
 with the words Edward Redding del . underneath in the left- 
 hand corner. It was a drawing in which the draughtsman had 
 felt pride and pleasure; and the engraver had risen to the 
 occasion. 
 
 Standing engrossed in the comparison of his own drawing 
 with the wood-engraver’s version, Edward Redding did not 
 notice the entrance of a handsome, good-tempered, well-dressed 
 woman. Indeed, the softly -moving lady had sailed almost to 
 his elbow when he dropped the magazine with a start and 
 stammered his excuses. 
 
 “I am going to call you Teddie, as in the old days,” said 
 the lady, smiling adorably. 
 
 73 
 
THE HARE 
 
 74 
 
 “Why ... it ’s Mrs. Hilliard,’ ’ gasped Edward. 
 
 “Of course it is. You look splendid, Teddie. Dear me, 
 how you do remind me of your poor father. When he first 
 came to Bulford he looked just as you look now. And how 
 is he ? And your dear mother ? ’ ’ 
 
 After Edward had answered these questions, and had play- 
 fully reminded Mrs. Hilliard of the many occasions on which 
 he had been secretly haled into old Glebe Lodge house, for 
 sherry and cake, he tried to explain himself. “I have taken 
 the liberty of calling on Miss Tranter/ ’ he said. 
 
 “Miss Tranter ?" echoed the lady, puckering a smooth 
 brow under her silver hair. “Oh, I see, I see ! You 've made 
 a mistake. You Ve concluded my nephew Alfred Tranter's 
 aunt must be a Miss Tranter. Now why? Haven't you a 
 maternal aunt yourself, Teddie ? And must every aunt be an 
 old maid ? Are all your own aunts spinsters, and are they all 
 sumamed Redding?" 
 
 “I 'm very stupid," confessed Redding. “But," he added 
 gallantly, “I 'm also very lucky to find you instead of a Miss 
 Tranter. The first beauty who captured my young heart was 
 Mrs. Hilliard of Glebe Lodge." 
 
 “Mrs. Hilliard of Sherry and Cake," said the lady correct- 
 ing him. “And I notice I was only the first. Who is the 
 last, I wonder? You are evidently of a romantic disposition, 
 poor Teddie; for didn’t I catch you gloating over a picture 
 of lovers in this magazine ? I can find the very page. I saw 
 it over your shoulder. Yes, here it is. Eileen and Algernon 
 burning a letter, while somebody — I think it must be Sir Guy — 
 can be seen through the open window galloping away in the 
 sunset. Well, well! I guessed, chapters and chapters ago, 
 that Eileen would — oh!" 
 
 Mrs. Hilliard's roving eye had suddenly encountered the 
 legend Edward Redding del. The magazine dropped out of 
 her hand ; but before the artist could stoop to pick it up, she 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 75 
 
 had clutched it again. Rolling it up tightly with her strong 
 white fingers, she whacked Redding smartly across the shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 “You young rascal,” she cried. 
 
 She tripped off to the window, where the morning sunlight 
 was strong, and examined the picture more closely. Seen 
 through the rose-colored glasses of her motherly fondness for 
 Teddie, it became a master-piece in her eyes. She poured out 
 twenty questions. How had he won fame so early? Did he 
 send pictures to the Royal Academy Exhibition? Could he 
 paint cats from life; and, if so, would he paint Scorner, the 
 proudest and handsomest pussy-cat in all Bulford? Who 
 was his model for Eileen, and had the real-life young lady 
 truly got such wonderful tresses of hair? And did he know 
 what was the end of the story? Was it a false alarm that 
 Eileen had been sentenced by the family physician to an early 
 death from consumption? 
 
 “Even if I had been shewn the rest of the MS. or proofs,” 
 answered Teddie, with dignity, “my lips would be sealed. 
 All I can say is that my next and last drawing will depict 
 Eileen, in the pink of health and with a wedding-ring on her 
 finger, nestling against Algernon on the terrace of a hotel by 
 the Rhine, just as a full moon has worked itself behind a ruined 
 castle on a vine-clad hill. To the left a door is opening, as 
 if the waiter is about to bring in sherry and cake.” 
 
 “Sherry and cake,” Mrs. Hilliard echoed, “oh, I remem- 
 ber, you were always greedy.” 
 
 “No, madam. Always hungry.” 
 
 “Hungry and greedy. Well, it happens you ’ve come in 
 the very nick of time. I expected the new curate of St. 
 Peter’s and his wife to luncheon. They ’ve just sent word 
 they can ’t come. I insist on your taking their place. ’ ’ 
 
 “Not place, ma’am. Places. I shall make up for both of 
 them. And I am honored and flattered by the invitation. 
 
76 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 This morning I have all the luck. I came here on distasteful 
 business and it is turning into delightful pleasure/ ’ 
 
 “Ah! I ’d forgotten. You wanted to see Alfred’s aunt— 
 Miss Tranter as you called her. Out with your business. Get 
 it over. Is Alfred in a scrape? Don’t be afraid of upsetting 
 me. So long as it ’s nothing dishonorable I should be delighted 
 to hear he ’s been up to mischief. But I sha’n’t believe it. 
 He hasn’t the spirit. Alfred’s just a great baby, tied to his 
 auntie’s apron-strings.” 
 
 “I am compelled to disappoint you,” Redding answered. 
 And, speaking slowly with many pauses, he went on: “Alfred 
 has not exactly been up to mischief. But certain persons 
 appear to have dragged him into an affair which may turn out 
 annoying and expensive, for him and for them. ’ ’ 
 
 “Alfred with bad companions?” asked the incredulous lady. 
 
 “Not in the ordinary sense. His associates in this business 
 would all be called highly respectable citizens,” replied Red- 
 ding. 
 
 “I am baffled,” said Mrs. Hilliard, beginning to be anxious. 
 A long and awkward pause followed. 
 
 “Mrs. Hilliard,” burst out Teddie, “I am going to tell you 
 everything. If you had been Miss Tranter — the Miss Tranter 
 I imagined — instead of your true, wise, good kind self, I 
 couldn’t have risked it. Can you spare me half-an-hour ? 
 And can you send Alfred right out of the way till I ’ve done?” 
 
 Alfred was summoned. The whiskered giant sidled into 
 the room fearfully, his poor little eyes both bright with fresh 
 tears. When he had received nothing worse than a command 
 to go into town and match some wool for his aunt, he almost 
 gamboled down the garden path, like a frisky elephant. 
 
 Edward Redding began his tale. On first pronouncing the 
 name of Coggin he glanced at his auditor nervously; for he 
 knew that Mrs. Hilliard was of the straiter Bulford set. The 
 lady heard him, however, without one pout. Indeed her at- 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 77 
 
 tention was so close and her sympathy so evident that the 
 young man ’s tongue was loosened ; and when he warmed up to 
 an eloquent arraignment of Coggin ’s torturers her fine brown 
 eyes grew dim. 
 
 “It is a shame, a shame,’ ’ she cried, as the story ended. 
 “I know this Coggin. When my husband died, and I could 
 no longer bear to live at Glebe Lodge, I remembered how your 
 dear father had suffered for the poor boy, and I sent for him 
 to clear away some lumber. His civility and honesty and intel- 
 ligence and industry impressed me so deeply that I gradu- 
 ally found myself giving the whole work of the removal and 
 the re-furnishing into his hands. He was extraordinary. 
 Why, he even advised me about the wines, which to keep and 
 which to sell ; and when I stumbled on a note-book Mr. Hilliard 
 had made, it turned out that young Coggin had given me ad- 
 vice which was not only sound but disinterested. No wonder 
 people are jealous of him. What you say disgusts me. I 
 thought the young man was succeeding well. You see, I 
 don’t hear much about Bulford doings. And now, Teddie, 
 tell me what you want me to do.” 
 
 “I want you,” Redding answered, without a moment’s hesi- 
 tation, “to let me send Alfred to-morrow morning to France.” 
 
 “Alfred . . . France!” Mrs Hilliard almost shrieked 
 these two proper names. Then she gurgled “Oh,” in so 
 strange a tone that Redding could n’t tell whether she was ter- 
 ribly frightened or overwhelmingly amused. He added 
 eagerly : 
 
 “It sounds mad, but it isn’t. Please, do trust me. A 
 friend of mine shall pilbt him across London, and the English 
 clergyman shall keep an eye on him in Boulogne. Early next 
 week he ought to be back, with a just action to his credit. 
 Alfred shall come to no harm. Besides, apart from his do- 
 ing the right thing by Coggin, we must make a man of him. 
 We must give him responsibility. Pardon my impertinence; 
 
78 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 but sending Alfred to France to clear the honor of an injured 
 man strikes me as a better prescription than sending him to 
 Belling & Belling ’s to match your coral-pink wool. Say that 
 you consent. ’ ’ 
 
 Mrs. Hilliard rose as he finished speaking. “Please excuse 
 me,” she said, rather coldly. “The gardener is waiting for 
 me. Here is the morning paper. I will answer your request 
 after luncheon.” 
 
 Redding bowed to her submissively as he passed out of the 
 room. He closed the door behind her gently and loitered back 
 to the window, half afraid that he had blundered. At that 
 moment Bully Tranter reached the garden gate. With one of 
 his big paws be fumbled the latch, and in the other he warmed 
 a hank of scarlet wool, having lost his bit of coral-pink on the 
 outward journey. Teddie heard him open and shut the front 
 door, heard him stumbling against the umbrella-stand in the 
 hall, heard him lumping upstairs. Five minutes later a bell 
 rang and Mrs. Hilliard appeared. 
 
 “Luncheon is ready,” she said, “and Alfred may go to 
 France.” 
 
 As Edward Redding was a luxury-loving young man, Mrs. 
 Hilliard’s dining-room consoled and refreshed him. Dinner 
 at Harry Coggin’s had been a memorable and edifying expe- 
 rience, but it was pleasant to be seated again amidst the con- 
 ventional, yet ever-delightful refinements of his own class. 
 The meal having been planned for a married curate, might 
 have been called too solid ; and on such a warm day, Edward 
 would gladly have exchanged the old Yolnay for a light 
 claret; but the silver laugh of the hostess and her delicate 
 ironies about the guest’s romantic drawings made the luncheon 
 as light as omelettes and as sprightly as champagne. 
 
 Hardly giving the young men time to eat their cheese, Mrs. 
 
THE DELIVERER 79 
 
 Hilliard suddenly rose and said : ‘ ‘ Mr. Redding wants to tell 
 you something, Alfred. I approve of the arrangement. ’ ’ 
 
 As soon as they were left alone, Redding turned to Tranter, 
 who had begun to heap his plate with horribly mangled Brazil 
 nuts, and announced : 
 
 “Mr. Alfred Tranter, you will catch the nine o’clock train 
 to London to-morrow morning. You will he met by my friend 
 Tony Corbett, who will give you something to eat at a chop- 
 house or at his club. Mr. Corbett will afterwards put you in 
 another train. You are going to France — to Boulogne. 
 Don’t goggle at me like that. In Boulogne you will shew 
 an addressed envelope, which I shall give you, to the first 
 cabby you meet. He will take you to the Hotel de l’Espagne. 
 The landlord speaks English. Without loss of time you will 
 report yourself to the English clergyman. He will tell you 
 where to find my friend Paul Grandet, a painter, who also 
 speaks English. With Monsieur Grandet you will seek out 
 Mr. Frederick Venn-Venning.” 
 
 Although Redding paused after pronouncing Venn-Ven- 
 ning ’s name, Tranter uttered no word or sound. He sat as 
 one petrified. 
 
 “From Mr. Venn-Venning,” Redding continued, “you will 
 obtain a full confession. It must be in writing, and it must 
 be sworn before the British consul. If he refuses or even 
 hesitates, or if he writes out a statement which does not ab- 
 solutely clear Coggin’s character, you are not to coax him. 
 You are simply to tell him that Slogger Coggin and Teddie Red- 
 ding will come to Boulogne at once. If he runs away to Brus- 
 sels or Homburg or Spa or any of his other haunts, we shall 
 hunt him down. Make it plain to him that he will be publicly 
 thrashed and that Slogger will nearly kill him, even if we must 
 go to the Ural mountains to do it. Further, after we have 
 assaulted and battered him, we shall hand him over to Justice. 
 If, on the other hand, he will straightforwardly acknowledge 
 
80 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 his guilt you may assure him that we shall not be revengeful; 
 and if, after reading his confession, we find that some other 
 person or persons had a hand in the affair, we shall inflict the 
 chief punishment on the most culpable party. I repeat that 
 you must not argue with Venn -Yenning. And don’t waste a 
 moment. Refuse absolutely to give time for consideration. 
 Don’t say that Slogger and I are in Bulford. Let him fear 
 we are close at hand. The moment you succeed or fail, send 
 a long telegram to Coggin, furniture dealer, Bulford, England. 
 Then come straight back here.” 
 
 Redding paused again. Tranter remained as voiceless and 
 motionless as a tailor’s dummy. He was roused, however, by 
 the return of Mrs. Hilliard. 
 
 ‘ 4 Well?” asked the lady, “is all settled?” 
 
 “I have told your nephew what I wish him to do, and he 
 has not made the slightest objection,” Redding answered. 
 “He starts to-morrow, early. With your leave, ma’am, I will 
 accompany him to his room and give him some advice while 
 he packs his things.” 
 
 The first words emitted by Bully Tranter concerning his 
 errand were spoken in the bedroom. “Do you think,” he 
 asked meekly, “these will be enough shirts?” 
 
 Redding looked into the deep drawer. While he was turn- 
 ing over about two dozen garments, ranging from winter shirts 
 of flannel to evening shirts of pleated silk, Tranter knelt 
 down, about as gracefully as a loaded camel, and began drag- 
 ging ever so many pairs of boots and shoes from under the 
 bed. 
 
 “You are going to Boulogne for less than a week,” replied 
 Redding. “You are not going to discover the North Pole 
 or the source of the River Nile. Let me throw what you need 
 on the bed. Meanwhile find the small things. Hair-brush, 
 nail-brush, tooth-brush . . . Where ’s your razor?” 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 81 
 
 “I ... I don’t shave. ” 
 
 “Then it ’s time you did. That ridiculous beard is the ruin 
 of you. Handkerchiefs, collars, cravats . . . What about 
 your pocket Bible ? Here it is 4 Presented to Alfred Tranter 
 by his loving aunt Edith Hilliard.’ Put it in. And mind 
 you read it, you miserable sinner. If, when you come back, 
 I find you haven’t read Judges, Proverbs, and St. Mark I 
 shall punch that fat head of yours — punch it hard. There 
 you go putting your boots on top of your shirts without wrap- 
 ping them in brown paper. Now, how do you stand for 
 money ? Have you twenty pounds handy ? ’ ’ 
 
 In the twinkling of an eye, Bully Tranter became a different 
 man. Avarice stood next to indolence in his character. No 
 longer drawling or whimpering, but speaking in sharp and 
 businesslike tones he demanded : 
 
 “Surely I ’m not expected to pay my own expenses?” 
 
 “Have you twenty pounds handy?” repeated Redding. 
 
 “Yes. But . . 
 
 “If it ’s in this room, shew me the money, please.” Tran- 
 ter’s tone had hardened, but so had Redding’s. The clergy- 
 man’s son demolished his companion’s new-found courage by 
 one scorching glance. “You forget, Mr. Tranter,” he added, 
 “that you have not merely helped to blast Mr. Coggin’s 
 character. From his own lips I know that you have cost him 
 hundreds of pounds. If you haggle . . . well, my terms will 
 be altered. Shew me the money.” 
 
 Bully Tranter broke down completely and began crying like 
 a greedy little boy suddenly deprived of a plateful of jam tarts. 
 With his great sleeve he thrice tried to wipe wet tears off the 
 painted lid of a little money-box which he drew from some 
 childish hiding-place. The miser displayed much skill in so 
 extracting twenty sovereigns as not to shew the further ex- 
 tent of his hoard. 
 
 Young Redding had spent so much of his life on shipboard, 
 
82 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 in railway trains and coaches, in hotels and inns, that he was a 
 sophisticated traveler, and he almost weaned Alfred Tranter 
 from despair by his natty little tricks for saving room in a 
 portmanteau. While the packing went on, Redding carefully 
 repeated his instructions, making Tranter repeat them until 
 he knew the whole series by heart, like a lesson. It soon be- 
 came plain that Mrs. Hilliard’s nephew was not such a fool 
 as it suited him to appear. Seizing upon a hint from Red- 
 ding that, in certain eventualities, Rambury might have to 
 refund the twenty pounds, Bully Tranter turned instantly 
 into an ardent champion of Coggin and shewed tactful cun- 
 ning in his suggestions for routing Rambury. 
 
 Edward Redding felt equally pleased with his progress and 
 disgusted with Tranter. He" divined that the contemptible 
 creature would swing right round again to Rambury ’s side if 
 by doing so he could bury a few more sovereigns in his money- 
 box. This thought made Redding decide that Tranter must 
 not be allowed to get into communication with any outside 
 person before leaving Bulford next morning. 
 
 ‘ ‘ What are you thinking about ?” asked Bully Tranter 
 timorously. 
 
 “ About you” Redding answered. “Take notice. Unless 
 your aunt is with you, you are not to set foot outside this house 
 till I call in the morning to take you to the train. Now I 
 must be off.” 
 
 As Edward, twenty minutes later, closed the garden gate 
 behind him, he felt much more than satisfied; for Mrs. Hil- 
 liard had not only undertaken to keep Alfred under her eye, 
 but had cheerfully given her audacious visitor an almost in- 
 credible promise. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 H ARRY COGGIN happened to be filling a pail at the 
 pump just as Edward Redding, who had climbed 
 stealthily up the orchard, shewed his head over 
 
 the fence. 
 
 “It is only four o’clock,” said Coggin, greatly surprised. 
 “Thanks for the warm and exuberant welcome,” retorted 
 the guest. “I’ll explain bye-and-bye. First of all, you 
 might help me with these parcels.” 
 
 One of the parcels was heavy, and Coggin knew, by the 
 gurgle which came from it as he swung it over the fence, that 
 there was a bottle of wine inside. It grieved him a little that 
 his visitor should so soon requite his hospitality of the night 
 before ; but he said nothing. 
 
 In the spotless kitchen, the springs of Edward’s impudence 
 suddenly ran dry. The sentences which he had been rehears- 
 ing on the way home, fled from his brain. All he could do was 
 to blurt out, with burning cheeks : 
 
 “Slogger, I ’ve invited Mrs. Hilliard and her nephew to 
 dinner this evening. And they ’ve accepted. What are you 
 going to do to me?” 
 
 For a moment, but for no longer, Coggin shewed that he was 
 hurt. He was accustomed, however, to disappointments and 
 to thrustings-aside ; so he recovered himself quietly and an- 
 swered : 
 
 “I had arranged our dinner; but of course I shall not 
 mind dining alone. Mrs. Hilliard was a great friend of Mr. 
 Redding’s, I know. It is only natural you should wish to 
 shew her respect.” 
 
 83 
 
8-t 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “Good Heavens,” cried the other. “You misunderstand 
 me. Surely you don ’t imagine I could invite Mrs. Hilliard to 
 dine with me at ‘The Bulcaster Arms’? I ’ve . . . the truth 
 is . . . I ’ve . . . I ’ve invited ’em to come and dine here. 
 Here. At half-past seven. Here. Slogger, I give you my 
 solemn word of honor that I had reasons, most important rea- 
 sons. I ’ll explain that later on. Of course I never thought 
 she ’d consent. I call it splendid of her. She ’s a fine woman. 
 Thinks the world of you, Slogger. Don ’t look at me like that. 
 You are not going to be hanged. Hooray, here ’s some soup 
 cooking! We can easily put some more hot water in it. And 
 there ’s a decent bit of cold salmon in this packet. A cold 
 boiled fowl as well, and some cream tarts. By Jove, what ’s 
 the matter? Mrs. Hilliard is not young; but in my opinion 
 she is still the stateliest and most beautiful woman in Bulford. 
 You ought to feel highly honored.” 
 
 “The honor is too great,” replied Coggin, after a pause. 
 And, speaking in his most precise manner, he added: “This 
 is not the house and I am not the host for such a guest. 
 Further . . . have you not forgotten who is her nephew? 
 You say he is coming too.” 
 
 “Forgotten? Not likely. Her nephew is Bully Tranter. 
 He is the first deserter from the enemy ranks to our side. 
 Confound you, Slogger, you won’t trust me in the smallest 
 thing. I ’d better tell you my day’s work, here and now.” 
 
 On its mere contents and merits, Edward Redding’s recital 
 would have been alarming to Harry Coggin. He did not re- 
 ceive it, however, into a critical brain ; because he had been 
 sustained for thirteen years by his supra-rational faith in the 
 Reddings, father and son, as God’s instruments. More. In 
 persuading so proud and dainty a lady as Mrs. Hilliard to 
 come and dine familiarly with a marine-store dealer’s dis- 
 credited son in a superannuated Dissenting Chapel, Edward 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 85 
 
 Redding had given proofs of such astounding boldness and 
 power that there was more than a faint hope of his hurling 
 even the formidable Rambury from his pedestal. So Harry 
 simply surrendered himself to his champion's leadership, only 
 stipulating that Redding should formally take the blame for 
 the shortcomings of Coggin’s home and table. 
 
 Disturbed only thrice by customers, who were all three easily 
 pleased, the two young men gave themselves up to the honor- 
 ing of Mrs. Hilliard. Harry claimed full control in the kitchen, 
 while Edward Redding obtained leave to borrow whatever he 
 liked from the stock-in-trade for the dignifying of the table. 
 He availed himself of his opportunity to the utmost. A few 
 months before, Coggin had bought, from a nobleman’s house 
 in the country, the remains of a magnificent Crown Derby 
 dinner and dessert service. By breakages this had come down 
 to less than one-third its original number of pieces ; but there 
 were still more than enough plates and dishes for a dinner 
 party of only four persons. Redding was equally fortunate 
 in discovering a sufficiency of fine old cut glass, once the prop- 
 erty of Lady Creeve. As for epergnes and candelabra, the 
 choice was embarrassing. Although Edward would have 
 hated house-work as such, and would probably have smashed, 
 through sheer carelessness, any common crockery which he 
 might have been told to wash and dry, he loved the handling 
 of rare china and old glass ; and therefore he succeeded in pol- 
 ishing his finds to a brilliancy which Coggin himself had never 
 dreamed of. 
 
 Mrs. Hilliard was even better than her w r ord. She arrived, 
 not by stealth but in a carriage drawn by two high-stepping 
 roans. To Edward, who met her at the door, she said gaily: 
 
 “You thought I would change my mind? Not a bit of it. 
 I am quite excited, after all you told me this morning. And 
 think, Teddie ... I don’t mind you knowing that I am over 
 fifty; yet I have never set foot in a chapel before.” 
 
86 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 To Harry, who awaited her modestly in the vestibule, the 
 lady did not extend her hand, and perhaps there was the 
 faintest tinge of condescension in her manner as she said : 
 
 “Mr. Coggin, I am truly pleased to see you again. Mr. Red- 
 ding has told me of the wrong which has been done you. I am 
 persuaded that my nephew, Mr. Tranter, was drawn by other 
 persons into this discreditable affair, and I trust you will re- 
 gard our visit this evening as signifying that we dissociate 
 ourselves entirely from such dastardly proceedings. I re- 
 member with gratitude your honorable behavior after the death 
 of my dear husband, and I trust you may soon be enjoying the 
 respect and success you deserve . 9 9 
 
 “Amen,” murmured Teddie Redding. The others looked 
 shocked, and he knew he ought not to have said it; but the 
 word broke the ice. How could Mrs. Hilliard maintain her 
 intended aloofness in the presence of this mercurial young 
 man ? As the little procession moved along the chapel Teddie, 
 from the force of habit and without meaning to be funny, 
 performed one comical trick after another. On passing a piano- 
 stool he smacked the round leather seat in such a way as to 
 send it spinning upward on its bright spiral gear. He patted 
 a stuffed fox on the head, and chucked under the chin a 
 prudish-looking white marble bust representing Modesty. 
 
 The dining-room, fragrant with masses of white lilac, made 
 Mrs. Hilliard clap her hands. Happily she did not examine 
 the decorations of the chimney-piece, w 7 hich included a chipped 
 Worcester vase removed by Coggin from her own old 
 house, Glebe Lodge. Nor did she know that her lips had often 
 touched, at Lady Creeve’s, the very glass into which Redding 
 poured her Chateau Suduiraut. 
 
 The dinner which Coggin had planned earlier in the day 
 was to have consisted simply of a marmite printaniere, four 
 lean cutlets, with sprigs of cauliflower steamed and then 
 fried in butter, a piece of cheese, and a little jar of pre- 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 87 
 
 served fruits from China. Teddie’s cold salmon and the roast 
 fowl and the cream tarts extended the pleasant supper into an 
 elaborate dinner; for Coggin carefully jointed the fowl and 
 worked it up into a salmis according to a recipe he had often 
 admired in an old French book. 
 
 “Don’t expect to get Sautemes like this in Boulogne, Mr. 
 Tranter,” said Redding, dwelling fondly over the Chateau 
 Suduiraut from Sir Peter Luxon’s renowned cellar. And 
 turning to Mrs. Hilliard, he added: “ Madam, pardon me if 
 I appear gluttonous with my fish. It is ages since I tasted a 
 Deme salmon.” 
 
 To be precise, the omnivorous young man had consumed, a 
 very large piece of Deme salmon only forty-nine hours before, 
 in the company of Puffer Batwood. Yet he was not deliber- 
 ately telling an untruth. His meal with Batwood already 
 seemed years ago. 
 
 The banquet ran its course. Bully Tranter, in response to a 
 dry cough from his aunt, turned to Coggin at the very be- 
 ginning of the meal and sheepishly recited the agreed words : 
 “Mr. Coggin, I am very sorry, and I will make the best amends 
 in my power. ’ 9 Redding bridged over all the awkward pauses 
 and gave the host droll help in bringing the cutlets and the 
 salmis from the kitchen. He took pains, however, to safeguard 
 the lady’s dignity and to avoid familiarity. Mrs. Hilliard was 
 not a prude ; but to be a Bulford grande dame in 1864 involved 
 a certain haughtiness, and Teddie did not for a moment fail 
 to recognize the extraordinary broad-mindedness and large- 
 heartedness of his stately guest in thus sitting down at the 
 table of an old-clo’ man’s son in reparation for the wrong her 
 nephew had wrought. Nor would the lady herself have tol- 
 erated any misunderstanding. There was a golden curb on 
 her silvern laugh. She was at pains to speak of Redding as 
 “Mr. Edward,” and of the bearded Alfred as “my nephew, 
 Mr. Tranter.” 
 
88 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Although Coggin was duly conscious of this slight aloofness 
 he did not resent it. He had never been one of those touchy 
 upstarts who nurse bitterness against their social superiors on 
 account of the very little which is withheld, rather than grati- 
 tude for the very much which is given. Indeed, he would 
 have felt himself in a false and uncomfortable position if his 
 visitors had sought to gloss over every inch of the social dif- 
 ference which undoubtedly existed. Yet, while exhibiting 
 proper respect and deference, Hary Coggin kept himself free 
 from the cringing manner which had so greatly annoyed the 
 Reddings in the old days. At the very outset Mrs. Hilliard 
 observed the exquisite cleanliness of the young man’s toil- 
 roughened hands, the clearness of his skin, the brightness of 
 his eyes, the neatness of his unfashionable clothes. Nor could 
 she help marveling at the breadth of his knowledge. When 
 Edward Redding, for example, could not remember the name 
 of a Spanish cathedral with a remarkably wide vaulted nave, 
 Coggin instantly said 44 Gerona”; and when Mrs. Hilliard 
 failed to recollect the author of a new novel called 4 4 Emilia 
 in England,” which was just then being discussed in Bulford, 
 he modestly reminded her that it was by a Mr. George Mere- 
 dith. He was also able to say which museums and picture- 
 galleries contained certain statues and paintings mentioned by 
 Redding. 
 
 4 4 You must be quite a traveler, Mr. Coggin,” said Mrs. 
 Hilliard. 
 
 4 4 On the contrary, ma’am,” Coggin answered. 44 1 have 
 never spent a night out of Bulford. ’ ’ 
 
 So completely did the lady succumb to the freshness of her 
 surroundings and to the excellence of the wines and meats, 
 that when Edward Redding opened the bottle of Perrier- 
 Jouet, which was part of his own contribution to the feast, 
 she exclaimed unguardedly: 4 4 What on earth would people 
 
THE DELIVERER 89 
 
 say if they knew I was drinking Champagne with three young 
 gentlemen ? ’ ’ 
 
 An awkward pause ensued. In Bulford’s vocabulary 
 “gentleman” was a word of precise meaning and august asso- 
 ciations. It connoted lineage, lands, leisure; or, at the very 
 least, a blood-relationship with some titled and landed person. 
 The word flew gaily enough from Mrs. Hilliard’s lips; but a 
 moment later, like a bird that has dashed against a telegraph 
 wire, it fell maimed and dead to earth. 
 
 Teddie Redding came to the rescue. “If we are scandaliz- 
 ing this pious and virtuous town,” he said, “let us swallow 
 our wine and adjourn to Mr. Coggin’s library which is lined 
 with some millions of volumes of sermons by all the dullest and 
 most respectable divines. There is a piano. We have time 
 for a little music.” 
 
 Mrs. Hilliard not only accompanied the young men to the 
 library, but was even persuaded into performing on the piano- 
 forte herself. She played an artless and useless morceau de 
 salon called ‘ 4 The Sylph ’s Farewell , 9 9 trimmed with silly shakes 
 and runs. When this deed had been fully perpetrated and the 
 applause had ceased, the three visitors exclaimed: “Now, Mr. 
 Coggin.” 
 
 Coggin felt troubled. He had entered the room intending 
 to play Chopin’s Nocturne in F Minor, but he knew that, 
 once seated at the piano, he would let himself go, and that his 
 massive playing would make his fair guest’s gentle tinklings 
 ridiculous. Suddenly his face brightened, and he asked : 
 
 “May I play the organ instead?” 
 
 “Do, please do,” cried the lady. And Redding added: 
 
 “Mr. Tranter and I will take turns at the blowing.” 
 
 Before Bully Tranter, who had dined extremely well, could 
 begin bleating out a protest, Coggin made haste to say: “No, 
 no, I have an arrangement. ’ ’ 
 
90 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 He went out and set a little bell a-ringing, somewhere on 
 the chapel roof. Although the sound was faint, it sufficed; 
 for, a minute later, the clumsy boots of two boys were heard 
 stamping on the gallery stairs. Picking up a silver-plated 
 candelabrum, Redding illuminated Mrs. Hilliard’s way into 
 the chapel ; and having placed the lights on a table, behind a, 
 small candle-screen of pleated silk, he seated himself beside 
 her on an Empire settee. Meanwhile Mr. Tranter had slipped 
 back into the dining-room, to make apologies to a neglected 
 decanter of port and to atone for Mr. Redding’s indifference to 
 its claims. 
 
 Coggin played softly. Always considerate of others, he 
 remembered the lateness of the hour and held back his thun- 
 derbolts. Turning to his favorite Handel he chose the best 
 of the love-music in “ Jephtha” and the chorus “Let no rash 
 intruder” from “Solomon.” His auditors, downstairs in the 
 darkness, could not have named these compositions; but they 
 were none the less subdued and softened by the wooing, 
 tender strains. Indeed, without knowing exactly how it hap- 
 pened, Mrs. Hilliard found, wrhen the music ceased, that she 
 was holding Teddie Redding’s hand. 
 
 “If you really meant it. Slogger, when you told Mrs. Hil- 
 liard you had never slept a night out of Bulford,” said Red- 
 ding, after the guests had departed, “I am bound to say it ’s 
 a shame. What ’s more, I intend that you shall sleep out 
 of Bulford on Saturday night. We will find another horse and 
 start early on Saturday morning on our adventures.” 
 
 They were washing up. Until that painful moment Teddie 
 Redding had always believed that washing up was a short and 
 easy job which scullery-maids could accomplish in five or ten 
 minutes. 
 
 Coggin did not reply immediately. Having settled into a 
 groove, he was dismayed at the thought of sleeping in a strange 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 91 
 
 bed. Yet he had fallen so completely under the mastery of 
 his astounding young visitor that he did not presume to re- 
 fuse. He merely asked: “How can I leave this place for the 
 whole of Saturday ? It is my busiest day. ’ ’ 
 
 “We shall put up a notice, ‘Closed for Stocktaking,’ ” said 
 Redding. “It will be quite truthful, because we shall take 
 some of the stock with us. For example, we shall take an- 
 other bottle of that most praiseworthy Sauternes. ’ ’ 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 F ORTY miles due south of Bulford, the country rises so 
 steeply that the bigger hills are usually called moun- 
 tains. Waterfalls brawl in lonely glens. Rough 
 roads climb between walls of loose stones up to bleak villages 
 and then wind down again towards cosy market-towns in the 
 fat valleys. 
 
 Into the tiny capital of this little Switzerland, Edward Red- 
 ding and Harry Coggin trotted thankfully on the Saturday 
 afternoon. ' Redding had chosen the route after learning that 
 Coggin had never set foot on any height more considerable than 
 Skilbury Beacon ; and he had found keen pleasure in observing 
 the impression which the wild and airy wastes made upon his 
 humble friend. Their mid-day meal of bread and cold meat 
 and cheese had been eaten on the heathery marge of a tumbling 
 brook, with not a house in sight. 
 
 After handing over the horses to an admiring ostler and 
 bespeaking rooms and a dinner, the two young men fared forth 
 on foot to visit the ruins of a castle on a rock overhanging 
 the swift, clean river. It turned out that the battered walls 
 and crumbling tower had no antiquarian importance ; but the 
 spot was pleasant and breezy, so they threw themselves down 
 on the short grass and lay gazing up into the pure blue sky. 
 
 4 4 England is a beautiful country/’ said Redding. 
 
 “It is indeed,” agreed Coggin. “This is what I have seen 
 in pictures. But pictures gave me no hint of this quiet or 
 of this air. Bulford and my own country seem a thousand 
 miles away.” 
 
 They lay on their backs for about ten minutes without ex- 
 
 92 
 
THE DELIVERER 93 
 
 changing further words. Then Redding half raised himself 
 and said, leaning upon one elbow : 
 
 “Coggin, I am going to speak to you very seriously and I 
 am going to make a strange proposal. Do you promise not to 
 be hurt? You do. Very well. 
 
 “ Harry Coggin, I expect to receive on Monday a telegram 
 from Bully Tranter saying that Venn-Venning has signed 
 a confession. You wondered why I did not join you again 
 yesterday morning for another frost-bite in your ice-cold 
 swimming-bath. I was n’t between the blankets. I was writ- 
 ing hard. Bully Tranter took with him three letters from me 
 to persons in Boulogne and a sheet of exact directions for his 
 own use. I firmly believe he will succeed. If he doesn’t, we 
 shall find some other means. In any event, I shall keep my 
 promise of marching you out of Bulford with all flags flying. 
 But now comes the rub. When you ’ve done with Bulford, 
 done with furniture-broking, done with your old chapel, what 
 next? There shall be plenty of money — your own money — in 
 your pocket; but what then?” 
 
 Coggin had turned over on his side to hear better. He sat 
 up respectfully but said nothing. 
 
 “ Naturally,” Redding went on, “you will want to devote 
 yourself entirely to music and to live by it, as I live by my 
 brush and my pencil. But I see a difficulty. Along with the 
 difficulty, I see a solution. ’ ’ 
 
 Redding had hardly mentioned a solution before he ap- 
 peared to be dissatisfied with it. Jumping to his feet he paced 
 quickly up and down the short enclosure of the ruins. Coggin 
 also rose up. 
 
 “Yesterday,” said Redding suddenly, “you let me skim 
 through your compositions, both the printed albums and the 
 manuscripts. I am not much of a musician ; but of one point I 
 am sure. In each composition I found the same fatal defect ; 
 and in each case the defect was on the first page.” 
 
94 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “You mean,” Coggin answered mildly, “that my themes, 
 my subjects, my melodies are not immediately striking or 
 pleasing to the ordinary ear. I admit it. What people call 
 tunes do not appeal to me. In nearly all my compositions the 
 interest is supposed to deepen with every bar, and the full out- 
 lines of the melody are only gradually revealed. All popular 
 composers can pen an attractive first page. Then they fall 
 away into mere variations.” 
 
 “I ’m not clever enough to know anything about that,” 
 said Redding. ‘ 4 Perhaps I ’d better be blunt. What is wrong 
 on your first page is not the music, the theme, the how-do- 
 you-call-it. Slogger, don’t be hurt. What ’s wrong is your 
 name — the name Henry Coggin. Mark me. I don’t say it 
 isn’t every bit as good a name as Edward Redding. But it 
 won’t do. You might have a dream, as I ’ve heard that St. 
 Dunstan had one — a dream of the very melodies and harmonies 
 they sing in Heaven itself — but if you woke up and jotted it 
 down and signed it ‘Coggin’ nobody would buy a copy.” 
 
 “It is the only name I have,” replied Coggin uneasily. 
 
 “Then get another. Tintoretto, Leonardo da Yinci, Wolf- 
 gang Amadeus Mozart, Michael Angelo, Palestrina, Pergolesi, 
 Raphael, Rembrandt, Gainsborough, Murillo, Velasquez . . . 
 do you think these painters and composers would appeal to us 
 as much if they were named Blobbs and Dobbs and Gobbs and 
 Hobbs and Nobbs? No. Coggin won’t do. Surely you have 
 had a doubt about it before now?” 
 
 “Before I published my music,” Coggin answered, “I hesi- 
 tated whether to use my mother’s maiden name of Croxon.” 
 
 “Croxon isn’t bad,” said Redding. “But, if you make a 
 change at all, be bold. I should rule all English names right 
 out. We English have the conceited idea that we are an 
 imperial race and that we demean ourselves by practicing what 
 we regard as the more effeminate arts. We expect France, 
 Italy, and Germany to send us our chefs and milliners and 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 95 
 
 dancing-masters and musicians. What ’s in a name ? A great 
 deal when the name rings foreign. There ’s talk of knighting 
 Julius Benedict, the Wiirtemberger, and Michael Costa, the 
 Spaniard ; hut Balfe, a man of far more originality will proba- 
 bly remain a Mister. Now then, Slogger, which is it going to 
 vbe — Italian, French, or German?” 
 
 “It would certainly not be French and certainly not 
 Italian,” retorted Coggin, with unusual warmth. 
 
 “Well, well, don’t look fierce about it. There ’s plenty of 
 time to decide.” 
 
 Coggin was glad to have the debate adjourned. While he 
 knew that his name was ugly and grotesque, he had gradually 
 come to take a 1 certain pride in it. The name was boldly dis- 
 played over the door of the chapel, it was neatly written in 
 white letters on his carts, and it was tastefully engraved on his 
 bill-heads. None the less he saw that there was reason in his 
 protector’s proposals. 
 
 When they had left the ruins a quarter of a mile behind 
 them Ed,ward Redding burst out : 
 
 ‘ ‘ Then you ’re to turn German. How much German do you 
 know, Slogger?” 
 
 ‘ ‘ I can ’t speak it, ’ ’ replied the composer. ‘ ‘ I read it fairly 
 well. The night before you came I finished ‘ Miss Sarah Samp- 
 son.’ ” 
 
 “Miss who?” 
 
 “ ‘Miss Sarah Sampson,’ You know, it was Lessing’s first 
 successful tragedy.” 
 
 “The deuce it was! With a title like that I should have 
 thought it was a screaming, naughty farce. Never mind. 
 You are going to turn German. You must grow a beard, and 
 wear spectacles and rumple your hair, and drink ever so much 
 more beer. And look here, Herr Coggenheim, you must give 
 up being so confoundedly dean. Who ’s going to believe 
 you ’re from Hanover or Saxony so long as you begin the 
 
96 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 day with a plunge into 33 Fahrenheit ? Ach Himmel ! Don- 
 ner und blitzen! Mein Herr Gott!” 
 
 Coggin was spared further chaff: for a little girl from the 
 inn came running towards them with a message that the trout 
 were ready and that the leg of lamb would be overdone. 
 
 The more Edward Redding talked of his latest proposal the 
 better he liked it. Even if he had stopped to think before 
 talking, it would not have occurred to him that this invita- 
 tion to renounce his nationality might have pained or even in- 
 sulted Harry Coggin. The truth was that Edward Redding, 
 while scolding other people for treating Coggin as an out- 
 sider, still had moments of condescension towards his humbly- 
 born companion. It would have been unthinkable to suggest 
 that Sir George Batwood or even Bully Tranter should cease 
 to be an Englishman; but Henry Coggin moved on another 
 plane. Further, Edward Redding, like many other young 
 men of his time, lacked patriotism. He was proud of his 
 English blood in the sense that he regarded all other races 
 as inferior, but otherwise the sense of nationality was lack- 
 ing ; partly because he thought he shared the Liberal opinions 
 of certain amiable doctrinaires and partly because frontiers 
 and diversities of laws and governments had generally meant 
 bother during his years of foreign travel. It would have hurt 
 his dignity exceedingly if anybody had suggested that he or 
 his social equals should cease to be English ; but he perceived 
 nothing intrinsically shocking in apostasy from one’s race and 
 country. 
 
 Happily for their friendship, Coggin was equally deficient in 
 the sense of nationality. No clarion call had ever warmed 
 him into pride of his English birthright. He had known only 
 such faint reminders as the Queen’s head on stamps; the let- 
 ters “V.R.” here and there: some exciting weeks during the 
 Crimean War and the Indian Mutiny; a little flag-flying and 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 97 
 
 cannon-firing on royal birthdays ; certain taxes ; a captured gun 
 from Sebastopol in Guildhall Square; a tattered regimental 
 banner in the south aisle of St. Michael's; and an occasional 
 patriotic harangue. So Coggin listened to Mr. Redding with 
 concern but without resentment. 
 
 On the Sunday morning, after a very early swim and a 
 very ample meal, the travelers turned their horses' heads home- 
 wards. Their route, however, did not retrace the steps of the 
 day before. Edward Redding had studied his map to good pur- 
 pose. Keeping alongside the blithe and friendly river they 
 cantered clear of the brooding mountains and rode down 
 through rich pastures into a large village, just as the bells 
 were calling the country folk to prayer. 
 
 4 4 This way," whispered Redding, after they had left their 
 horses at an inn close to the church door. 4 4 Do as I tell you." 
 
 He had seen a man in rusty black, with a roll of music under 
 his arm, worming himself up a spiral staircase. They followed 
 until, at the top of the steps, they brushed against an organ 
 of fair size. Six or seven boys and men had preceded the 
 organist and" were lounging about. 
 
 4 4 Sir, I am taking a great liberty," said Redding in his 
 most winning style. 4 4 My friend here is a distinguished or- 
 ganist and composer. He would have preferred to kneel in 
 this church to-day as a simple worshipper ; but, if he can re- 
 lieve you, he is at your service." 
 
 The jaded-looking schoolmaster jumped at the offer. He 
 explained that the psalms were said, not chanted, and that 
 there would be no singing save 4 4 Jackson in F," and two 
 hymns. 
 
 Coggin wriggled into his place on the bench, and while the 
 parishioners assembled below he took stock of the instrument. 
 Although the hautboy was dreadful the other stops were in 
 tune, and no mechanical defects appeared. He rounded off 
 his prelude softly. Even Jackson in F found him quite 
 
98 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 cool, and lie did not try to get more out of that well-worn 
 composition than there was in it. But when the service was 
 over and the people were beginning to loiter out of the church, 
 Harry let himself go. The windows rattled, every old slab 
 in the worn pavements became a living stone, the rafters 
 hummed and echoed. If Redding had not leapt to his aid, 
 the astonished organ-blower would have failed to keep the bel- 
 lows full. The congregation streamed back into the church 
 and the clergyman stood stupefied at the vestry door. 
 
 As the organ-blower, after spitting for luck upon the five- 
 shilling piece which Redding gave him, was busy polishing the 
 coin on his sleeve, the schoolmaster poured out thanks and 
 begged for the strange musician’s name. 
 
 “Yes. I also would like to have your name,” said a 
 voice behind the organ. The vicar had climbed the spiral 
 stairs. 
 
 Coggin was about to speak when Redding stepped forward. 
 Coggin’s heart stood still. Surely, in a church, Mr. Redding 
 would not dare to introduce him by a German name ? 
 
 * ‘ Pardon our making a mystery, sir, and pray do not think 
 us disobliging,” said Teddie in his magnificent Spanish hidalgo 
 manner. “For this morning, my friend has no name; but he 
 is none the less your respectful and most obedient servant.” 
 
 The idea of a wandering musician without a name tickled 
 Redding mightily. Over the cold beef at the inn he persist- 
 ently addressed Coggin in the third person. Would the 
 Nameless One pass the mustard? What did the Unknown 
 think of the cheese? But at last he began calling Harry 
 “the Herr” which he insisted on pronouncing as “the Hare”; 
 and when they regained the chapel, happy and weary, he said : 
 
 “To-morrow will be a great day. The Hare had better 
 snuggle into his form at once.” 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 B ULLY TRANTER'S telegram, which was delivered at 
 half -past eight on the Monday morning, ran : 
 
 V has willingly signed document completely exonerating 
 C, but document also discloses circumstances extenuating hoax 
 perpetrated by V on C . Returning Bid ford Monday evening. 
 
 “This is glorious," cried Teddie. “Anybody can see that 
 Bully Tranter hasn't worded this telegram himself. Venn- 
 Venning drew it up — damn his polysyllables! I can see it all. 
 Though he 's frightened to death, he 's as artful as monkeys. 
 A hoax, by Jove! But to-night we shall know whether we 
 can catch out Rambury or not. ' ' 
 
 “I am cleared," said Coggin. 
 
 He turned away to hide his emotion. Redding strode up 
 to him and wrung his friend's hand. “Of course you're 
 cleared," he almost shouted. “Now to work, to work! 
 There 's no time to waste. Within nine days I want to have 
 you out of England and on your way to Deutschland. We 've 
 got to sell this furniture-broking business, either piecemeal or 
 as a going concern. That means inventories, catalogues, price- 
 tickets. So to work ! ’ ' 
 
 ‘ 4 Everything is ready, ' ' answered Coggin quietly. He pro- 
 duced some books and some foolscap sheets. Redding glanced 
 at them and saw that the whole stock-in-trade had been 
 minutely recorded. Every picture, every piece of china, every 
 yard of carpet, every clock, every chair, every old book was set 
 down, with its cost price and its estimated value. And un- 
 derneath every object, from the pianofortes down to the kitchen 
 
 99 
 
100 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 chairs, there was a tiny label numbered to correspond with an 
 entry in the stock-book. An auctioneer could have prepared 
 the whole collection for sale in half-an-hour. 
 
 “You are wonderful, Herr Highovermusikdirektor-Slogger- 
 Wogger,” Teddie murmured. “Here ’s real German thor- 
 oughness. You put us muddling procrastinating English to 
 shame. So there ’s nothing to be done till Bully Tranter ar- 
 rives. Stay ! I ’ll tell you what to do. Begin sorting out the 
 books and music and keepsakes that you ’re not going to sell. 
 Keep them down to as small a heap as you can. Pack them 
 securely to be stored till you come back from the Yaterland. 
 Meanwhile I ’m going to parade the town. The more I shew 
 myself the better. Secrecy has served our turn long enough. 
 I shall be back at six; and then I ’ll go and meet Bully.” 
 
 “You will need something to eat before then.” 
 
 “I shall need it and I shall get it.” 
 
 He took his hat and cane and stepped out into the street, 
 honestly intending to perambulate the main thoroughfares of 
 Bulford. But somehow his steps turned towards Hanover 
 Grove. Surely, he argued, Mrs. Hilliard ought to be told at 
 once of her nephew ’s full and swift success. 
 
 After he had broken the news Edward Redding found the 
 lady’s morning-room so pleasant that he was loth to go. 
 When he left the house it was only to accompany Mrs. Hilliard 
 into the cottages of certain aged widows who lionized Edward 
 exceedingly for his father’s sake ; and, after a charming though 
 rather too lady-like a luncheon, he sat all the afternoon with 
 his queenly hostess in her rose-garden, talking much of Cog- 
 gin, less of Alfred Tranter, and a little of himself. 
 
 The London train steamed into the station half-an-hour late. 
 At first nothing was to be seen of Bully. The huge fellow, 
 bursting with importance, wished to be taken very seriously ; 
 but, on catching sight of him, Redding tugged him out of the 
 compartment as if he had been a mere mail-bag. 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 101 
 
 “Hand me that confession,” he commanded. “It 's in this 
 envelope? Right. Now run home to auntie. And don't 
 stir out till I send for you.” 
 
 Venn- Venning's apologia — a very, very long screed — was 
 too clever by half. The. panic-stricken adventurer had hesi- 
 tated between two lines of defense, and his fluent paragraphs 
 redounded with inconsistencies. According to the opening 
 pages he had intended only to play a practical joke on Cog- 
 gin, and it was purely from forgetfulness that he had left 
 England without confessing the prank and refunding the 
 money. In support of this pretension he made a great deal of 
 having said that the forged Constables came from “his 
 uncle's.” By this he maintained that he had waggishly meant 
 a certain pawnbroker from whom he had bought the canvases 
 for a trifle. At this point, however, the tone of the confes- 
 sion changed. The very handwriting became less insolent, 
 and it could be seen that the pen had trembled in the culprit's 
 hand. The last page was a cry of despair, a wail for mercy ; 
 and the closing words were, ‘ ‘ I was pushed into this by Albert 
 Rambury. ' ' 
 
 While a messenger was on his w 7 ay to summon Bully Tranter, 
 the tv r o young men held a council of w r ar. It was decided that 
 Coggin should go into Demehaven on the morrow by the first 
 train, to initiate negotiations for the sale of his lease and 
 stock and good-wflll to a firm whose partners had long wished to 
 establish a branch in Bulford. Meanwfiiile Redding was to 
 launch a surprise attack on the enemy, which would involve 
 some novel and sprightly tactics. He had not finished explain- 
 ing his bold plan when Tranter entered the chapel. 
 
 The giant hulked in with a jaunty, friendly air. He had 
 evidently come to regard himself as an out-and-out Cogginite. 
 With exceeding satisfaction Edward Redding saw that the 
 
102 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 journey to France and back had done Mr. Tranter a vast 
 amount of good in every respect. 
 
 A hundred questions, of which at least ninety-five were put 
 by Redding, brought out the story. It appeared that Venn- 
 Yenuing had indeed worded the telegram, and that there had 
 been no great difficulty in persuading him to write the first 
 half of the confession. 
 
 “I sat beside him while he was scribbling it,” Tranter ex- 
 plained. “When Venn-Venning came to the end of the third 
 page — the bit about calling the pawnbroker his uncle — he was 
 going to break off and simply sign it. But I read it over and 
 told him it would n’t do. He said that was all he knew about 
 the affair, and he refused to write more.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ What happened ? ’ ’ asked Redding. 
 
 “I told him he was a liar,” answered Tranter, with im- 
 mense pride. 
 
 “Did he mind?” 
 
 “Not a bit. He laughed. Then I spoke up and told him 
 that if he did n’t make a clean breast of everything, especially 
 about Rambury, Slogger Coggin would break every bone in his 
 body and wring his neck. I believe he thought Slogger was in 
 Boulogne, waiting outside. He ...” 
 
 “To cut it short, he wrote two more pages? Quite so,” 
 said Redding. “And very useful pages they are. Mr. 
 Tranter, you have done grandly. Don’t spoil it by letting 
 slip a single syllable about your journey to any one. Drink 
 this glass of wine with us. Then go home and stay there till 
 to-morrow night. There are two men in Bulford, Mr. Wood- 
 ley the solicitor and Mr. Albert Rambury, whom you must not 
 run against till I have done with them. Here you are. It is 
 Amontillado, twice as old as yourself. The toast is ‘Slogger 
 Coggin.’ Fiat justitia. No heel-taps. Now trot off home.” 
 
 Dinner in the old vestry that evening was a short meal, 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 103 
 
 hurriedly served and inattentively consumed. Towards its 
 close, the host began apologizing for its defects. 
 
 “We are certainly eating a bad dinner/’ agreed the guest. 
 “But to-morrow we shall make up for it. Now don’t oppose 
 me. By to-night’s post I write to Sir George Batwood, ex- 
 plaining everything and begging him to bring Lady Batwood 
 here to-morrow night. They will come when they know Mrs. 
 Hilliard has dined in this room. Of course I shall get Mrs. 
 Hilliard to come to-morrow night as well. And understand 
 that this is at my cost and expense. I shall engage a waiter 
 from the Bulcaster Arms. A lobster mayonnaise and a cold 
 roast capon and an exceptional dessert shall be sent in ; so if 
 you can manage one of your stunning soups and some kind of 
 interesting out-of-the-way hot entree, to come between the cold 
 fish and the cold fowl, we shall dine famously. As for the 
 wine, you shall provide it. You are leaving Bulford next 
 week ; so why should n ’t we bring up the best bottles ? ’ ’ 
 
 Although Coggin quailed, he bowed to the generalissimo’s 
 will; and while the letter to Sir George was being written he 
 slipped out to the butcher’s in quest of a prime fillet of beef 
 for his entree. On his return he found that Redding’s flying 
 pen had achieved three letters — one very long and two very 
 short. The long letter was for the baronet with a postscript 
 for Lady Batwood. The other letters were written on Cog- 
 gin ’s business note-paper. The first ran : 
 
 Mr. Albert Rambury. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Please come here to-morrow, Tuesday, evening at seven 
 precisely to see Mr. Coggin and myself. No other time and 
 place will suit us. 
 
 If you do not attend, we shall feel ourselves free to take a 
 certain course immediately and without further notice . 
 
 Your obedient servant } 
 
 Edward Redding. 
 
104 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 The second letter was unsigned. It ran : 
 
 Mr. Samuel Woodley. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Please put together all such papers as I am entitled to, 
 now that 1 have paid in full your bill of costs. 
 
 Also, please come here to-morrow, Tuesday, at seven p.m. 
 punctually to meet my friend Mr. Edward Redding and my- 
 self. No other appointment can be offered, and it is in your 
 own interest that you shoidd attend. 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 ‘ ‘ Sign the letter to Woodley,” said Redding. “No, don’t 
 copy it out in your own hand. I have my reasons. Merely 
 sign. Thanks. I ’ve just time to catch the last post.” 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 O N the following morning, before ten o’clock, Mr. 
 
 Woodley literally collided with Mr. Albert Ram- 
 bury at the angle of Market Street and St. 
 Peter’s Lane. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I was on my way to see yon, ’ ’ said Rambury. And Wood- 
 ley answered: 
 
 “So was I.” 
 
 Although the lawyer was the more flurried of the two, the 
 accountant could not wholly conceal his anxiety. Turning 
 out of the busy street into the quiet lane they compared notes. 
 At last Rambury said: 
 
 “I am for grasping the nettle. If we don’t, it will sting. 
 This Edward Redding can cause us a great deal of annoyance. 
 He is his father over again — always flying off with some mad 
 idea of exposing a scandal and succoring the oppressed. You 
 remember, Woodley, how the father got Coggin on the brain? 
 He tilted at everything and everybody in Bulford, like a reg- 
 ular Don Quixote ; and although he had to suffer for it smartly 
 in the long run and give up the living, he made it very un- 
 comfortable for reasonable people while the nonsense lasted. 
 This son of his seems even worse ; because he is just a big sky- 
 larking boy, with no sense of responsibility. They say he 
 makes a lot of money as an artist, and he has plenty of leisure 
 to meddle in other people’s business. I repeat that he can be 
 exceedingly troublesome. The only way is to stand up to 
 him boldly, at once. So I propose to go round to Coggin’s 
 chapel this minute. That will be my answer to his impudent 
 message that I must attend at seven to-night or not at all.’ > 
 
 105 
 
106 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “I ’ll come with you,” cried Woodley. He had a second- 
 rate will and a third-rate mind, and was immensely relieved 
 at the prospect of hiding himself behind this cool and compe- 
 tent young Rambury. 
 
 “You forget,” said the other. “You are Coggin’s solicitor, 
 not mine. If that affair is to be re-opened, you are supposed to 
 be acting against me. Keep away. Indeed, we are most in- 
 discreet in walking together now. You ’d better go back to 
 your office. I ’ll send you a confidential line before noon. ’ ’ 
 
 Albert Rambury stepped briskly away. His coolness had 
 so often enabled him to out-wit better and even cleverer men 
 that he advanced to the fray with growing confidence. He de- 
 cided to make Coggin and Redding shew their hand, by the 
 simple expedient of insisting politely on an explanation of 
 Redding’s “extraordinary letter just received.” Further, he 
 would suavely ask him what they wished him to do. He would 
 then demand time for consideration and would out-manceuver 
 both the hated Coggin and the intrusive Redding. 
 
 At the chapel door Mr. Rambury experienced his first 
 check. He found himself confronted by the neatly-written 
 notice : 
 
 CLOSED FOR STOCKTAKING 
 
 Pulls at the bell-rope and hammerings on the panels were of 
 no avail. Albert Rambury was not an imaginative man, but 
 for once he scented an omen. He was shut out. What if 
 Coggin, the detestable upstart Coggin should triumph after all ? 
 Throughout his intrigues against the rag-and-bone man’s son, 
 Rambury had taken it for granted that his victim had no 
 effective allies. The Reddings had been so many years out of 
 Bulford that they had practically faded from his mind. Yet, 
 like a thunderbolt out of the blue, this dare-devil, handsome, 
 affable, well-to-do, leisured, damnable, young Edward had 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 107 
 
 plumped into the middle of the stage, not asking questions or 
 suggesting discussions, but issuing commands like a god. 
 
 Regaining his office, Mr. Albert dashed down with an angry 
 quill some contemptuous lines for Mr. Woodley. He wrote: 
 
 The chapel is closed. I deem it best to be there at seven 
 o’clock and end this nonsense. You had better come too. 
 Pardon my advising , for your own sake , that you should con- 
 tent yourself to-day with a diminished allowance of brandy. 
 
 A. R 
 
 As seven o’clock resounded, Mr. Rambury jerked at the 
 chapel bell. Behind him stood Mr. Woodley, panic-stricken 
 but sober. The door was flung open by an imposing person- 
 age, who wore the airs of an old-established family butler ad- 
 mitting a couple of poor relations. This was Turton, the head- 
 waiter of the Victoria Hotel at Demehaven, whom Coggin had 
 engaged, on Redding’s revised instructions, instead of a waiter 
 from the Bulcaster Arms. 
 
 As neither Woodley nor Rambury had seen Turton before, 
 they were not only abashed but mystified. And their amaze- 
 ment grew as they followed meekly in the great man’s wake. 
 The chapel had been turned into a magnificent salon. Their 
 feet sank deeply in fine carpets, and their nostrils were filled 
 with the scents of lilac and roses. On the many tables stood 
 bowls of flowers, silver candlesticks, statuettes, vases, and 
 richly-bound volumes. But these surprises were as nothing 
 to the shock which followed. 
 
 Walking pompously ahead, Turton paused outside the wide- 
 open door of the old vestry, where the table was already laid 
 for dinner. Both Rambury and Woodley enjoyed occasional 
 access to stately houses ; but nowhere had either of them seen 
 so gorgeous a combination of plate and napery, of china and 
 glass and silver, of fruits and flowers and candles. As in the 
 
108 
 
 .THE HARE 
 
 chapel, lilac and roses were everywhere. On a side-board stood 
 wines of jewel-like colors in richly cut decanters, while the 
 necks of two bottles rose over the brim of a massive Sheffield 
 champagne-cooler. 
 
 “Mr. Rambree and Mr. Woodley,” repeated Turton after 
 learning the visitors’ names. “I will tell Mr. Coggin and Mr. 
 Redding at once. Pr’aps you will kindly step into the li-bry.” 
 • In the library were more pots of lilacs, more bowls of roses, 
 more rich carpets, more little tables, more beeswax candles in 
 silver sconces, more easy chairs. Woodley was about to ask 
 what it could all mean when Coggin and Redding entered the 
 room. 
 
 Albert Rambury rose and advanced to meet Redding, hold- 
 ing out his hand. Redding, however, affected not to see and 
 merely bowed. Waving Rambury back into his chair he 
 said : 
 
 “As Mr. Coggin and I have another appointment, you will 
 allow me to get immediately to business. Mr. Woodley, you 
 have acted as Mr. Coggin ’s legal adviser. Mr. Rambury, you 
 and Mr. Coggin were once school-fellows.” 
 
 Rambury winced ; but without giving him time to interject 
 any protest, Redding went on: “You should therefore be suit- 
 able persons to advise Mr. Coggin in a matter affecting his 
 honor and welfare. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Throughout many years, Mr. Coggin has been the victim of 
 almost incredible conspiracies and intrigues. No doubt you 
 have heard of the wrecking of his concerts — a disgrace to 
 Bulford and an affair which fills every honest hearer with dis- 
 gust. That was very serious, and I hope to bring the guilty 
 parties to a reckoning ; but it is not our main business to-night. 
 
 “You know that recently, in connection with some forged oil 
 paintings ascribed to Constable, Mr. Coggin has suffered cruel 
 anxiety, heavy legal' expenses, grave personal discredit, and 
 serious loss of business. Despite the cleverness of the pro- 
 
THE DELIVERER 109 
 
 cedure, we have discovered the instigator of this dirty job. 
 You both know Mr. Frederick Venn-Venning?” 
 
 “Yes, yes,” cried Rambury, enormously relieved. At the 
 word “instigator’ ’ his blood had run slow; but now it flowed 
 free again. “Venn- Venning,” he added, “is a blackguard. 
 There is no shady trick he wouldn’t do. Mr. Coggin is not 
 the only victim.” 
 
 “No. And Venn-Venning is not the only blackguard,” 
 said Redding, swiftly and sternly. “ Venn-Venning ’s part in 
 this outrage was already notorious. I mention his name to- 
 night for one reason only. In my hand I hold not only Venn- 
 Venning ’s confession but also his incrimination of somebody 
 else — of the dastardly instigator. And this is why I ask your 
 advice. The culprit is beyond question, a cur, an unspeakable 
 scoundrel. But unfortunately he is also an old boy of our 
 old school — the school which all four of us have attended at one 
 time or another. 
 
 “Three courses, and only three, seem possible. First, Mr. 
 Coggin could proceed in the ancient fashion. He could come 
 up with his enemy in some public place and thrash him in such 
 circumstances of ignominy that the vile coward would never 
 be able to lift up his head in Bulford again. I see one great 
 disadvantage in this course. We all remember, that when 
 we were boys, we used to speak of 4 Slogger’ Coggin. I fear 
 that if once his blood were up, Mr. Coggin might not only 
 punish but perhaps kill his man. No jury, after hearing all 
 the facts, would have him hanged for it; but we don’t want 
 battle and murder and sudden death if we can help it. 
 
 “Second, Mr. Coggin might, first thing to-morrow morning, 
 set the law in motion — not the civil law, for mere money dam- 
 ages, but the criminal law, for conspiracy and for criminal 
 libel. With the evidence and documents w r hich have just 
 come into his possession, he could irretrievably ruin the vile 
 plotter by whom he has himself been so nearly ruined. He 
 
110 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 could disgrace him ; beggar him, drive him out of Bulford, 
 perhaps out of the country. As a good citizen, I feel this is 
 the course Mr. Coggin ought to take. The third course . . . 
 well, I hardly like to name it, because it savors of compound- 
 ing with evil. But I will put it before you. Third, Mr. 
 Coggin might consent neither to thrash the criminal nor to 
 fling him into prison. He might, on condition of receiving the 
 most ample reparation, forgive his enemy. I say, the most 
 ample reparation: and also the most abject apology. Mr. 
 Rambury, you are reputed a cool-headed and sapient man. If 
 I have made myself clear, perhaps you will favor us with your 
 valuable opinion.’ * 
 
 Rambury ’s face had blanched to the whiteness of chalk. 
 For this young man, life held only three terrors — physical pain, 
 prison, and penury. The thought of gaol was not new to him, 
 because he was always engaging in sharp practices where a 
 false step might tumble him within reach of the law. But 
 what froze him with the most sickening fear was Redding’s 
 easy-going forecast of a possible fight in which Slogger, roused 
 to white-hot passion, would certainly mutilate and probably 
 kill him. 
 
 “ Don’t answer in a hurry,” said Edward Redding with a 
 scorn which he could not conceal. 4 ‘ Take your time. You 
 see, Mr. Rambury, this is extremely important. It involves 
 somebody’s liberty and perhaps his life.” 
 
 Albert Rambury applied his nimble wits to find a joint in 
 Edward Redding’s armor, but in vain. He felt like a choking, 
 drowning man clawing desperately at the polished side of 
 an iceberg. At last, however, he rallied himself and man- 
 aged to say, with something like his usual arrogance : 
 
 “As my opinion is asked, I give it. Beware lest these 
 threats recoil on your own heads. The law is full of pitfalls 
 and miss-fires. You are relying on what purports to be a 
 confession by Venn-Venning. How do you know that he is 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 111 
 
 not lying to you as he lied to ... to Mr. Coggin? Pardon 
 my saying that the affair of the concerts is susceptible of an- 
 other and more natural explanation. As for the pictures — 
 well, Mr. Coggin ventured out of his depth and has had to 
 pay for his experience/ * 
 
 4 ‘ Then your advice is — what?” 
 
 “Not to throw good money after bad.” 
 
 “Money isn't everything,” said Redding. “I 11 put my 
 question in another way. Supposing, for the sake of argu- 
 ment, that we hold overwhelming proofs of the plotter's guilt. 
 Always remembering that he is an old boy of Bulford Gram- 
 mar School, which would you advise us to do ? Horse- 
 whip him? Lock him up? Or forgive him, on stern con- 
 ditions?” 
 
 “It is not my business,” snapped Rambury. His manner 
 was as insolent as ever. But his voice shook, and Redding 
 knew that the battle was half won. 
 
 “Mr. Woodley, as Mr. Rambury refuses his opinion, per- 
 haps you will give us yours,” asked Redding, turning to the 
 solicitor. 
 
 “No. I sha'n't ! I won't !” bawled Woodley, jerking him- 
 self out of the deep arm-chair and striding towards Redding. 
 “We 've had enongh of this play-acting. Say straight out 
 what you mean, like a man. You mean that "Rambury is the 
 villain of the piece and that I am his accomplice. Then say 
 it. Say it straight out. Say it.” 
 
 “You have said it for me,” replied Edward Redding quietly, 
 as he folded his arms across his breast and stared the solicitor 
 full in the face. 
 
 “I demand to see what that damned Venn-Venning says 
 about me,” Woodley shouted. He sprang to the table and 
 pounced on Tranter's long envelope: but he was too late by the 
 twinkling of an eye. Redding grabbed the document and said 
 sharply: “This paper is Mr. Coggin’s. By the way, have you 
 
112 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 brought him the other papers he has asked for? No: don’t 
 argue. Hand them over this instant.” 
 
 After delivering up the papers, Mr. Woodley spluttered out 
 a long and excited defense. He claimed great credit for hav- 
 ing accepted Coggin as a client. No other first-class Bulford 
 solicitor would have acted for Coggin against Mr. Rambury. 
 As for his handling of the case, it was an abominable lie that 
 he had been double-faced. His, Samuel Woodley’s, skill 
 alone had settled the trouble at half the expense in which any 
 other solicitor would have landed Coggin. As for his surren- 
 dering instead of fighting the case out, he admitted it and was 
 proud of it. How could Coggin have gone before a judge 
 and jury? He would have been laughed out of court. 
 
 ‘ 4 Take just this one point,” he continued. 4 ‘ Coggin admits 
 that Venn-Venning said the pictures were from his uncle’s. 
 His uncle’s, Mr. Redding. Think of a witty Q.C. on the 
 other side addressing the jury on a needy adventurer ’s uncle ! 
 I repeat Coggin would have been laughed out of court — cov- 
 ered with a ridicule even more damaging than the disgrace.” 
 
 Redding let Samuel Woodley talk on for at least five min- 
 utes more without any interruption save the occasional pen- 
 ciling of a note on a scrap of paper before him. When the 
 solicitor’s breath failed, Rambury craned forward to speak: 
 but his cunningly-framed words were never uttered. Redding 
 rapped the table sharply with a ruler and said : 
 
 “You have been told already that Mr. Coggin and I have 
 another appointment. Our time is nearly up. Mr. Rambury, 
 when you were asked for your opinion you would not give it ; 
 and now it is no longer wanted. Mr. Woodley, you said I 
 regarded you as Mr. Rambury ’s accomplice. I prefer to call 
 you an accessory after the fact. Your speech just now was 
 rambling and terribly long, but I thank you for it. You have 
 flooded with light several comers of this disgusting affair 
 which were obscure till you spoke; and you have given me the 
 
THE DELIVERER 113 
 
 key to more than one passage in Venn- Venning’s statement. 
 Listen.” 
 
 Edward read rapidly and distinctly the paragraph in the 
 confession about Venn- Venning’s uncle; and he added a few 
 other excerpts which shewed how deeply Coggin ’s solicitor had 
 been admitted to Rambury ’s confidence and how thoroughly 
 the pretended antagonists had played into one another’s hands. 
 Here a word and there a phrase, here a fact and there a fiction, 
 chimed in fatal unison with Mr. Woodley’s too fluent apologia. 
 Putting the confession back in its envelope, Edward Redding 
 went on harshly: 
 
 “Sir, you sold Mr. Coggin, your client. Furthermore, in 
 defiance of all professional honor, you disclosed his private 
 affairs in idle gossip to strangers and you even poured on him 
 the ridicule from which you say you labored to save him. 
 And for betraying him, for slandering him, for helping this 
 dirty scoundrel Rambury to ruin him, for laughing at him 
 behind his back, you have overcharged Mr. Coggin at least 
 fifty guineas. I have perused your bill of costs. Now, heed 
 my words. Either you will undertake, before the clock points 
 to twenty-five minutes past seven, to make full and swift 
 amends ... or something will happen. Albert Rambury, 
 stand up. Do you hear me? Stand up!” 
 
 As pale as death, Rambury rose to his feet. Once more he 
 tried to speak; once more he was thundered down. 
 
 “Before you entered this room to-night,” said Redding, 
 “Mr. Coggin entrusted your fate to my discretion. I have 
 spoken of three courses. A thrashing which may mean your 
 death and his imprisonment; or your immediate arrest and 
 almost certain ruin; or forgiveness on conditions. Albert 
 Rambury, I ought to decide on the thrashing. Your own 
 father worked upward from being a poor boy; yet you have 
 despised Harry Coggin because he was humbly born. You 
 affect to love music: yet a vile jealousy has urged you to hu- 
 
114 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 miliate and thwart the one musician in this town whom you 
 should have been proudest to know and to encourage. You 
 set yourself up as a judge of pictures ; and you have used your 
 little knowledge, your dangerously little knowledge, to ruin 
 and to try and drive from his native place a scholar and an 
 artist whose boots you are not fit to clean. You and yours 
 hate him because he has made a little money — not like you, by 
 usury and by trickery, but by hard work with his own hands. 
 Albert Rambury, have you anything to say before I pronounce 
 sentence?” 
 
 “It ’s lies, all lies, lies, lies,” cried Rambury. His voice was 
 almost a scream. 
 
 “Is it a lie that you sent Venn-Venning to this old chapel 
 with those forged pictures? Is it a lie that you saw Venn- 
 Venning that same evening and that you were told what had 
 passed? Is it a lie that you sent Tranter here too? Is it a 
 lie that you bought one of the pictures in bad faith? Is it 
 a lie that the other plaintiff, the Londoner Brassington, was a 
 man of straw and your nominee? Is it a lie that this poor 
 indolent procrastinating drunkard Woodley, with his dwind- 
 ling practice, his weakening wits and his foggy mind, became 
 your tool ? Is it a lie that you were concerned in the wreck- 
 ing of those concerts? Think well, before you answer, Al- 
 bert Rambury. If you say that one, even one, of these state- 
 ments of mine is a lie — then you will have told the arch lie, 
 the last lie, the lie we shall not endure. Think well. But do 
 not dally. Have I told one lie, one single lie? Speak. I 
 shall not wait. Have I lied ? Yes or no ? ” 
 
 A silence followed ; a silence intensified by the multitudinous 
 ticking of Coggin’s big and little clocks, all over the build- 
 ing. It was as if a hundred grievous hearts, some sharp with 
 pain, some dull with sorrow, were beating, beating, beating. 
 Rambury *s nerves gave way. He staggered up to the table 
 and fell forward supporting himself on the palms of his 
 
THE DELIVERER 115 
 
 hands. Then, with his lips not more than six or seven inches 
 from Redding’s eyes, he whimpered: 
 
 “No. It ’s all true. You have not lied.” 
 
 “Samuel Woodley, step here and stand by Albert Ram- 
 bury,” commanded Redding. “I decide on the last of the 
 three courses. You shall be forgiven, on conditions. The 
 conditions are these : 
 
 i ‘ Provided his honor is completely and publicly vindicated ; 
 provided you both acknowledge your offense; and provided 
 full reparation is made to him ; then Mr. Coggin will not only 
 wipe the sponge over this affair but will sell his business and 
 leave Bulford for good. The dust of this town, where he 
 has known nothing save humiliation and persecution, shall be 
 shaken from his feet. Good news for you, isn’t it, Albert 
 Rambury ? But there ’s a price to pay. 
 
 “The night before Coggin quits Bulford, we shall have a 
 meeting in the Town Hall. At that meeting you and Mr. 
 Woodley, with others, will make short speeches to the effect 
 that you have watched him closely in business and that you 
 have never known a more upright and honorable man than 
 Henry Coggin. Your speeches must be written down and 
 submitted to me beforehand, and must be delivered verbatim 
 according to the approved manuscripts, with no variation 
 whatever. Furthermore, you will both subscribe to a testi- 
 monial which will be presented to Mr. Coggin on that occa- 
 sion. Mr. Woodley, you will subscribe one hundred guineas. 
 Mr. Rambury, your contribution will be five hundred pounds. 
 I have finished. You may go home.” 
 
 Albert Rambury stumbled backward, with one arm cover- 
 ing his eyes as if to ward off a blow. Then he went raging 
 mad. “Five hundred pounds!” he screamed. “It’s rob- 
 bery, it ’s ... it ’s blackguardly blackmail. Woodley, 
 Woodley! You ’re a witness. You heard him say it. It ’s 
 blackmaiL We ’ve been threatened with assault and battery. 
 
116 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 These two swindlers have demanded money with menaces. 
 We 11 go straight to the police. We ’ll . . 
 
 “I ’ve told you to go home,” said Redding. “Go; or I ’ll 
 kick you out. When you ’ve gone, you may run straight down 
 to the police, if you like ; but make no mistake about the sequel. 
 Albert Rambury, you may be able to put Henry Coggin and 
 me into gaol for an hour ; but if you do, you yourself shall lie 
 in prison for years — that is, if Slogger doesn’t kill you before 
 you go there. My offer remains open until half-past nine 
 to-night. If you bring policemen, we shall be here; and 
 other people will be here also. But if by half-past nine you 
 have not accepted my offer it will be withdrawn, and our first 
 blow will fall this very night. There can be no haggling. 
 Five hundred pounds and one hundred guineas. Now, clear 
 out.” 
 
 Redding strode towards the library door and led the way. 
 Outside the old vestry he paused long enough for the guilty 
 pair to have one more view of the resplendent dining-table 
 and the opulent side-board. As the vestry was darkened by 
 some great apple-trees in the neighboring orchard, more can- 
 dles had been lighted during the debate in the library, giving 
 still greater magnificence to the scene. 
 
 When the chapel portals had closed on the two dismayed 
 and bewildered wretches and they stood safely in the deserted 
 street, Rambury ’s courage returned to him. “Come,” he said 
 imperiously, “let ’s at once obtain a warrant for their arrest. 
 We ’ve been fools. Late dinner and flowers and wine — phew ! 
 All vulgar, theatrical bounce. Two swindlers and black- 
 mailers. I don’t doubt that Redding has n’t a shilling, except 
 what he ’s getting out of Coggin. Hurry up, Woodley. We 
 must face it. Boldness always pays. As soon as they know 
 there ’s a warrant out, we shall have both our bold young gen- 
 tlemen on their knees.” 
 
 “No,” said Woodley, stepping back. “I ’m done with you, 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 in 
 
 Mr. Rambury. By God’s help, I ’m a different man from 
 to-night. What Redding said was true. My eyes are opened. 
 I ’ve been going down hill. I ’m ashamed of myself in this 
 affair of Coggin — yes, and in many other affairs too. I ’m 
 going to pay. A hundred guineas takes a lot of raising but 
 it ’s got to be done.” 
 
 “I sha’n’t pay a penny!” cried Rambury. 
 
 “Then the bigger fool you. They ’re letting you off dirt 
 cheap. Don’t you see? You both claimed and obtained dam- 
 ages, money damages, from Coggin for a wrong to which you 
 had yourself been a party, even if you weren’t the prime 
 mover. Now that the hunt ’s up, I would rather be Samuel 
 Woodley than Albert Rambury.” 
 
 “I sha’n’t pay a penny!” snapped Rambury again. But, 
 just as Woodley was opening his mouth to argue the matter 
 further, a lordly noise cut him short. 
 
 Over the kidney-stones of the narrow street came a carriage 
 drawn by two stamping horses. The solicitor, who had been 
 standing with one foot on the curb and the other in the dry 
 gutter, sprang back for safety, pulling Rambury with him into 
 the shelter of a doorway. The carriage drew up at the chapel 
 gates and Mr. Alfred Tranter handed out Mrs. Hilliard. 
 
 “There ’s the sneak that ’s done it,” hissed Rambury be- 
 tween his teeth. “But . . . who ’s this?” 
 
 A second carriage thumped up and came to a halt. From 
 its ample interior emerged Sir George Batwood; and Lady 
 Batwood, looking very lovely, descended shyly after him. 
 Having helped her ladyship to alight, the baronet, who was 
 not happy at the thought of bringing his exquisite young 
 spouse to dine in a second-hand furniture shop which had been 
 a Dissenting chapel, swept the precincts with a nervous glance. 
 His keen eye caught Woodley and Rambury. Without a 
 moment’s hesitation he strode up to them and said: 
 
 “Mr. Woodley, you have behaved shamefully to young Cog- 
 
118 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 gin. With my own ears, I heard you defame him. What are 
 you doing here? Why are you sneaking and spying about 
 with this cur Rambury? Let us understand one another. If 
 you are up to any more dirty work I shall borrow my coach- 
 man’s whip and thrash you both, here and now, till there ’s 
 a crowd filling the street. Answer me. What are you doing 
 here?” 
 
 “I am here, Sir George,” replied Mr. Woodley, with great 
 humility, “to discuss a proposed testimonial to Mr. Coggin. 
 I have decided to subscribe one hundred guineas.” 
 
 “The deuce you have!” cried the baronet. “And what 
 about Rambury.” 
 
 “He has not yet made up his mind,” purred Mr. Woodley, 
 who had suddenly become gay, now that the danger was past. 
 “But I sha’n’t be in the least surprised if he puts himself 
 down for five hundred pounds.” 
 
 / 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 T HROUGHOUT the seven days nest ensuing on Al- 
 bert Rambury’s complete surrender, Edward Red- 
 ding was the busiest man in the country. At five 
 o ’clock every morning he braved the cold river, swimming like 
 a fish. The early plunge, followed by a plowboy’s breakfast, 
 so toughened and strengthened him that he raced with zest 
 through a hundred labors. 
 
 There were no more dinners in the vestry. As soon as the 
 staggering news of the proposed testimonial and of Rambury ’s 
 five hundred pounds had run round the town, invitations blew 
 towards the chapel like autumn leaves in a gale. Harry was 
 included in all these proffers of hospitality ; partly because it 
 had become known that Mr. Redding would not dine abroad 
 without his protege, and mainly because, as Coggin was leav- 
 ing the town, his hosts did not need to fear social complica- 
 tions later on. In choosing amidst the invitations, Edward 
 Redding displayed supreme tact, nor did he fail to make a 
 personal call in every instance where he had to say “No.” 
 
 In spite of his diffidence, Coggin was not a failure in the 
 dining-rooms of Bulford’s high society. He wore his new 
 clothes with distinction and he rapidly acquired the latest 
 table-manners as expounded by his guardian. As a conver- 
 tionalist he gave universal satisfaction through his respectful 
 attention to the remarks made by others, the greatest bores not 
 excepted. Furthermore, Edward Redding took care to turn 
 the talk artfully, now and again, towards topics on which he 
 knew that Coggin could speak freshly and well. 
 
 The testimonial made almost terrifying progress, like a 
 
 119 
 
120 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 snowball rolling down-bill. While a few shrewd cynics 
 guessed that there was something behind Albert Rambury’s 
 astounding subscription, the citizens generally found in it a 
 spur to rivalry. By the Friday afternoon so much money 
 had flowed in that the Bulford Mercury was able to say: 
 
 The principal topic of local conversation this week has been 
 the imminent departure from Bulford of Mr. Henry Coggin, 
 the talented young composer who is so universally respected 
 and deservedly esteemed among us. We learn that the fund 
 for presenting a testimonial to Mr. Coggin already amounts to 
 over £1600. Lord Bulcaster, who shewed a lively interest in 
 Mr. Coggin at the outset of his remarkable career, has con- 
 tributed £50. It is expected that fully £2000 will be raised. 
 The presentation will be made in the Town Hall next Wed- 
 nesday evening, at half-past six. Sir George Batwood, Bart., 
 will preside, and w r ill be supported by His Worship the Mayor 
 and by most of our leading citizens. 
 
 Much more than £2000 flowed in. Bulford was a town 
 where rivalries ran strong; and by the time Edward Redding 
 had cunningly coaxed subscriptions out of twenty carefully 
 selected individuals the triumph of his plan was assured. 
 People who did not care a brass button for Harry Coggin sent 
 checks for handsome sums, so as to outdo their social rivals. 
 Most of the money, however, was intelligently subscribed on 
 solid grounds. The more high-minded citizens suddenly felt 
 ashamed of their long apathy and stirred themselves up to 
 pay tardy honor to a neglected genius. Others, who had been 
 concerned in the affair of the concerts and in other jealous 
 manceuvers against Coggin, hastened to subscribe all they 
 could afford. These mean wretches had correctly interpreted 
 Rambury’s five hundred pounds and they hailed the testi- 
 monial with delight, as a kind of lightning-conductor to divert 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 121 
 
 from them the suspicions of the terrible young Mr. Redding. 
 But by far the largest numbers of contributions, though not the 
 largest in money, came from simple and honest folk, high and 
 low. Edward Redding perused with a choking throat some 
 of the letters accompanying these shillings and half-crowns. 
 It was evident that, although Harry Coggin had flourished in 
 business and had become the owner of a large and valuable 
 stock, he might have been not merely comfortable but rich 
 if he had not steadily helped the less fortunate. 
 
 One letter — a widow ’s letter — ran : “ I was without a penny, 
 and three weeks still to go to the end of the quarter ; so I sent 
 for young Coggin to buy my only valuables — my dear hus- 
 band’s writing-table and chair. Mr. C. lent me ten pounds 
 and never took the things away, and he let me pay him back 
 a pound a quarter, without interest.” 
 
 Another letter, a blotty scrawl, enclosed ten shillings and 
 said: “For what Mr. H. Cogin did when the brokers was 
 in.” 
 
 A third read: “Five shillings for the only broker in Bul- 
 ford with a heart instead of a flint under his waistcoat; 
 wishing it was five pounds.” 
 
 A fourth: “In grateful memory of six bottles of old port- 
 wine sent annonnimus when my poor daughter was in a de- 
 cline. From one who knows they was from Harry C.” 
 
 There were exactly two score of such letters ; and, although 
 Edward Redding tore up many cream-laid sheets from wealthy 
 subscribers in Victoria Park, he folded the forty grimy scrawls 
 with exceeding reverence and tied them up as if they had been 
 the holographs of Shakespeare Sonnets. 
 
 Meanwhile, heaven had smiled upon Coggin ’s other affairs. 
 The Demehaven furniture-dealers jumped at their chance of 
 acquiring a branch establishment in Bulford; but they did 
 not wish to take over the antiques and “instances of vertu,” 
 
122 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 which were out of their depth. This passing cloud, however, 
 soon shewed a golden lining. Edward Redding caused it to 
 be whispered about, as a valuable secret for a few privileged 
 persons, that Coggin was not unwilling to clear out his best 
 things on alluring terms. For three days there was a rush. 
 Everybody was satisfied, especially Coggin ; for, although he 
 sold his plate and china and glass, his busts and statuettes and 
 pictures, his cabinets and clocks and choice books at reduced 
 prices, he was nevertheless paid nearly two hundred pounds 
 more than he would have received for the same articles if 
 they had been lumped together with his chairs and tables and 
 other merely commercial stuff, and handed over to the Deme- 
 haven firm. 
 
 But the glittering dust raised by all these successes and 
 excitements could not hide from sight certain new gaunt 
 sorrows. Hour by hour the chapel grew more bare and un- 
 homelike as the purchasers drove away, each with some fine 
 object either resting on the carriage seat or following on a 
 barrow. By Saturday morning every clock, every carpet, 
 every settee, and nearly all the other furniture had gone. 
 Worse still, the airy, tranquil dwelling-house which Harry had 
 so laboriously constructed out of the old chapel-vestry and 
 Sunday School was already half dismantled. In the library 
 the shelves were bare and the floor was cumbered with packing- 
 cases containing Coggin’s personal treasures. These included 
 about a thousand books ; the old ink-stained piano ; the furni- 
 ture and pictures from the Redding bed-room; a huge mass 
 of music ; and some souvenirs of Mrs. Coggin. 
 
 The organ was sold at a surprisingly high price to a little 
 Crystal Palace which some speculators were building just out- 
 side Demehaven; but as pipe after pipe disappeared Harry 
 felt as if teeth had been pulled out of his head and blood 
 drawn from his veins. To Edward Redding there was noth- 
 ing in these partings. When the organ-builders’ men first 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 123 
 
 arrived, Redding came tearing into the vestry full of the 
 glad news; and when their work was finished, he danced a 
 hornpipe where the keyboards and bench had stood. To 
 Harry Coggin all this was as though, in a house of mourning, 
 some one had cried gleefully, 4 4 Here ’s the undertaker !” and 
 finally “Hooray, out goes the coffin at last!” 
 
 This heartlessness, or rather thoughtlessness, marked Red- 
 ding’s behavior more strongly every day. Although he had 
 sternly upbraided Rambury and Woodley for treating Cog- 
 gin as a creature destitute of ordinary susceptibilities, he 
 himself repeatedly failed to remember that his young friend 
 was more highly-strung, more delicate, more sensitive than any 
 of Bulford’s softly nurtured sons — more finely tuned, indeed, 
 than Edward Redding himself. Ten times a day the Ger- 
 man plan was revived and developed, always with some jest 
 of which Coggin was the butt. Redding was honestly fond of 
 Harry Coggin, just as a thoughtless, healthly boy is honestly 
 fond of the dog which he drags and pushes and hoaxes and 
 caresses and stuffs and torments all day long; but it did not 
 occur to him that even a dog may have become attached to 
 his corner of the back-yard, if not to his very chain. 
 
 “Great news, Hans Coggenheim!” he cried, bursting into 
 the chapel an hour after the organ had been taken away. 
 “I ’ve sold Bay Rum for a hundred guineas . 9 9 
 
 Coggin turned as pale as death. He tried to speak. “A 
 hundred guineas,” said Redding again. “And you told me 
 yourself you only gave fifty-five for him. Why, what ’s the 
 matter?” 
 
 “I cannot sell Bay Rum,” said Coggin, with tremors in his 
 voice and in his hands. 
 
 “But you must. Why, what do you expect? Have you 
 got the idea that Germany is still a land of romance, where you 
 go pricking o’er the lea like the Gentle Knight, on horseback, 
 from one frowning castle to another? If so, put it out of 
 
12* 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 your head, mein wolilgeboren Herr Coggenheimer. Tour new 
 country is blest with almost as many railways as your old 
 one, and with far more steamboats. No, no. Bay Rum must 
 be sold. You ’ll be in Germany at least a year, and you 
 can’t have the poor beast eating his head off and his heart 
 out as long as that. Besides, I ’ve sold him to a kind master, 
 the Honorable and Reverend Cayley Mallington, the new 
 curate at St. Michael ’s. Here is his check. By the way, they 
 paid you cash down for the organ? Oh, and the curate 
 does n’t want Bay Rum till Wednesday.” 
 
 Harry moved away. For once he was on the point of los- 
 ing his self-control and of tearing himself loose from this 
 benevolent tyrant. He mastered himself, however, and it was 
 with calm features that he turned round again and said 
 quietly : 
 
 “I shall feel it, parting with Bay Rum. He is not an 
 ordinary horse — not to me. But I know you are doing what 
 you believe is for the best, so I must get over it. But perhaps, 
 Mr. Edward — perhaps this is the moment for asking one favor. 
 To-morrow is Sunday. You said that Mrs. Hilliard expects 
 us for the whole day, now that this home is broken up. Will 
 she be offended if I stay away? Will she mind if you go 
 alone? You see, I want just one day for . . . for some pri- 
 vate affairs.” 
 
 “Certainly not! I refuse!” cried Redding. “I can guess 
 what you ’ll be up to. You mean to go round your pensioners, 
 dropping five pounds here and a guinea there. No, no. I ’ve 
 thought about this already. On our last morning in Bulford, 
 we will run round and do something for the really deserving. 
 I ’ll add a bit myself. We ’ll give ’em money; but we won’t 
 give ’em any address or they ’ll sponge on you till you die. 
 Remember, Herr Orgelspielmann, that there won’t be any 
 more money for years after this. It ’s been coming in fast 
 these last few days; but next week it will begin leaking out 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 125 
 
 again. We may be in the eighteen-seventies before you are 
 solidly established as a Herr Professor with an income enough 
 to pay your expenses. So there ’s no leave of absence to- 
 morrow, mein arme knabe.” 
 
 “You and Mrs. Hilliard must indeed excuse me,” said Cog- 
 gin respectfully but very firmly. “You would not have me 
 leave Bulford forever without visiting the grave of my par- 
 ents.” 
 
 Edward Redding’s bright countenance suddenly clouded 
 over. Stung by remorse, he seized his friend ’s hand and said 
 warmly: “Forgive me, I ought to have remembered. To- 
 morrow I will go with you.” 
 
 “No,” said Coggin, more firmly than before. “You did not 
 know my parents. You never saw my mother. I must go 
 alone. ’ 9 
 
 It was just after breakfast, the next morning, that Harry 
 said farewell to his dead. Their dust rested under a white 
 cross in the New Cemetery; for, as William Coggin had died 
 a Dissenter, sepulture in the churchyard was denied him, 
 and his wife’s remains lay with his, at her own request. 
 
 When St. Michael’s and St. Peter’s bells began to chime, 
 the lonely mourner rose from his knees and left the grave- 
 side. It was a glorious day — just like that Sunday, twelve 
 years before, when the Rector had departed from Bulford 
 forever. As Harry reentered the town, the bells were still 
 dinning their godly summons; but he disobeyed them. In- 
 stead of passing through the graceful doorway of St. Peter’s or 
 the massive porch of St. Michael’s, he made his way, for the 
 first time in five years, to the Baptist Chapel. 
 
 The service was commencing as he walked into the building ; 
 for he had timed, his arrival so as to avoid greetings and con- 
 versations. None the less, the congregation fell into a flutter 
 before he could slip into the back seat of his choice. Mr. 
 
126 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Backhouse, the richest and most powerful of Bulford’s Bap- 
 tists, fussed out into the gangway and pushed the distinguished 
 visitor into his upholstered and cushioned pew, while Mrs. 
 Iloy, the wealthy widow of a grocer, turned round from her 
 place in front of him and handed him a morocco-bound hymn- 
 book open at the right place. Meanwhile Mr. Clupp, the pas- 
 tor, had caught sight of Coggin from the pulpit. 
 
 Mr. Clupp, although a direct and fearless preacher when 
 dealing with the errors and faults of persons who had never 
 heard of himself or his chapel, had long been circumlocutory 
 and timid when it came to admonishing the men and women 
 who frequented his ministrations. With the passing of years 
 he had become more and more afraid of giving offense; with 
 the result that his sermons were increasingly abstract. He was 
 therefore reduced to sending his flock various gentle hints vid 
 Heaven. That is to say, he would introduce his praise and 
 blame, his hope and fear, into the long extemporaneous prayer 
 which always followed the opening hymn. It was much easier 
 to say something personal when your own and every other eye 
 was shut. 
 
 After praying at large for familiar blessings in familiar 
 phrases, Mr. Clupp became less glib. Framing the sentences 
 painfully, he said: “Furthermore, we thank Thee, 0 Lord, 
 for the favor Thou hast shewn to one here present whose 
 youthful mind and character were first formed in this Thy 
 temple, under the ministry of Thy most unprofitable servant. 
 Grant unto him, we beseech Thee, a spirit of gratitude and 
 of humility. Prosper him in all his goings and all his doings. 
 And may he, and all others whom Thou hast blessed in basket 
 and in store, remember that they are but stewards of Thy 
 bounty. ’ ’ 
 
 Certain of the elect punctuated Pastor Clupp ’s petition with 
 so fervent an Amen that Harry involuntarily thrust two 
 fingers into his breast-pocket to make sure that a certain en- 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 127 
 
 velope still crackled safely there. More hymn-singing fol- 
 lowed and some Bible-reading ; and then Mr. Clupp made some 
 announcements. As usual, the chapel was in the throes of a 
 financial crisis. The debt on current expenses amounted to 
 forty-eight pounds, nine shillings and fivepence — ‘ ‘ a consider- 
 able sum, a very serious sum” as the pastor called it. “But 
 perhaps not beyond the power of some generous friend to 
 wipe out with one stroke of the pen.” 
 
 Harry Coggin’s attempts to follow the sermon failed ut- 
 terly. Mr. Clupp had not enlarged or varied his vocabulary 
 with the effluxion of years, and his every paragraph contained 
 some mannerism which drove the young hearer back to old hap- 
 penings and old sufferings. Nor was Harry the only restless 
 listener. The stuffiness and glare made sermon-hearing a tough 
 job. The preacher, however, clacked on without wilting. 
 
 When the end came, everybody stood up to sing the last 
 hymn. Amidst the general stirring and stretching, Harry 
 said in low tones to Mr. Backhouse: “I must slip away. Will 
 you please hand this letter to the minister? I shall call on 
 everybody I know, to say good-by.” 
 
 Observed by hardly a dozen pairs of eyes, he stole out of 
 the chapel. In the silent street outside, he ran against Mrs. 
 Pairlop, a garrulous hypochondriac whose affections were 
 divided between rheumatism and bronchitis. Harry was 
 listening to certain pathological details when a melodious shout 
 burst out of the chapel like waters bursting a dam. It was the 
 metrical doxology, “Praise God from Whom all blessings 
 flow.” Harry guessed what had befallen. Mr. Clupp had 
 overlooked a postscript requesting him not to make the bene- 
 faction known until the following Sunday and had pro- 
 claimed the glad tidings — fifty pounds for the chapel funds 
 and ten pounds for a special Sunday School treat. 
 
 Cutting Mrs. Fairlop short, Harry took to his heels, like a 
 man caught red-handed in a crime. Remembering that wor- 
 
128 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 shippers would soon be pouring out of the churches and 
 chapels, he chose a roundabout course and did not arrive at 
 his goal, which was Yellowhammer Lane, until noon had 
 struck. 
 
 During thirteen years, Yellowhammer Lane had been Harry 
 Coggin’s Holy of Holies. Its high hedge-rows were his clois- 
 ter. There, in all weathers, he had walked backwards and 
 forwards on at least six hundred Sunday afternoons; and 
 even on weekdays, when any doubt or anxiety pressed, it was 
 to Yellowhammer Lane that the lonely youth’s steps turned, 
 almost without his volition. 
 
 On this May Sunday, the whitethorn and the honeysuckle, 
 and the wild roses had come to their sweetest scent and fairest 
 bloom. From an inner pocket Harry took a thin old note- 
 book — his diary, begun thirteen years before. He knew its 
 contents by heart ; yet he loved to read the script aloud even 
 as a holy man loves to behold on the pages of his breviary the 
 prayers and antiphons which he could recite from memory 
 without a slip. 
 
 Our Lord and Savior means us to do something great in the 
 world. Not in Bidford. I say, in the world. Teddie, shake 
 hands with Harry Coggin. 
 
 Harry recited these words from the diary not once but 
 twenty times, until they became a kind of chant. Nearly 
 thirteen years had passed since the Rector pacing along this 
 very lane in his fever and delirium, first pronounced the 
 prophecy; yet the sights and sounds of that long-past Sep- 
 tember afternoon were more vivid in Harry’s eyes and ears 
 than any sight and sound of yesterday. The whitethorn, the 
 honeysuckle, the wild roses seemed unreal, like paper flowers 
 on Christmas trees; and underneath Spring’s wantonness he 
 felt sure of Autumn’s majesty. Surely this perfumed finery 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 129 
 
 of white and pink was only a light veil over the glorious robe 
 of yellowing foliage and the bright necklaces of scarlet berries 
 which Nature had worn on the day of days. 
 
 The chanting weakened down to a whisper. When it had 
 ceased, Harry came to a halt beside a gate — the Rector’s gate 
 — and mused deeply, for a long time. Then, resuming his 
 march he began thinking aloud. It was not the first time that 
 the briars and the thornbushes of Yellowhammer Lane had 
 seen him thus pacing to and fro and had heard his odd mono- 
 logues. From the night of his mother’s death to the morning 
 of Edward Redding’s unexpected return, this high-strung lad 
 had not found one human ear which would have listened to 
 his cares and sorrows with sympathy and with understanding. 
 Even his piano and his organ could not have saved him from 
 despair and defeat if there had been no Yellowhammer Lane 
 with its memories, its obligations and its sense of a Guardian 
 Presence. If prying eavesdroppers had spied on him through 
 the hedges they would have said that here was either a mad- 
 man or a conceited prig practising eloquence upon an imag- 
 inary audience. But if they could have caught his words they 
 would have slunk away baffled and terrified. For Harry 
 Coggin ’s soliloquy was not all a communing with his own self. 
 Half of it was addressed to some person unseen on whom the 
 young man pressed questions, pleadings, chidings. And from 
 time to time the stream of words would seem to fail for a 
 few moments, only to flash forth again like a fountain in 
 quick, strong bursts of prayer to God. 
 
 “It is the last time, the last time,” he began. “Teddie 
 says it must be so. On Wednesday night I leave Bulford, 
 never to set eyes on it again. 
 
 “It has not been God’s will and good pleasure that I should 
 be like other people in this town. Yet He has given me much 
 happiness. My music. What does it matter that they won’t 
 hear it? My mother and I were happy. I succeeded with 
 
THE HARE 
 
 130 
 
 my business. Who would have believed that I should ever 
 sell it for more than a thousand pounds? I have had my 
 books, my good food and wine, my horse . . .” 
 
 But the remembrance of his horse smashed and swamped 
 Harry’s submissiveness and thankfulness; even as a spate of 
 hot mud from an awakening volcano uproots and drowns the 
 smiling vineyards. For nearly a fortnight he had lain like 
 cold clay in the potter’s hands; but he suddenly became a 
 flaming coal. Anger and despair wrung from him a moan 
 of pain. 
 
 “M y horse, my good horse !” he cried. “It was a shame 
 for Teddie to do that. What right had he to sell my horse, 
 the only friend I had? How can I look Bay Rum in the eyes 
 when I say good-by? What do I care about his hundred 
 guineas? Money, money . . . for a week it ’s been nothing 
 but money. I hate the name and sight of money. I don’t 
 want their testimonial. I won’t take it. Let them put their 
 guineas back in their pockets. Yes! I know what I ’ll do. 
 I ’ll buy Bay Rum back to-morrow. And I ’ll buy back my 
 business. I am a man, not a child.” 
 
 He picked up a clod of earth and hurled it savagely along 
 the lane, like a gage flung in the face of his officious friend. 
 The missile smashed through the stems and twigs of a giant 
 hawthorn, bringing down the sweet petals in a little snow- 
 storm. Harry recoiled in sudden awe. When had he last 
 watched white blossoms fluttering earthward ? He knew full 
 well. It was on that other Sunday in May, when the Rector 
 passed for the last time out of Bulford church-yard, blessing 
 the people with the sign of the Cross while millions of white 
 and red and golden petals of lilac, of hawthorn and of labur- 
 num descended upon the kneeling outcasts like a wondrous 
 manna from heaven. This memory was so sharp that Harry 
 was, for a few moments, stupefied. He clutched the gate. If, 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 131 
 
 at that moment, he had heard the Rector’s very voice speaking 
 in his ear as of old he would not have been surprised. 
 
 The thin diary pricked and burned in his hand ; and although 
 he did not open it and look at it, one sentence of the Rector’s 
 stood out before his eyes plainer than the five-barred gate, 
 plainer than the wide-eyed flowers. He seemed, in one and the 
 same moment, to be both reading and hearing these words : 
 
 “Re brave . . . Perhaps God did not bring us together to 
 make us happy but to make us better, to make us do His will, 
 to make us give happiness to others still unborn. Let us 
 go.” 
 
 So overpowering was Harry’s sense of his protector’s near- 
 ness that he cried out: 
 
 “I will, I will! With God’s help, I will be brave. Only 
 . . . nobody save myself knows how hard it is. Teddie does 
 not know. To him all # this seems, most of the time, a glorious 
 joke or an exciting adventure. But to me ... to me it 
 means leaving forever nearly everything I ’ve ever known. I 
 know I ’ve been selfish ; and I know my affairs had fallen into 
 ruins just before Teddie came to set them right. Yet . . . 
 I ’ve tried, truly I ’ve tried. There are poor people in Bul- 
 ford who look to me for help ; and now Teddie says I must go 
 away and leave not a trace behind. Yes, I ’ve tried not to 
 waste my life. When I have bought truly beautiful things I 
 have only sold them again to people who will love them and 
 guard them and pass them on safe and sound. When I have 
 found among my purchases any evil book or engraving, I have 
 burnt it there and then although sometimes I ’ve needed the 
 money it could have brought me. I have lived, by God ’s help, 
 a clean life. As for music, I ’ve never sweetened it to make 
 it sell. It ’s true that my life in Bulford has been hard and 
 lonely, and that nearly everybody has fought me or snubbed me 
 or cheated me. But Bulford ’s the only home I ’ve ever 
 
132 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 known. Teddie says I must shake its dust off my feet and 
 never set eyes on it again. More than that : he says I am to 
 give up my very name. I am not to be Harry Coggin any 
 more. I am to be a Monsieur, or a Signor or a Herr, hundreds 
 of miles away. And Teddie has sold my horse, my good horse. 
 I bought Bay Rum the day after poor old Gulp died. Every 
 morning, when we meet, he pushes his muzzle inside my coat 
 and stands stock still, as if he ’s counting my heart’s beats. 
 And Teddie sold him on Friday. Oh, my dear Lord and 
 Savior, help me through these next days. Help me to believe 
 every moment that although Teddie chatters and laughs, that 
 although he w T ounds me ten times a day, he is nevertheless Thy 
 messenger. ’ 7 
 
 Heaven made no tarrying. But if the answer to Harry 
 Coggin’s prayer was swift it was also prosaic. A pack of Bul- 
 ford’s roughest youths came slouching into sight. Their idea 
 of a sylvan ramble was to slash off the head of every up- 
 standing wayside flower, to poke their canes at anything re- 
 sembling a bird’s nest, and to scare away the Sabbath peace 
 with raucous fragments of beery songs. Before they could 
 catch sight of him, Harry climbed lightly over the gate and 
 hid himself on the other side of the dense hedge-row. In the 
 company of a friendly cart-horse, whose eyes reminded him of 
 Gulp’s, he ate the scanty meal which he had brought with 
 him. It had long been one of his queer fancies to behave 
 hermit-wise in Yellowhammer Lane; and not one of the many 
 little packages of food which he had opened there had ever 
 contained anything better than two slices of unbuttered bread 
 with a few lettuce-leaves or a handful of water-cress or some 
 radishes or a slice or two of boiled beetroot. As he stood 
 munching this mean fare, the bells of St. Michael’s sounded 
 across the fields; and all doubt fled from his soul. God’s an- 
 
THE DELIVERER 133 
 
 swer was that he must depart in peace and in faith, following 
 Teddy Redding’s light steps into the unknown. 
 
 With his usual punctiliousness Harry carried out exactly the 
 remainder of his careful program for the day. First, he re- 
 turned with great circumspection to Bulford, at the hour 
 when he knew the citizens would be indoors dozing after their 
 sirloins of beef and legs of mutton ; and, stealing into St. 
 Michael’s church by the little choir-door, he gazed for the 
 last time at Mr. Daplyn ’s organ, at Mr. Redding ’s pulpit, and 
 at the tiny brass disc lettered “O. R.” on the Denniker 
 Chantry. Second, he quitted the church-yard by the lych- 
 gate, exactly as he had quitted it twelve years before; and 
 thence, street by street, lane by lane, field by field, he trod 
 once more the twisting path along which he and George 
 Placker and the Rector had walked after the miracle of the 
 whirling petals. Where, he wondered, was George Placker 
 now? Third, he came back from the foot of Skilbury Hill to 
 the patch of glistening white pebbles under the old bridge 
 over the Skilbourne where the Rector had bent down for water 
 wherewith to baptize him. 
 
 Little was changed. There were the same stretches of light 
 and of shade along the highways, the same stiles to be climbed, 
 the same sweet splendors of flower and blossom. Harry had 
 dreamed this pilgrimage. But he did not find it a Via 
 Dolorosa, after all. He compassed, it without morbidness, 
 without mooning, almost without emotion. Heaven had 
 smiled upon his faith and obedience. Peace overbrimmed 
 that deep cup which was his soul. Not a negative peace, a 
 mere deliverance from doubt and grief, but a positive peace, 
 like a full draught of noble wine; a peace which passed his 
 understanding. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 T HERE are not many persons now living who remem- 
 ber the Assembly-room of Bulford Town Hall as it 
 appeared in the year 1864. Prior to its reconstruc- 
 tion in 1866 the big room was noble in itself but mean and 
 inconvenient in its approaches. The audience entered through 
 a low and dingy vestibule formed by screening the space un- 
 der the gallery. This vestibule had an unpleasant, lop-sided 
 look, owing to the protrusion of a horrible, stuffy little ‘ 4 of- 
 fice/ 9 built of painted match-boarding and ground glass, which 
 served as a green-room when the hall was let for a public 
 entertainment. 
 
 Through the green-room door, which he had propped open 
 so as to diminish the vile smell of old gas-fumes, Edward 
 Redding could see the citizens, first dribbling and then stream- 
 ing into the Assembly-room for Coggin’s triumph. With in- 
 creasing satisfaction he noted the arrival of many notables 
 whose support had been uncertain up to this last moment. 
 Bumpings and rumblings just over his head proved that the 
 Pig Laners had turned up in force, and that their hob-nailed 
 boots were moving heavily on the floor of the gallery. The 
 crisp chattering and bright laughter, varied by occasional 
 light volle 3 ^s of applause which reached his ears, whenever 
 the folding doors swung open, told him that everybody was in 
 high spirits. 
 
 Sir George and Lady Batwood appeared in the green-room 
 doorway with five minutes to spare. Close on their heels 
 came the Mayor, then two or three aldermen and some other 
 demi-gods. Woodley, who was to be one of the speakers, 
 
 134 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 135 
 
 joined them with diffidence. Albert Rambury, the largest 
 subscriber to the testimonial, arrived last and made a fuss over 
 the great personages. 
 
 Suddenly the ceiling of the vestibule quivered under a suc- 
 cession of enormous blows. The Pig Laners were rhythmically 
 pounding the gallery floor with their iron heels, this being 
 their method of gently hinting that the proceedings ought to 
 begin. A procession was formed and the doors into the hall 
 were flung wide to welcome it. As the Batwoods and His 
 Worship the Mayor were highly popular, their entrance evoked 
 a rousing cheer. Edward Redding’s heart thrilled proudly. 
 This was to be Coggin’s triumph indeed. 
 
 Redding walked last. As the door swung back behind him 
 a still lustier cheer rang out. He was startled. It had never 
 entered his mind that the populace at large would be inter- 
 ested in him as Coggin’s champion and deliverer. Despite his 
 fearless and masterful ways, this young man was at heart 
 modest and self-effacing. In surprise and consternation he 
 shrank back from his admirers ; and at that moment he missed 
 Rambury from the procession. 
 
 Hardly knowing why he did so, Edward jerked open the 
 swing door just as Rambury was grasping the handle on the 
 other side. Redding’s was the stronger wrist, and a second 
 later the two were face to face. 
 
 “I ’m here,” snapped Rambury. “I ’m coming.” 
 
 All his family were known for their cold thoroughness of 
 facial control; but at this moment Rambury could not quite 
 conceal his hatred and his exultation. He pushed past Red- 
 ding, who might have simply walked with him up the central 
 gangway if his sharp eye had not noticed a stealthy move- 
 ment by which the other man tried to hasten the closing of the 
 door. Edward acted instantly. Planting himself full against 
 Rambury ’s narrow chest he pushed him roughly back till the 
 door gave way and they were both in the vestibule. 
 
136 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Half-a-dozen men who were lurking in the shadow made a 
 scuttling noise, like rats, and broke apart. Although the 
 light was bad, Edward perceived at once that they were not 
 men of Bulford. He sniffed a metropolitan rather than a 
 provincial air about them. 
 
 “Who are these gentlemen?” demanded Redding. “Are 
 they friends of yours ? Why do they not take their seats inside, 
 like other people?” 
 
 “I suppose they can please themselves,” retorted Rambury. 
 Something had given him overweening courage. There was 
 a sneer in his tone, a triumphant glitter in his eye. 
 
 For four or five seconds, Edward Redding stood crushed. 
 Again and again during these headlong days, Coggin had sug- 
 gested that the enemy might make a desperate sortie, of dev- 
 ilish cleverness and impudence, at the last moment ; but Red- 
 ding, flushed with his Napoleonic sequence of easy victories, 
 had scouted the thought. At the back of his over-busy brain 
 had lurked the fear that if Venn-Venning could be terrorized 
 once he could be terrorized twice, that if one party could 
 send an emissary to Boulogne so could the other, and that 
 Coggin and he might easily find themselves in the lock-up on 
 a well-supported charge of blackmail; but Edward had not 
 allowed these possibilities to come to the front of his mind. 
 Suddenly, however, he beheld them, grinning at him like 
 demons. 
 
 If he had quailed for six seconds instead of four or five, 
 Edward Redding would have been lost. In the nick of time he 
 recaptured his wits and his will. He saw Albert Rambury 
 turn to the strangers and make a sign; but before they could 
 act upon it, Coggin ’s champion struck like a flash of lightning. 
 Butting like a ram at his adversary he simply shot him through 
 the door into the hall, as a croquet-player smites a ball through 
 a hoop. Then, dashing after him, he gripped Rambury ’s 
 arm and dragged him up the fairway. A roar of delight broke 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 137 
 
 from the people. Fond anecdotes concerning Edward's ex- 
 uberance had been circulating all day in Bulford ; and, except- 
 ing a few very staid people, everybody was delighted at what 
 they took to be a charming prank. That the miserly Ram- 
 bury had subscribed five hundred pounds was astounding ; and 
 here, so they thought, was this amazing young Redding de- 
 liberately crumpling up the Rambury starchiness as an ex- 
 ample to all Bulford of heartiness and good fellowship. 
 
 At the foot of the platform stairs Edward halted; but he 
 did not cease to grip his man’s thin arm. The applause be- 
 came thunderous ; for, of these two young gentlemen, was not 
 one the promoter of the testimonial and the other the principal 
 contributor ? So completely had Redding regained ascendancy 
 that he was able to smile radiantly, as if he and Rambury 
 were the greatest friends, while, under cover of the noise he 
 said : 
 
 “This is your last chance. As soon as we have mounted 
 the platform you will scribble a note to those hired black- 
 guards, telling them to leave this Town Hall instantly. You 
 will shew the note to me — and send it through me. When you 
 rise to speak you will say what has been agreed without omit- 
 ting or adding or varying one syllable. Fail in one jot or 
 tittle of all this . . . and you will have yourself to blame for 
 what happens.” 
 
 “I am my own master,” Rambury answered. 
 
 “Make no mistake,” said Redding. “Here is your master, 
 just coming into sight.” 
 
 Rambury glanced up and saw Coggin advancing shyly from 
 a narrow doorway at the rear of the platform. The hero of 
 the hour, in a new jacket-suit, made a strong contrast with the 
 chairman and his supporters, who were all wearing frock- 
 coats and light waistcoats; but his clothes were well cut and 
 his pale face was certainly not the most plebeian in the hall. 
 A tremendous uproar broke out on his appearance ; indeed it 
 
138 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 was a marvel that the gallery did not collapse bodily under the 
 stamping of big feet and the rapping of thick sticks. The 
 cheering was enormous. The general high spirits and the sud- 
 den popularity of Coggin accounted for most of the noise; 
 but it was swelled by the acclamations of a few persons who 
 had been intensely jealous of Coggin and of his successes in 
 business. In the shouts of these individuals there was a note of 
 “Good riddance”; but nobody knew it, not even themselves. 
 To the best of its belief, Bulford was paying with whole heart 
 and loud voice all its long arrears of homage to the depart- 
 ing genius Harry Coggin. 
 
 Meanwhile Edward Redding had thrust a pencil and a note- 
 book into Albert Rambury’s hand. “Be quick,” he said. 
 “Write these words: ‘Please quit the building at once . 1 
 have changed my mind. 9 Quick. I won’t wait!” 
 
 If Rambury had been standing in his own office or in any 
 other ordinary environment he would have measured his 
 will-power and his brains against Redding’s. But his cold 
 and crafty spirit was fighting for breath in this ardent and 
 generous atmosphere; and, with the ovation to Coggin still 
 shaking the old rafters of the hall, he broke and surrendered. 
 In his unmistakable hand- writing he wrote the prescribed 
 words and tailed them off with his arrogant signature. 
 
 Almost unnoticed, Redding sped back to the vestibule. The 
 group of black-coated strangers had knit together again, buz- 
 zing and jerking, like horrid carrion flies cluthering on some- 
 thing foul. They fell apart once more as Redding burst among 
 them. 
 
 “Who is in charge of this tomfoolery?” he demanded. 
 “Who is the foreman, ganger, robber-chief, head bottle-washer, 
 or whatever you call him? Hi, you there, with the bum- 
 bailiff’s nose . . . are you the manager? You are. Then 
 read this . . . And if you v re not outside in one minute ...” 
 
 The strangers, who looked like a scratch crew of solicitors 7 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 139 
 
 clerks, men-in-possession and undertakers’ assistants, were 
 evidently overjoyed. They had been led to expect some easy 
 job, and the enthusiasm inside the hall had already terrified 
 them. Suddenly, however, gloom fell damply on them. 
 
 “What about our money?” they asked, with one voice. 
 
 “ Go to Mr. Rambury ’s office in the morning, ’ ’ Redding an- 
 swered. “He is a rich man. For instance, he ’s giving five 
 hundred pounds to my friend Mr. Coggin in whose honor 
 this meeting is being held. But time ’s up. Here ’s half-a- 
 crown for beer. Out!” 
 
 They obeyed, gurgling with joy. Redding watched through 
 a window until the last of them had been swallowed up in “The 
 George and Dragon” opposite the Town Hall: then he hurried 
 back to his great duty. Sir George Batwood had just finished 
 a brief opening speech, and Edward took advantage of the 
 applause to slip quietly into his own seat on the platform. 
 
 The next item of business was a statement by the Treasurer, 
 a young architect named Brand, who had worked like a horse 
 under Redding’s direction. As Mr. Brand had a cheerful 
 voice and a clear, rapid delivery, his fusillade of names and 
 figures rattled pleasantly on the thousand ears of the audience. 
 Instead of arranging the subscribers’ names according to the 
 amount of their donations, he read out an alphabetical list. 
 Thus it came about that his first announcement was: 
 
 “Miss Tabitha Angell, one shilling.” 
 
 The already remarkable friendliness and good temper of 
 the meeting rose instantly to blood-heat. Bulford’s oldest in- 
 habitants could not recall a time when Miss “Tabby” Angell 
 was not to be seen in the streets of their town bestowing pep- 
 permint bulls ’-eyes on school children or hunting up homes for 
 new-born kittens under sentence of death. Even the pom- 
 pous Alderman Thatcher, who counted on filling the mayoral 
 chair before the year was out, remembered certain bulls.’-eyes 
 with which Miss Tabby had consoled him after a thrashing at 
 
140 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 school, and his long chin relaxed. For a moment, he and 
 many others could have sworn that the hall reeked of pepper- 
 mint. 
 
 Mr. Brand held on his course. Every name, every guinea, 
 every half-crown evoked some kind of applause. Most of it 
 was no more than a polite murmur from a few friends of the 
 subscriber; and through these mere ripples Mr. Brand tore 
 briskly along, like a bark under full sail cutting crisply through 
 a summer sea. Now and again, however, some popular 
 item, such as Lord Bulcaster’s fifty guineas, was the signal 
 for a tidal wave of delight ; and then he was forced to put his 
 whole strength to the helm and to smash through, head on, 
 his big voice still ringing through the storm. 
 
 “Mr. Ephraim Rabbage, sixpence,’ ’ sang Mr. Brand; and 
 straightway the young and giddy among his listeners went 
 wild with delight. “Grubby Gaffer Rabbage,” as he was 
 profanely called in this nick-name loving town, had never be- 
 fore been known to give away a penny. It sharpened the zest 
 of the moment when the audience caught sight of Mr. Rab- 
 bage in person. He had come early and secured a front seat 
 so as to make sure that his munificence had not miscarried 
 through anybody’s carelessness or dishonesty. So turbulent 
 was the applause that even Mr. Brand’s voice was drowned 
 as he cried out : 
 
 “Mr. Albert Rambury, five hundred pounds.” 
 
 The more serious citizens snapped “Order, order,” and Sir 
 George Batwood rapped the table with an ivory hammer. 
 Then, through a full dull half-minute, Mr. Rambury received 
 his meed of respectful, unexcited praise. Edward Redding 
 scrutinized the faces before him and he saw that, while many 
 hands were being decorously smacked together, a few lips 
 were curling ironically, a few eyebrows were arching, a few 
 elbows were discreetly nudging a few ribs. He turned to look 
 at Rambury, and knew in a moment that all danger of a 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 141 
 
 counter-stroke was past. The donor of the five hundred 
 pounds had decided that, as his money was gone beyond re- 
 call, he would at least have credit in Bulford for princely gen- 
 erosity. Smiling affably, he acknowledged the plaudits with 
 an occasional slight deflection of the head, as if to say: “It 
 has been the greatest happiness of my life to give five hundred 
 pounds to so admirable a young man.” 
 
 “I call on an old school-fellow of mine, the son of our 
 former Rector, to speak,” said Sir George, as Mr. Brand sat 
 down. “But before he rises, let me beg that he and the other 
 speakers may be heard without excessive applause. Mr. Cog- 
 gin is leaving Bulford to-night and our time is short. Mr. 
 Edward Redding.” 
 
 Redding got up nervously. He was without experience of 
 public speaking, and the intent silence scared him. Fortu- 
 nately, however, he had committed to memory his opening 
 sentences, and the first of them fitted perfectly into what the 
 chairman had just said. He began: 
 
 4 4 Sir George, I am proud to have been, for two years, your 
 school-fellow. And I am proud to have been the school-fellow, 
 though it was only for two weeks, of Mr. Henry Coggin. I 
 learned during those two short weeks to wonder at his extraor- 
 dinary ability and industry, at his modesty, at his grit and 
 pluck. 
 
 “Returning to this fine old town after twelve years of 
 absence, I found Mr. Coggin more than fulfilling my father’s 
 prophecies concerning him. I see many old boys of Bulford 
 School here this evening. Have we all kept up our Latin? 
 I ’m afraid not. Yet Mr. Coggin has kept up his, in spite of 
 having to work early and late at a successful and growing and 
 difficult business. More than that; he has become proficient 
 in French and German and Italian, and is also a fine performer 
 on the organ and on the pianoforte as well as a serious com- 
 poser of highly original music. 
 
142 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “It happened that, at the moment of my arrival, Mr. 
 Coggin was enduring grievous annoyance and anxiety, through 
 a business occurrence. Pardon my saying that even in Bulford 
 everybody is not a model of charity, and it was therefore not 
 surprising that a few idle or malicious people began to speak 
 evil of Mr. Coggin. I will call a spade a spade. It was said 
 that my friend had been less than honorable when selling cer- 
 tain oil-paintings. His vindication has been triumphant and 
 complete. And here is the proof of what I say. The one 
 man in all Bulford who knew most about those oil-paintings — 
 the man who was for a time most violently antagonistic to 
 Mr. Coggin — that man is now so convinced of Mr. Coggin ’s 
 perfect integrity that he has come here to-night to speak to 
 you. Meanwhile he has subscribed no less than five hundred 
 pounds. I refer of course to Mr. Albert Rambury.” 
 
 When some punctilious cheering had ceased, Redding went 
 on: 
 
 “Happily, good has come out of evil. His anxieties and 
 difficulties have taught Mr. Coggin that he cannot pursue 
 several careers at one and the same time, and that he must 
 make a choice. He has endeavored to be a go-ahead man of 
 business, an organist, a composer, a classical scholar, a collector 
 of antiques, and a modern linguist all at once. The man who 
 tries to do everything ends by doing nothing. Mr. Coggin has 
 decided, as his friends knew he would, in favor of music. 
 And of course this means his leaving the town. There is no 
 disrespect to Bulford in my remarking that although you 
 have many excellent musicians in your midst, there are other 
 and bigger worlds for a young composer to conquer. Mr. 
 Coggin leaves Bulford to-night. 
 
 “Sir George, you remember that we used to call Mr. Cog- 
 gin ‘Slogger’ Qoggin. In spite of that ferocious name, he 
 is very shy; and therefore he has begged me to say one or 
 two things on his behalf. First, it goes without saying that 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 143 
 
 he thanks you all from a full heart for your unexpected and 
 magnificent liberality, and for your great kindness in crowding 
 here on a warm J une evening to give him such a splendid fare- 
 well and send-olf. 
 
 4 ‘Mr. Coggin, however, will not be shaken from the convic- 
 tion that your generosity is widely out of proportion to his 
 deserts ; and he declines positively to carry away from Bulford 
 this noble sum which you have subscribed. I am told that, 
 except for the new Infirmary, no such subscription has ever 
 been raised in Bulford before. My friend is persuaded that 
 Mr. Rambury ’s large gift has put the whole affair on too large 
 a scale, and he refuses to take advantage of such a state of 
 things. Accordingly, he instructs me in the most peremptory 
 way to announce that he will leave one thousand pounds be- 
 hind him.” 
 
 Fully a hundred voices cried “No, no”; but they were 
 soon borne down by the hip-hoorays of the majority, and by 
 the Pig Laners’ clamor up on high. Within thirty seconds 
 the whole audience seemed to be standing on the benches, 
 cheering itself hoarse. Sir George secured silence at last, and 
 Redding added : 
 
 “ ‘Slogger’ Coggin — I ’m tired of calling him Mister and 
 I know he won’t mind — gives one hundred pounds to Bulford 
 Grammar School for the legal expenses of making the Robson 
 Scholarship open to every boy in the town. He bids me say 
 that although he was Robson Scholar for a fortnight only, he 
 will never cease to think of the school. I understand that the 
 Samuel Robson money has been accumulating for twelve years 
 and that no candidate has come forward in that time. With 
 good-will all round the Scholarship should soon be freed. 
 
 “Further, lie gives one hundred pounds to the school to 
 endow an annual prize for Musical History and Theory. In 
 honor of Mr. Daplyn, so long St. Michael’s organist, to whom 
 Mr. Coggin owes most of his education in music, he wishes 
 
144 * 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 this little foundation to be called the Daplyn Prize. Further, 
 he has most respectfully begged the headmaster to give the boys 
 an extra halfdioliday on the first convenient day, and this 
 request has been granted. 
 
 “Next, our friend gives two hundred and fifty pounds for 
 the erection of a drinking-fountain at the point where Straight- 
 mile Road joins East Street. In my school-days we knew it 
 as Dusty Corner, but I ’m told you now call it Cobden Cres- 
 cent. Mr. Coggin has often pitied the poor brutes who enter 
 Bulford that way. I understand from His Worship the 
 Mayor that this gift will be accepted. There is to be no in- 
 scription beyond the initials ‘H. C.,’ and no ornament except 
 a frieze of horses and sheep and dogs and cattle drinking from 
 a running brook. As our chairman, Sir George Batwood, 
 will give the stone from his famous quarry at Marley, and 
 as our treasurer, Mr. Brand, will design and supervise the 
 w r ork without fee or reward, Bulford ought to have a fountain 
 to be proud of. 
 
 “As a poor boy, Slogger Coggin would have found good 
 books out of his reach if his father had not been in a business 
 which brought him second-hand volumes now and then. Per- 
 haps there are clever boys and youths in Bulford to-day who 
 would study if they could. Therefore Mr. Coggin offers to 
 the town a selection of books, some shelves, desks and stools, and 
 a sum of five hundred pounds. He earnestly hopes that some- 
 body with a cheerful and airy room to spare will lend it for 
 the purpose of a small library, and that the shelves will soon 
 overflow with good books. Further, although he fears some 
 good people may look on him as a revolutionary, he would hail 
 with keen delight the news that on one or two days a week the 
 library should be reserved for the gentler sex, with a rota of 
 Bulford ’s educated ladies taking turns as librarians. 
 
 “I spoke of a thousand pounds, and we have disposed of nine 
 hundred. Slogger Coggin wishes the remaining cash to be 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 145 
 
 spent in arranging a midsummer riverside picnic for the chil- 
 dren of the town. He would be supremely happy if he could 
 hope that on this occasion the boys and girls of all classes and 
 of all religious denominations would meet at the picnic, as 
 was the custom hundreds of years ago in Bulford on St. John’s 
 Day. But his gift to the children is made without conditions. 
 That is all I have to say on Mr. Coggin’s behalf. Speaking for 
 myself, I thank you with my whole heart. ’ 9 
 
 Sir George Batwood cut short the cheering and stamping by 
 calling out in a loud voice : ‘ ‘ Silence, please ! I have asked 
 
 Mr. Coggin to oblige us with a short performance on the organ. 
 It seems that when he last proposed to play his compositions 
 in public he was not able to do so. Mr. Coggin.” 
 
 Built across the back of the platform was a small but well- 
 balanced organ which was used every Christmas for Bulford ’s 
 regulation performance of “The Messiah,” and for occasional 
 oratorios and sacred concerts at other times. Coggin had 
 mounted the bench while Sir George was speaking, and he im- 
 mediately began his Short Overture in E Minor. Up to the 
 coda this work conformed to the Lullian model. The per- 
 former gave out the large and mysterious Adagio in so mas- 
 sive a style that the hearer felt as if he were gazing rather 
 than listening — gazing from a slowly moving chariot at wall 
 after wall, tower after tower, of a granite castle rooted in an 
 everlasting hill. The Adagio came to a sturdy end ; not tap- 
 ering away like a graceful spire but bulking solidly like a 
 donjon-keep. Coggin attacked the Allegro. In a moment 
 the listener was transported from the giant’s castle into the 
 midst of an enchanted wood. The thousands of staccato demi- 
 semiquavers seemed to sting the check deliciously, like an April 
 shower. It was as if the elves of the greenwood were pelting 
 the green buds and the curly leaves and the shy flowers with 
 pellets of pure silver. Barely a dozen people in the audi- 
 ence knew that this dappled, pattering, flickering music was a 
 
146 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 fugue ; for Coggin had learned from his beloved Handel how 
 to write fugues as limpid and sparkling as country dances. 
 At last the April shower ceased ; and the overture closed with 
 a coda of noble chords, like big milk-white April clouds sail- 
 ing gloriously in skies of purest blue. 
 
 The applause which followed was loud and long and hearty; 
 yet it sounded ragged and weak after the huge trumpetings of 
 the organ. Wasting no time Sir George called out: 4 4 Mr. 
 Albert Rambury.” 
 
 When the largest subscriber rose to his feet the hand- 
 clapping had thinned down to a merely polite greeting; be- 
 cause Rambury was known to be a long and dry speaker. The 
 audience felt that after the treasurer’s engrossing list, after 
 young Mr. Redding’s exciting announcements, and after 
 Coggin’s rousing overture, the coming on of Mr. Rambury was 
 like a compulsory ration of gruel or ship’s-biscuit after roast 
 turkey and plum-pudding and brandy sauce. But, although 
 the applause was short, it sufficed for Edward Redding, who 
 stole to the orator’s side and whispered in his ear: 
 
 4 4 Remember. I ’ve got the manuscript. You begin with 
 4 1 have the greatest pleasure’ and yon end with 4 below his 
 deserts’? Go ahead.” 
 
 Disdaining his prompter, Albert Rambury began to speak. 
 While he kept exactly to the agreed text, he surprised and 
 delighted Redding by the cordiality of his manner. Instead 
 of barking out his praise of Coggin like a hated lesson he 
 spoke it with what seemed to be warmth and conviction. The 
 truth was that there were some drops of human blood in this 
 avaricious and ambitious young man’s veins after all, and 
 that for the moment he abandoned himself to the prevailing 
 generosity. What was more to the point, he felt unspeakable 
 relief at having been stopped short in a most perilous attempt 
 at revenge which might have recoiled terribly on his own head. 
 Both Coggin and Redding would be out of Bulford in 
 
THE DELIVERER 147 
 
 another hour; and even at the awful price of five hundred 
 pounds he was cheaply rid of them. 
 
 “I have the greatest pleasure in supporting you, Sir George, 
 this evening, ’ ’ he said, ‘ ‘ and in paying my modest tribute to 
 the talents — I may say the genius — of Mr. Coggin, as well 
 as to his invariable integrity. Reference has been made to a 
 recent misunderstanding of a business nature. I think I 
 may claim to know as much as any man in Bulford about that 
 matter, and I say emphatically that I have never transacted 
 business with a more honorable man than Mr. Coggin. My 
 contribution to the testimonial has been described as a large 
 one. I hope that next time a fund is opened in Bulford I 
 shall not be expected to subscribe on the same scale. Indeed 
 I hope you will give me a rest for a long time, seeing that I 
 have made a very great effort to give this testimonial a good 
 start. I call it a great effort, but I do not regret it. This 
 sum of two thousand three hundred and sixty-seven pounds 
 which has been collected surprises us all ; but in handing it to 
 Mr. Coggin we all feel that, large as it is, our testimonial is 
 still below his deserts .’ 9 
 
 Mr. Rambury had often concluded a speech, well pleased 
 with himself ; but this was the first time that an audience had 
 been equally pleased with Mr. Rambury. Somebody called 
 out “ Three cheers for Bertie Rambury,” and the cheers were 
 accorded vociferously. The largest subscriber sat down beam- 
 ing. He even turned his head and wagged a friendly nod 
 towards Coggin. He had entered the hall determined to be 
 Mr. Albert ; and now he was more than content to be Bertie. 
 
 Mr. Woodley was the next speaker. Edward Redding had 
 decided that the solicitor’s penitence was genuine, and that 
 it would be unwise to pin him down to a speech prepared 
 beforehand. Redding therefore was as much touched as the 
 rest of the people when Mr. Woodley said: 
 
 “Open confession is good for the soul. I stand here in a 
 
148 
 
 THE HAKE 
 
 white sheet. You all know that I am a solicitor, like my 
 father before me. Young Mr. Coggin came to me as a client. 
 I charged him as much as anybody else, and took his money ; 
 but I did not do my whole duty by him. To his face I was 
 polite and painstaking; but in my heart I was so mean and 
 ignorant as to despise him because he is a self-made and self- 
 taught young man, the son of a marine-store dealer. Mr. 
 Coggin has never been ashamed of his beginnings, so I know 
 he will not mind what I am saying. I ought to have been 
 proud to act for such a man, but I was a snob. In my office 
 the most prominent sight is a pile of black boxes lettered with 
 the names of titled and rich people, although I have not done 
 business for some of those clients these last ten years. I sup- 
 pose I should have been ashamed to have a black box lettered 
 ‘Mr. Henry Coggin.’ I am a born Conservative and I hope 
 to die one; but there has been too much of this spirit in 
 Bulford. 
 
 “Let nobody praise me for subscribing one hundred 
 guineas. I am merely handing back to Mr. Coggin his own 
 money, which I did not fully and fairly earn. This is jus- 
 tice, not generosity. I have felt better ever since I decided 
 to impose on myself the humiliation of speaking as I am 
 speaking now. Pray don’t think that I am preaching to you 
 or that I am presuming to take the place of any man’s con- 
 science ; but if anybody has done Mr. Coggin a wrong let him, 
 with the cbbirman’s permission, undo it now and make the 
 testimonial still bigger.” 
 
 Mr. Woodley sat down so suddenly that everybody was 
 startled. Furthermore, his words had fairly taken away the 
 breath of the listeners. Some of the notables on the plat- 
 form were visibly shocked and pained. For a few seconds 
 Sir George Batwood lost his head. He turned awkwardly 
 to Edward Redding for a, cue ; but before help could be given 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 14*9 
 
 a strange medley of sounds rose up from the audience. The 
 gallery had begun to applaud, while some persons in the body 
 of the hall were hissing out “Hush” or crying “Order, or- 
 der ! ” A' tall thin man had risen upright, near the front. 
 Everybody knew him ; for Mr. Ambrose Mawby was not only 
 the most important solicitor in the county but also one of 
 Bulford’s wealthiest citizens. 
 
 “Mr. Chairman,” he said, speaking rather curtly, as if 
 against his will. “I cannot be silent after Mr. Woodley’s 
 challenge. In the affair at which he has just hinted, my firm 
 acted against Mr. Coggin. I had no personal knowledge of 
 the dispute at the time, and had heard nothing of it until 
 this testimonial was mooted. My firm acted on a client’s 
 instructions and cannot fairly be blamed. At the same time 
 I do not care about retaining the rather large fees which came 
 to us, out of Mr. Coggin ’s pocket, in circumstances which 
 entitle him to sympathy. I subscribed only a guinea to this 
 testimonial. I now make it a hundred,, and I wish Mr. Cog- 
 gin success.” 
 
 The meeting had taken a turn which called for a tactful and 
 experienced chairman. Puffer Batwood’s tact was small and 
 his experience in ruling meetings was limited to a couple of 
 parochial committees. While he was wondering what to do 
 the helm was jerked out of his hands. A woman’s shrill voice 
 shrieked from the gallery: 
 
 “I done young Coggin outer ’arf-a-crown, a year ago come 
 Midsummer, an’ I ’m goin’ to pay it back into this ’ere 
 testymonium. ’ ’ 
 
 A jovial uproar followed. Many voices demanded of a 
 certain Bill Haycocks if he was “goin’ to fork out them two 
 bob.” When a red-bearded fat man, as broad as he was 
 long, rose indignantly from the front row of the gallery and 
 shoved his way out towards the door at the back it became 
 
150 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 evident that this was Mr. Haycocks himself, ne departed 
 amidst good-natured volleys of derision with the florin still 
 in his pocket and on his conscience. 
 
 Meanwhile little notes were being passed up to the platform, 
 variously addressed to 44 young Mr. Redding/' 4 4 Redding, Es- 
 quire/' and even 4 4 Sir Edward Redding." The first note 
 ran: — 
 
 1 still think H. C. had himself to blame, but here is that 
 five pounds. Don’t announce this. — W. Barwell. 
 
 The second: I give sixteen pounds more. Don’t put down 
 my name: only initials . — Michael Goff. 
 
 The third: I ask Mr. Coggin’s forgiveness . The thirty 
 pounds shall be paid by instalments. This to be kept private. 
 Somebody who is on the platform to-night led me to do it . — 
 H. S. Chippenden. 
 
 There were six or seven such notes in all, enclosing or 
 promising ninety-eight pounds. The audience, having 
 promptly guessed the nature of these missives, became more 
 and more vociferous, until the meeting threatened to lose every 
 shred of dignity. A strong hand was needed; and it ap- 
 peared. The Mayor, a genial and able man who had learned 
 how to handle crowds when standing for Parliament as the 
 candidate of the unpopular side, moved up to Sir George 
 Batwood and said: 
 
 44 The meeting is getting out of hand. You have kindly 
 put me down in the program to make the presentation. I 
 suggest your calling on me at once." 
 
 4 4 Silence for His Worship the Mayor," cried the more seri- 
 ous citizens. There was a momentary hush; and then the 
 Mayor's masterful but hearty voice filled the hall, ending 
 all the ferment. 
 
 4 4 Some years ago," he said, 4 4 years before I had heard of 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 151 
 
 Mr. Coggin ’s talents, I made the acquaintance, on a holiday, 
 of a great musical composer. That is to say, he always spoke 
 of himself as a great musical composer; and I suppose he 
 ought to have known. I found him a dirty, drunken, dis- 
 honest, conceited, selfish, long-haired prig; and his composi- 
 tions were rubbish. Throughout this meeting I have been 
 thinking of the contrast. There are many people now-a-days 
 who tell us that poets, painters, actors, sculptors, and musicians 
 are a law unto themselves, and that it is mere vulgarity to 
 ask that they should conform to the same common codes of 
 morality and honor. To-night, as Mr. Coggin played the 
 organ so grandly, I said to myself : ‘ Bulf ord ought to be sad. 
 We are losing not only a fine musician, a composer of genius, 
 but also a young man who has set a magnificent example to 
 every one of us in hard work, in honorable dealing, in sobriety, 
 and, above all, in generosity. * On behalf of the town I accept 
 with gratitude his thousand pounds. But it is within my 
 knowledge, my recent knowledge, that for years he has been 
 doing good by stealth, and that he would 4 blush to find it 
 fame.’ When he couldn’t afford it, I find he has given his 
 scanty savings ...” 
 
 As if a lighted match had been dropped into a basket of 
 Chinese crackers, the gallery rattled, and crackled back: 
 
 “That ’s true, your Worship. He giv’ my kids a Chriss- 
 muss tree ! 9 9 
 
 “It ’s the poor as ’elps the poor, my Worship.” 
 
 “Coggin bailed me out twice, before the beak.” 
 
 “ ’e come and read books to me ole father.” 
 
 “He jumped into the canal when I was nearly drownded.” 
 
 “Harry Coggin paid for poor Bob Brown’s go-cart.” 
 
 “I know, I know,” thundered the Mayor, spreading out his 
 hands as if to push back the noise. “I could tell you more 
 than you could tell me. But I beg you be silent. Our hour is 
 nearly up. Time and tide and the 7.55 wait for po man. 
 
152 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 The blunt truth is that we are all making an immense fuss 
 over Mr. Coggin to-night, but we none of us gave him much 
 help or encouragement when he wanted it most. I am as 
 much to blame as anybody. There was a genius in the town 
 and I, as Mayor of Bulford, never troubled to find it out. 
 
 “To make amends, I ask you all to accompany Mr. Coggin 
 to the station. Let there be no horseplay, but let us give him 
 an enthusiastic yet orderly send-off, which shall not be below 
 the dignity of our ancient town. Let his last impression be of 
 Bulford at its best. 
 
 “I have one duty more.” Here the Mayor took two slips 
 of paper from Mr. Brand. “The testimonial, up to this mo- 
 ment, amounts to two thousand, seven hundred pounds, four 
 shillings. The treasurer having deducted one thousand 
 pounds, I hand Mr. Harry Coggin a check for one thousand, 
 seven hundred pounds, four shillings. ’ ’ 
 
 It was not until the Mayor stood on the oak table, holding 
 out his watch and pointing to the dial with comical gestures 
 of despair that the throat-rending, ear-shattering cheers died 
 down. Not even at the declaration of the poll after a fiercely 
 fought election had Bulford men and women raised so enor- 
 mous a noise. 
 
 “Up with him,” bellowed somebody. 
 
 In a moment the Mayor was lifted down and Coggin was 
 hoisted upon the table. Amidst a deep hush he beheld the 
 beaming, eager faces. For a w T hole hour that morning, Ed- 
 ward Redding had sat coaching him in a a speech of thanks 
 which, though five minutes would have sufficed for its delivery, 
 bristled with telling points. But in that moment of aw'ful 
 silence Harry’s memory snapped; and, like a broken chain 
 flashing through the hawse-holes of a ship in an unfathom- 
 able fiord, the speech sank with hardly a splash into the 
 abyss. 
 
 The conquering hero gasped ; stammered ; choked ; lurched. 
 
THE DELIVERER 153 
 
 He might have fallen if broad shoulders had not closed round 
 him. 
 
 Edward Redding sped to the rescue. 
 
 “You ’ve stunned him with kindness,” cried Redding. 
 “He ’ll soon come round. But before he begins to play 
 ‘God Save the Queen’ for us, I propose something which 
 will include our votes of thanks to Sir George, and to His 
 Worship, and to the Treasurer. I propose: ‘Three cheers for 
 everybody.’ ” 
 
 They made it three times three, and would have trebled it 
 again if Harry Coggin had not blared out the Anthem with 
 every stop and coupler drawn. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 I T was not the gathering in the Town Hall but the pro- 
 cession to the railway station which had loomed biggest 
 in Redding’s program for Coggin’s last evening in Bul- 
 ford. Until a few minutes before the meeting began he had 
 expected a somewhat perfunctory hour of stilted speech-mak- 
 ing, warmed up twice or thrice by a little excitement over 
 Albert Rambury’s huge subscription and by some good- 
 natured curiosity about Coggin’s organ-playing. As a boy 
 Teddie Redding had endured unspeakable boredom in Bulford 
 Town Hall when polysyllabic clergymen came down from 
 London to make charitable appeals or to deliver abstract ora- 
 tions; and therefore it did not occur to him that cordiality 
 and simplicity could ever gush forth from such arid and flinty 
 soil. 
 
 During the whole course of the meeting Redding’s lieuten- 
 ants had been zealously at work. Followed by a mysterious 
 van with a tarpaulin hood they had knocked at every door of 
 every house in Station Road. In many an instance they were 
 balked ; because the head of the house was absent from home 
 and present in the Town Hall. The little shops, however, 
 were all open, and, practically every tradesman in the thorough- 
 fare readily accepted the bundle of flags and the box of 
 Chinese lanterns which the van disgorged by the dozen. Be- 
 fore half.-past seven had struck, Station Road had ceased to 
 be the meanest street in Bulford and had been translated into 
 Latin. Bunting flapped or clung everywhere. Over and 
 above the flags distributed by Redding’s helpers the inhabi- 
 tants hung out sundry Union Jacks and Royal Standards 
 
 154 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 155 
 
 which they had bought a year before for the marriage of the 
 Prince of Wales. The setting sun would have dimmed the 
 glories of the lanterns if express directions for hanging them 
 in the shadow had not been given ; but its glorious light rip- 
 ened the tints of the flags into a rich and glowing splendor 
 which Venice herself might have envied. Nor was cheerful 
 sound lacking. Every moment another window was opened 
 sharply by some householder just returned from the Town 
 Hall. Every moment the kindly jabber of the onlookers grew 
 quicker and the shouts of excited youngsters rose louder. 
 
 At as good a pace as the throng would allow, the carriages 
 came grinding round the curve. Lord Bulcaster had lent his 
 famous chariot with the dappled grays, and Mrs. Hilliard her 
 brougham and pretty chestnuts. In these vehicles and, in two 
 hired carriages rode the Mayor, half-a-dozen aldermen and 
 councilors, Mr. Redding, and Mr. Brand. Finally, in Sir 
 George Batwood’s carriage, came the baronet and his delicious 
 young consort, Mrs. Hilliard, and Henry Coggin. As they 
 entered Station Road the narrow street, like a canyon blazing 
 with tropical flowers of every hue, hailed them with a sound 
 as of plunging, thundering cataracts. 
 
 “I can guess your thoughts at this moment, Slogger,” 
 chuckled Sir George. He was in great spirits, and the cold- 
 ness of manner which his old friends were beginning to resent 
 had been wholly thawed out of him by the ardors of the meet- 
 ing. To tell the truth, this young gentleman felt mightily 
 pleased with himself, and was already indulging hopes of a 
 public career. 
 
 “Yes. I was thinking of the torchlight procession thirteen 
 years ago,” answered Coggin simply. “I was remembering 
 how I slipped out of the arm-chair and went home while Mr. 
 Redding’s father was making a speech.” 
 
 Harry’s head was not turned. Knowing the fickleness and 
 shallowness of Bulford, and having lived for a week behind 
 
156 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 the scenes with the stage-manager, he did not flatter himself 
 that this was a spontaneous and genuine demonstration. In- 
 deed, if he erred at all, it was in underestimating the number 
 of his sincere admirers and well-wishers, and in assuming that 
 the whole outburst had been engineered by Edward Redding. 
 
 The gloomiest stretch of Station Road is at the further end 
 where it curves a second, time and runs due north. But, as 
 the carriages rumbled through, these last hundred yards were 
 like a magician's garden. Paper lanterns of all shapes and 
 colors swung like tongueless bells in the lazy air. Some were 
 pear-shaped, some like accordeons, some as round as the world ; 
 some amber, some grass-green, some violet, some vermilion. 
 In the window-boxes, tiny many-hued lamps beamed like fire- 
 flies and glow-worms amidst the dwarf nasturtiums and ger- 
 aniums. 
 
 Just as Lady Batwood and, Mrs. Hilliard were feeling that 
 they had cried “how charming" and “how pretty" rather 
 too often, a droll hap came to their relief. At a window 
 framed in flags and twinkling with lights a bustling mother 
 suddenly held up a child to see the great ladies and the famous 
 Mr. Coggin. The infant, stung to wrath at being plucked 
 from his cot and firmly believing that he was about to be 
 flung into the street, opened his mouth so enormously that it 
 seemed to be much wider than the window. His yell of rage, 
 when it came, was lost in the general hubbub, but his mouth 
 seemed to grow every moment bigger. 
 
 “By Jove!" cried Sir George, a few moments later. “Red- 
 ding has excelled himself here. Hark ! Look ! Bands. 
 Torches. And banners. ’ ’ 
 
 Along the darker side of the station square were ranged 
 Bulford’s three brass-bands, united for the occasion under one 
 conductor. They occupied the long veranda which was used 
 at ordinary times as a shelter for a few “growler" cabs and 
 hansoms. Thirty torch-bearers flanked the musicians, right 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 157 
 
 and left. Nearer to the station buildings in the full light of 
 the June sunset stood deputations from Bulford’s societies — 
 Foresters, Hearts of Oak, Ancient Buffaloes, and the rest. 
 Above them huge square banners bellied and squeaked on 
 their gilded poles in the rising breeze. As these banners had 
 been painted in the most frightful ex voto style, they made an 
 extraordinary impression on Lady Batwood, who had never 
 seen the like before. One of them, with the legend 4 4 Union 
 is Strength ” in silver letters on a sky-blue ground, shewed 
 two enclasped hands. The hands protruded from two stiff 
 and starchy white cuffs which, in their own turn, peeped out 
 from the coal-black sleeves of two slop-suits, amputated as 
 cleanly as two cod’s heads on a fishmonger’s slab. Another 
 banner represented a Forester or Ancient Buffalo on an iron 
 bedstead expiring in the midst of medicine-bottles, while a 
 bearded Head Forester or Chief Buffalo in a parsonic frock- 
 coat handed the sorrowing widow a ten-pound note. But the 
 bravest banner of all was borne by the smallest of the depu- 
 tations. From a fine confusion of coiled ropes, Union Jacks, 
 bales, guns, swords, pruning-hooks, plow-shares, and Bibles, 
 the British Lion and Britannia shewed fangs and brandished a 
 trident against some invisible Frenchie on the further shore 
 of a raging blue sea. 
 
 4 4 See, the Conquering Hero Comes” burst out from the im- 
 patient musicians like a gust of red-hot lava impetuously 
 riving asunder the side of a crater. The carriages seemed to 
 be forcing their way through a churning flood suddenly let 
 loose and mounting to their axles. The keen senses of Cog- 
 gin were reminded of one day when he almost lost his life 
 urging his horse and cart across a ford which had become 
 a torrent, wdiile rattling hailstones thrashed him in the face 
 and a blatant gale strove to tear the very life-breath out of 
 his lungs. As in that storm of wind and hail, so in this 
 clamor of trumpets and shoutings, he simply ducked his head 
 
158 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 and set his teeth. He would have reached the station door- 
 way without one glance to the right or to the left, without so 
 much as raising his eyes, if Edward Redding had not leapt 
 down from one of the hired carriages to prompt him in his 
 duties. 
 
 “ Stand up. Bow. Salute. Wave your hat. Make a 
 speech. Kiss your hand to the ladies. Do anything you like, 
 except sitting there like a propped-up mummy,” said Redding. 
 “The people will be offended/ ’ 
 
 Helped by a shove from Sir George, Coggin stood up half 
 dazed and slowly uncovered his head. What to do next sur- 
 passed his wit; but fortunately a raucous shriek cut short 
 the ordeal. The train which was to take him away came 
 hammering into the station, whistling horribly, and blowing 
 off clouds of steam. 
 
 As the seven fifty-five always halted for seven minutes at 
 Bulford, most of the passengers were accustomed to jump 
 down to stretch their legs. Hearing the brass bands and the 
 cheering they were fired with curiosity and the platform be- 
 came a scene of great excitement. Harry was painfully aware 
 of people thronging round him and talking about him. He 
 was also vaguely conscious of Edward Redding, who was help- 
 ing the porters to hoist some new valises into a first-class 
 compartment. 
 
 When the Mayor and the other notables pressed his hand 
 and heartily wished him God-speed, Harry came to himself. 
 He returned the hand-clasps cordially, gratefully, respectfully. 
 The city fathers fell back, leaving the young man alone with 
 Lady Batwood and Mrs. Hilliard. Suddenly the elder lady 
 thoughtlessly exclaimed : 
 
 “How selfish we are, dear Sylvia! We are keeping Mr. 
 Coggin from saying good-by to his own family and friends. ” 
 
 “How selfish of us!” echoed her ladyship. “Mr. Coggin, 
 do pray forgive us.” 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 159 
 
 “I have no family or friends/’ said Harry, flushing up. 
 In his utter loneliness he took a short step nearer to these 
 two kind women; but almost in the same moment, shame 
 smote him and he fell back. Surely, he thought, the two 
 ladies’ words were meant as a hint, almost a rebuke against 
 his presumption in sticking so long and so close by their 
 sides. 
 
 Mrs. Hilliard divined his thought. All that Edward Red- 
 ding had told her about this strange orphan youth, without 
 one near relation, without one comrade in the world, rushed 
 back into her mind; and she hated herself for her tactless, 
 careless, wounding speech. She tripped towards Coggin, with 
 a stammering explanation on her tongue ’s end. But at that 
 very instant a bell rang loudly, the whistle of the engine 
 shrilled out once more, and harsh voices bawled “Take your 
 seats, take your seats, please!” Redding, who had already 
 said farewell to the ladies, darted forward and whisked hold 
 of Coggin’s arm. 
 
 It was then that Mrs. Hilliard performed the action which 
 caused a few people to call her, ever afterwards, a splendid 
 woman, while it led many others to describe her as “very nice 
 but a little bit funny sometimes.” With the eyes of the 
 Mayor, the aldermen, the councilors, the passengers from 
 Demehaven, and the railway officials upon her she suddenly 
 pounced on Harry Coggin, the rag-and-bone man’s son, held 
 him tightly against her great cameo brooch with her two 
 shapely, silk-clad arms and kissed him, not on the cheek but 
 on the lips, as she had never kissed her own nephew Alfred 
 Tranter, and as she had not kissed any man for twenty years. 
 Then, plucking her arms free, she almost threw Harry Coggin, 
 like a package, at Edward Redding, and ran away with a burst 
 of tears. 
 
 The composer Coggin sat hunched against the blue box- 
 
160 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 cloth cushion, dazed and dumb. The screams of the engine 
 and the fortissimo of the brass bands no longer reached his 
 ears. There was a red rose in his hand, but he did not know 
 that it had been thrust there by the entrancing Lady Batwood. 
 Even Edward Redding, sitting in the corner opposite, seemed 
 to be a mere phantasm. Nothing was real save the kiss. Jt 
 danced all over him, like sunbeams on running water. It 
 hung like garlands of flowers over his eyes, round his neck, his 
 limbs, his wrists, his ankles, fettering him softly and filling his 
 nostrils with sweet scents. lit ran and climbed all over him 
 like a magical vine, its branches full of tiny song-birds, tril- 
 ling everywhere and chirping secrets in his ear. It wove cool 
 shade between him and the scorch of the sun. It built up a 
 bulwark against the brunt of the storm. It poured suave 
 balm into all the wounds of his spirit. It spread the dear sense 
 of a mother’s presence 'like a warm vesture over the stark out- 
 lines of his loneliness. And withal there was a wild zest as 
 of an inaccessible height miraculously visited if only for one 
 eagle moment. 
 
 In Harry Coggin there was nothing of the snob; yet this 
 patrician kiss meant more, incalculably more, to him than all 
 the guineas, all the trumpets, all the banners, all the torches. 
 Throughout all the years of his life this delicate and superfine 
 youth had been held at arm ’s length by gross and dull-minded 
 “ betters.” He had been despised and rejected, doomed to 
 spend his best hours and energies among the cast-off trap- 
 pings and chattels of people who, despite their advantages of 
 birth and fortune, were mostly unworthy to tie his bootlaces. 
 In his solitary home, when the door was locked and the world 
 shut out, he had savored fine food, lingered over fine wine, 
 handled fine glass, fine linen, fine silver, fine porcelain. He 
 had read the fine words of poets in four languages, he had 
 pored over fine engravings, and above all he had interpreted 
 the finest music. But fine fellowship with fine human beings 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 161 
 
 had always been denied him. Customers, acquaintances, 
 proteges, rivals, enemies, spongers he had known by the dozen ; 
 but never a friend. And now, in the very last minute of his 
 loveless life in Bulford a woman, a lady, a beautiful lady, 
 had suddenly transfigured him, by a, kiss which, in one and the 
 same moment, was both the healing caress of a mother by the 
 hearth, and the wonder-kiss of a fairy princess in some blos- 
 soming thicket of romance. 
 
 The enchantment was broken by Edward Redding, who 
 cried out : * ‘ Good Lord, Fritz Coggenheimer, what ’s up ? 
 You look as if you ’ve had a damned good hiding, and as if 
 you Ve been chucked out of Bulford amidst universal execra- 
 tions instead of being the central figure in my grand tableau 
 vivant ‘ The Apotheosis of Virtuous Genius. ’ It has been stu- 
 pendous. I can hardly believe it myself. Listen. We can 
 still hear them playing ‘ See the Conquering Hero goes, High 
 triumphant o’er his foes, Wipe his eyes and blow his nose.’ 
 Hang it all, Slogger, shake yourself up. I ’ve kept all my 
 promises; now haven’t I? I swore you should leave Bul- 
 ford with all flags flying. They flew, did n’t they? Also the 
 torches torched, and the speakers speeched — except your- 
 self — and the drums drummed and the trumpets trumpeted, 
 and the horns horned. In your pocket-book you have checks 
 and drafts to the tune of nearly four thousand pounds. 
 You ’re finished with business worries and with Master Albert 
 Rambury for good and all. In this envelope are your pass- 
 ports for Holland and Prussia. In your hand is a red rose, 
 given you by the most adorable young beauty in the country ; 
 and, by the way, you didn’t even say 'Thank you’ for it. 
 Furthermore, you have been kissed by another beautiful lady, 
 while all the favor she bestowed on my poor self was tG shake 
 hands and send her love to my mama and papa. Herr Pro- 
 fessor Coggenberger, you are the pampered darling of the 
 gods.” 
 
162 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 He ceased chattering; because the train, which had been 
 clanking and pounding along at not much more than a 
 walking pace, came to a dead standstill. They were barely 
 clear of the smoky sheds and stacks of coal and long lines of 
 trucks which disfigured the country for a, quarter of a mile 
 or so beyond Bulford station. 
 
 “What *s up?” asked Redding. 
 
 As he spoke the train lurched once more into clumsy motion. 
 It bumped onward about a furlong and stopped again, where 
 the railway ran through fragrant meadows. Edward jumped 
 up impatiently and thrust his head out of the window to see 
 what was wrong. Evidently there was trouble with the en- 
 gine; for the driver and, fireman had dismounted and were 
 plying huge tools upon the wheezy locomotive of the Deme- 
 haven, Bulford and Wynchurch Railway Company. Redding 
 turned his gaze over the landscape. The June dusk was deep- 
 ening in the copses, but he could still make out the tower and 
 spire and high roofs of Bulford half a mile away. A flight of 
 rockets and the faint bleatings of kettle-drums and comets 
 in the distance told him that the ciizens were unofficially pro- 
 longing the festivities. 
 
 Redding was about to call Coggin to his side when some- 
 thing suddenly met his gaze and drew from him a low whistle 
 of anxiety. Trying to conceal his vexation he turned round, 
 taking care to plant his broad back across the window. In 
 the hope of keeping Harry occupied until the train should 
 start again, he resumed his chattering in loud and quick 
 tones. 
 
 “We must admit that Albert Rambury ...” he began. 
 But he got no further. Above the simmering of the engine, 
 above the muffled talk of passengers in the adjoining com- 
 partments, above the far-off drone of the brass bands, above 
 the swishing of the tree-tops in the rising wind, Henry Cog- 
 gin heard a sound, a rhythmic sound which he knew as a 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 163 
 
 maiden knows the step of her lover. Springing to his feet 
 he gained the window at one stride; and when his guardian 
 would have hindered him he simply swept Edward Redding 
 aside as if he had been a mere curtain blocking the view. 
 
 Galloping grandly across the daisied grass, and scattering 
 with his light hoofs the golden petals of the buttercups, on 
 came the horse Bay Rum. First he threw up his proud head, 
 tossing his mane on the breeze ; and then he seemed to thrust 
 his muzzle into the ground and to upheave his hindquarters and 
 his streaming tail in a frenzy of joy. By some strange fate, 
 Bay Rum's new owner had put him to graze in this field of 
 all fields on this night of all nights. 
 
 The train began ambling on once more. Bay Rum kept 
 pace with the squeaking wheels. Sometimes he trotted gently, 
 looking up at Coggin and whinnying his delight. Sometimes 
 he pranced and neighed. When he came to a high fence, 
 dividing his field from the next, he took it in one glorious leap, 
 as if on Pegasus' own wings; and for the twinkling of an 
 eye his exquisite, slender body seemed to be poised in the 
 air, on a level with Coggin 's eyes and almost within reach of 
 his desolate hand. 
 
 At the end of the second field the train halted yet again, 
 where a limpid brook poured through a culvert and spread out 
 into a clear pool overhung by silver birches. On the Bulford 
 side of the pool rose a vast hedge, untrimmed for years and 
 years — a hedge so dense and wide and high that no mortal 
 horse could have leapt it. But there was a round gap in the 
 gay tangle of honeysuckle and whitethorn and bramble and 
 briar; and through the gap Bay Rum gazed up at the train 
 on the low embankment; gazed full into Harry's face. He 
 expected his old master to leap down, to smash through the 
 thorns and nettles, to jump astride his bare back and to race 
 home with him over the sweet fields to the old stable, slapping 
 his neck and murmuring the old fond names. And when 
 
164 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 nothing happened the big eyes filled first with bewilderment 
 and then with unutterable reproach and infinite sadness. 
 
 Harry Coggin stared into the gap. Between Bay Rum’s 
 ears he saw a bit of Bulford. He saw St. Michael’s battle- 
 mented tower and the high gables of Bulford School. There 
 was his world — a harsh world, a lonely world, an unjust world, 
 but his own world and all the world he knew. There were the 
 scenes of his long struggle, of all his brief triumphs. There 
 were the scenes of his long struggle, of all his brief triumphs. 
 There were the only roofs which had ever been his homes. 
 There was his mother’s grave. There was Yellowhammer 
 Lane. There was his baptismal font by the gray old bridge 
 over the Skilbourne. There was the stately gracious lady, the 
 new-descended goddess who like a second mother had kissed 
 his lips and held him to her breast. And there — no, no, not 
 there, but here, under his very eyes, waiting and despairing, 
 was his horse, his good horse, Bay Rum. 
 
 Edward Redding heard a dull moan and saw a hand slip 
 out groping for the handle of the door. His first impulse was 
 to hurl himself roughly on Coggin and to bark contemptu- 
 ously : “ You fool 1” But a great grace was given to him from 
 Heaven. Hardly knowing what he did and what he said, he 
 laid hold of Coggin ’s arm and pleaded in tones as gentle as 
 a woman ’s : 
 
 “Harry . . . poor old Harry ... it ’s nearly over. For 
 God’s sake, for your old friend Teddie’s sake, for my father’s 
 sake, come away from that window. Come, and sit down. ’ ’ 
 
 As he uttered the last syllable, the engine belched out an 
 enormous cloud of steam; and the evening wind sucked the 
 white vapors through the gap in the hedge-row, veiling Bay 
 Rum from sight. The driver shrilled his whistle loud and 
 long. To Harry it was a wail of anguish; but to Teddie it 
 was a Roland’s horn-blast of challenge and defiance to the 
 unknown world beyond. The coaches jolted into life and 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 165 
 
 dragged themselves clear of the pool and the silver birches, 
 just as Edward Redding gently forced Henry Coggin back 
 into his corner. 
 
 Making up for lost time, the train dashed noisily over a via- 
 duct and began fussing upwards into the gloomy pine-woods 
 and the untilled heaths of the high country between Updeme 
 and Wynchurch. Darkness was falling and a chilly wind 
 blew from the moorland into the carriage. Twice, thrice, four 
 times, Edward Redding tried to frame the opening words of a 
 conversation; but twice, thrice, four times his tongue stuck 
 to the roof of his mouth. The money and what to do with 
 it ; the efficiency and cordiality of the Mayor ; the bad drinking- 
 water in Holland and the good wines of the Rhine ; the best 
 precautions against seasickness — all these topics came to his 
 mind in turn, and he could not get out a word on any single 
 one of them. Harry's death-white hard-set face forbade him. 
 
 Edward Redding’s proud plumes began to droop. HarcUy 
 an hour before, amidst the din of the trombones and the gut- 
 tering of the torches, he had felt like Hannibal and Julius 
 Caesar and Napoleon rolled into one ; but now he was beginning 
 to reckon himself a swaggering, heartless brute. For w r eeks 
 he had been mastering Coggin and dominating Bulford by 
 sheer insolence. What was his victory over Rambury save im- 
 prudent bluff? The hurrying days had been full of trans- 
 porting excitement and satisfaction for himself ; but by what 
 right had he assumed lordship over another human being, 
 body and soul? 
 
 By degrees, however, this mood of self-reproach passed away, 
 giving place to a strange confidence and exaltation such as Ed- 
 ward Redding had never before experienced. There was noth- 
 ing mystical in this* mercurial and strenuous youth’s nature, 
 nor was he religious. Or rather, he was religious at second 
 hand. He rarely prayed himself; yet he revered, his father’s 
 prayers. He had hardly any direct vital belief in God ; but he 
 
166 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 believed in his father’s belief. And had not his father sent 
 him to Bulford with an express command to bring Harry Cog- 
 gin away? Had not his father solemnly declared again and 
 again his conviction that Almighty God had some great work 
 to do in and through Harry Coggin ? As he sat in the clatter- 
 ing train, Redding recalled that strange moment in Yellow- 
 hammer Lane thirteen years before, when all three of them 
 had gripped hands in a solemn pact. 
 
 From his corner he glanced at Harry Coggin, still in a dumb 
 agony. Pity filled Redding’s heart ; such pity as he had never 
 hitherto felt for man or woman or child or beast. If God had 
 great work for him to do, it was perhaps not strange that 
 Harry must be schooled and steeled by hardship, persecution, 
 disappointment, bereavement, loneliness. Yet why should 
 Harry Coggin be always a man of sorrows, always acquainted 
 with grief, while he, Edward Redding, abounded in every good 
 thing? A sudden sense of Harry’s high destiny overwhelmed 
 Redding until he, who rarely bowed the knee to God, could 
 have knelt down in reverence before this marine-store dealer’s 
 son with whom he had been eating and drinking and swimming 
 and riding and planning and working for weeks, in patroniz- 
 ing intimacy but never in simple human friendship. 
 
 And what about that plan of his for making Harry into a 
 Heinrich, a German? Was it not enough to have torn him 
 from his native town without driving him from his country 
 too? Edward pondered this question deeply. But once again 
 a great confidence and exaltation filled his mind and soul. Not 
 only was it too late to draw back, but he felt curiously sure 
 that in forming and executing the project he too was helping 
 in some vast mysterious divine plan, that he too was God’s 
 appointed servant. 
 
 And yet . . . when the last glimpse of day was gone and 
 the only light in the carriage came from a sickly oil-lamp 
 overhead, Edward Redding’s heart bled for his companion 
 
THE DELIVERER 
 
 167 
 
 afresh. Half-an-hour had passed without a word, without a 
 movement. If only Harry Coggin had upbraided him fiercely, 
 or had broken down weakly and wept, Redding could have 
 endured it ; but this white face, these tight lips, these wide-open 
 eyes filled him first with pity and then with fear. 
 
 The engine shrieked and the train plunged into the long 
 Wynchurch tunnel. And as the coaches rocked with a deaf- 
 ening roar through the reek of sulphur, Redding quailed at 
 the thought that this mountain over their aching heads was a 
 joint in the very backbone of old England — the old England 
 from which he was driving Harry Coggin away. He shrank 
 further back into his corner, afraid of the pale, dumb, staring 
 orphan without kith or kin, without horse or hound, without 
 wife or child or sweetheart, without hearth or roof-tree, with- 
 out a city, without a fatherland. 
 
 / 
 
BOOK II 
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
Sit sumpsero pennas meas diliculo et habitavero in extremis 
 mar is: etenim illuc manus tua deducet me: et tenebit me 
 dextera tua . — psalmus cxxxviii, 9, 10. 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 E XCEPTING Harry Coggin, the passengers aboard The 
 Queen of the North Sea on Thursday, June 2nd, 1864, 
 would have described their voyage to Rotterdam as 
 uneventful. A favoring breeze blew steadily from the north- 
 west, and the sky’s dome, resting firmly on the sharp horizon, 
 was almost without a cloud. A Swedish bark carrying timber 
 to Newcastle, a smoky packet-boat from Antwerp painfully 
 breasting the wind, and a few fishing-smacks, were the only 
 craft encountered by The Queen during her two-hundred-mile 
 run from the Humber to the Meuse. For Coggin, however, 
 the trip was an unbroken wonder and a long delight. 
 
 Until The Queen turned Spurn Head and fussed out into 
 the dancing and shining German Ocean, Harry had never 
 beheld the sea. At Demehaven he had often smelt salt water 
 and had even boarded sea-going ships : but the town itself was 
 at the landward end of a navigable estuary, twenty miles 
 from blue water. 
 
 After breakfast at the bustling inn where they spent the 
 night in Hull, Edward Redding had wrung Harry Coggin’s 
 hand with these parting words: “How I envy you, going 
 abroad for the first time ! You are of an age to understand, 
 to compare, to appreciate. My father and mother took me 
 twice to France and once to Switzerland before I was nine 
 years old. But let me give you, Harry, one strong caution. 
 Don’t expect too much ; and then you will not be disappointed. 
 Foreign countries are full of strangeness and charm ; but they 
 are not quite ‘new heavens and a new earth.’ After all 
 you ’ve read and heard, prepare to be a little disappointed 
 
 171 
 
172 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 with the sea, a good deal disappointed with Holland, and a 
 bit contemptuous of the Rhine-land, especially Cologne. Gnaw 
 now and then at a hard biscuit and you won’t be sea-sick. 
 Don’t open this letter which I wrote for you last Sunday un- 
 til you are out of sight of land. As for thanks, I tell you 
 again to shut up. Good luck and good-by.” 
 
 The sea did not disappoint Harry Coggin. It captivated 
 him. He gazed and gazed upon it, oblivious of the march of 
 time, sometimes peering down at the white curds churned out 
 by the thudding paddle-wheels and sometimes raising his eyes 
 to the far-off rim where skies and waters met. The sea was to 
 him a vast music. It was not only music for his ears ; because, 
 beyond the swishings and drummings of the water, beyond the 
 chaunt of the wind, there seemed to be a huger music, a music 
 visible rather than audible, a music bewilderingly intricate 
 in its multitudinous parts, yet of god-like simplicity as a whole. 
 Two hours must have passed in this copious quenching of his 
 long parched spirit’s thirst for the immense and the unearthly ; 
 and he might have gone on leaning over the rail for two hours 
 more if the steward had not touched his arm and reminded 
 him that the mid-day meal was ready. 
 
 Although The Queen of the North Sea was famed for her 
 airiness and sweetness, Harry would have found the stuffiness 
 of the saloon unendurable if he had not been immediately en- 
 grossed in his table-companions. Saving a family of tourists 
 who kept themselves rigidly apart at the smaller table, the 
 passengers were English, Dutch and German merchants and 
 commercial travelers, with a few sea-faring men on the way to 
 join their ships at Rotterdam. A good deal of the conversa- 
 tion was exchanged in foreign tongues. To his dismay Harry, 
 who could read Dutch slowly and German fluently, found that 
 at first he was not able to distinguish these languages one 
 from another. High Dutch seemed as low as Low, and Low 
 Dutch as high as High. Here and there he recognized words, 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 173 
 
 such as geld , wein, meer, dampschiff , brod: but these familiar 
 terms whirled past him, like corks, on a torrent of verbs and 
 particles which meant no more to him than so much gib- 
 berish. Heavily discouraged, he rose from the table at the 
 earliest possible moment and hurried upstairs to the deck. 
 
 The engine, which made noises and smells disproportionate 
 to the work it was doing, drew him out of his vexation for a 
 few moments: but suddenly its rancid odors and unwholesome 
 heat awoke a qualm strong enough to remind him that there 
 was such a thing as sea-sickness. Retreating hastily to a less 
 unsavory spot, he tucked a rug about his knees and began to 
 gnaw a ship’s biscuit, as Edward Redding had commanded. 
 When peace had returned to mind and body alike, Harry 
 brought out his mentor’s letter and broke the seal. This is 
 what he read : — 
 
 Bulford, Sunday , May 29. ’64. 
 Excellent Hare Coggenheimer. 
 
 Prosit . litre Gesundheit. 
 
 You will read this , if you are not too sick, upon the bound- 
 ing billow. I am writing it at Mrs. Hilliard’s , while you are 
 having your mysterious Sunday off. By the way , mein Hein- 
 rich , I ’m yot so sure that I ought not to chercher la femme. 
 
 After the meeting next Wednesday night we shall know 
 your monetary position to a penny and 1 shall jot down a post- 
 script to this letter. We know enough , however, for our 
 main purpose. Broadly , I advise that you invest the whole of 
 your capital except three hundred pounds, immediately . 
 With perfect security , it should bring you an income of about 
 one hundred and fifty pounds per annum. 
 
 As for the three hundred pounds, I most earnestly beg you 
 to spend them all in Germany. Living is cheap in the Father- 
 land and you could eat heartily and wander widely on a pound 
 or two a week. But don’t be too frugal. This is the first 
 holiday of your life , so you have about a dozen Long Vacations 
 
THE HARE 
 
 171 
 
 to make up. By all means avoid extravagance and keep away 
 from the cosmopolitan caravanserais : hut he equally careful to 
 avoid niggardliness and to shun the humblest kinds of hed and 
 hoard. Go often to concerts . to the theater and to the opera 
 — they We wonderfully inexpensive in Germany. By the way, 
 mein Hare, 1 suspect you We never been to a theater or an 
 opera-house in your life. What hours you have in store! 
 
 On twenty pounds a month you can fare sumptuously, 
 sleep decently, drink curiously and hear good music seven 
 times a week. That is to say, your three hundred pounds 
 should last you until the end of August next year. You must 
 look on this £300 as money invested, which will he fruitful as 
 long as you live. By August ’65, du klevver Heinrich, you 
 will have learned to write and speak German like a native. 
 Your prodigious memory and your genius for languages will 
 make the task both pleasant and easy. Keep your eyes open 
 for German manners and customs. Jot down in an indexed 
 hook any little proverbs and colloquialisms and homely sayings 
 which are not in the dictionaries. Wriggle inside the Ger- 
 man skin. You have read the German classics ; now get to 
 work on their newspapers, their popular novels, their daily 
 trash. And learn to drink their beer, to smoke their tobacco. 
 
 In acquiring the spoken language, you will save time — and 
 money, too, in the long run — by employing at teacher to cor- 
 rect you. Beware of the young German who offers to “ex- 
 change conversation.” When it comes to exchange, your Ger- 
 man always wants the better of the bargain. Pay him his fee 
 — it will be very small — and command his services, with no 
 nonsense. 
 
 While I am not competent to advise you concerning your 
 musical studies , let me recommend you not to begin them too 
 soon. Enjoy a long, lazy holiday first of all. Have what the 
 German student calls “ a wander-year.” But don’t let music 
 drop. Whenever you are in a town where there is a good 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 175 
 
 organ , just stifle your bashfulness and cultivate acquaintance 
 with the Herr Kapellmeister till he lets you try the instru- 
 ment. Make yourself known, as a brother artist, to the con- 
 ductors of orchestras and even to the directors of opera-houses. 
 They will welcome you to rehearsals ; and , although I ’m not a 
 musician myself , I imagine that a rehearsal can teach you more 
 than a performance. 
 
 After a few months, you will decide what musical center 
 to live in — I suppose it will be Leipsic — and what frowsy old 
 ruffian to study under. But even when your hard work be- 
 gins, do not cease to study Germans and Germany until you 
 know them back and front. 
 
 One counsel more, mein best. Although you have been 
 wretched and a failure as Henry Coggin, Englishman , I have 
 observed these last few days that you drop your eyes and 
 pucker your brows whenever 1 mention your turning Ger- 
 man. Why ? If our royal princesses turn German for high 
 reasons of State, why shouldn’t you turn German for high 
 reasons of Art? Is a symphony less important than a 
 dynasty? Now here is my counsel. Whenever you feel you 
 won’t and can’t be a German — whenever you feel that you 
 must and will be an Englishman , then ( in spite of what I ’ ve 
 said about keeping away from such places) go and spend seven 
 nights in one of the first-class hotels, where the traveling 
 English stay. Or spend seven days steaming up and down 
 the Rhine. Unless I ’m much mistaken , this will always cure 
 you of wanting to be taken for an Englishman any more. 
 
 Now for my final requests. Write to me every month; and 
 to my father every quarter, as of yore. Don’t make an ass 
 of yourself by falling in love, without my full knowledge and 
 express permission. And, if from time to time you have a few 
 hidden odd thalers to spare, remember how much I should like 
 you to collect some thoroughly German bric-a-brac for me, such 
 as long pipes, beer-mugs, hock-glasses, pots, hatchments , prints, 
 
176 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 and so on. Pack them up and send them to my London ad- 
 dress. Mit ein tausend good wishes, Ich bleibe 
 Your devoted Freund fur Ewigkeit, 
 
 Edward Redding. 
 
 The postscript, which had been scrawled in pencil, was as 
 follows : 
 
 You have £3842 1. 2. Spend £342 1. 2. without a qualm. 
 While you are outre-mer, interest will be accumulating on 
 £3500 in old England. Be young and careless. Live only 
 one moment at a time. As for turning German you don’t 
 need to decide for another year. Auf wiedersehn. 
 
 The breeze had weakened and the sunsl ine had strengthened 
 when Harry Coggin finally thrust Edward Redding’s letter 
 back into his breast-pocket. He was on the point of casting 
 the rug from hir. knees and of springing up to resume his work 
 when he remembered that he had no work to do, no work- 
 shop, no task-master, not even a pricking and prodding con- 
 science. At first the situation appalled him. He felt like a 
 man who, after toiling for days through a tangled and thorny 
 forest, comes out suddenly into the daylight and finds him- 
 self on the brink of a precipice, looking down upon a sum- 
 mer sea, without a sail, without a shore. Prom his earliest 
 days, Harry had always had duty, duty, duty upon his earnest 
 mind. Even at the age of five it was his task to sort out old 
 nails and to separate the scraps of white paper from the blue 
 and the brown. 
 
 Edward Redding’s words came back to him : “Be young and 
 careless.” And as he sat and pondered the matter he per- 
 ceived for the first time how hard his lot had been ; how little 
 of life’s feast he had tasted; how pallid and dumb had been 
 his boyhood and youth ; and from what a treadmill the mar- 
 velous Teddie had delivered him. 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 177 
 
 Something’ came between him and the snn. It was a fishing- 
 smack, ripping up the bright water as she shoved along under 
 a vast spread of sail. The canvas, of a glorious amber hue, 
 seemed to be alive as it stretched and eased, eased and stretched, 
 in the wind, like the flanks of a striving horse. It was the 
 first time Harry had seen such a sight. He leapt from his 
 seat and ran for a nearer view. As he gripped the rail, the 
 wind tore off the crest of a little wave and dashed it full in 
 Harry's face. Like waters of baptism, the cool salt spray in- 
 stantly woke him to new life. A man on the deck of the 
 fishing-smack waved a huge hand and hailed him with some 
 jovial greeting which was lost in the noises of crunching water 
 and slapping wind. Harry shouted back. It was a shout 
 without words ; a shout like the glad cry of a toil-chafed ani- 
 mal let loose to roll and kick in unmown grass. 
 
 He gazed eastward. England had long ago faded froitf 
 sight. He reminded himself that beyond the horizon England 
 still stood — England and especially Bulford. He tried to 
 picture the old town, to guess what his successors were doing 
 in the chapel, and what the townsfolk were saying about the 
 meeting in the Town Hall. He failed. Bulford, seemed dead 
 — as dead as Herculaneum and as deeply buried. Indeed, be- 
 side himself, there seemed to be only three truly living and 
 breathing people in the world — Teddie Redding, and Mrs. 
 Hilliard, and the man on the fishing-smack still waving to 
 him across the widening stretch of chumed-up water. No. 
 There was a fourth — Bay Rum, his good horse Bay Rum, 
 whose tail and mane would have streamed so grandly in this 
 frolic wind. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 EFT to himself, Henry Coggin would certainly have 
 
 sought out one of the cheapest of the Rotterdam 
 
 M. ^ hotels — the cheapest of all, so long as it was clean. 
 He was not a miser; but twenty years of social ostracism in 
 Bulford had formed in him a habit of preferring obscure 
 comers and backwaters. Redding, however, had foreseen 
 this danger and had resolved that his ward’s first day and 
 night abroad should be properly spent. He knew that it is 
 the first step which costs ; and he had confidence that the sec- 
 ond step and the third, the hundredth and the ten thousandth, 
 would be along the right path, provided a sound beginning 
 could be assured. Just as The Queen of the North Sea had 
 made fast almost under the trees in leafy, noisy Rotterdam, 
 the steward came up to Harry very respectfully and said : 
 
 “ I beg pardon, Mr. Coggin. No offense, sir, but I believe 
 this is your first acquaintance with foreign parts. I have given 
 my word to your friend Mr. Redding to see that you find 
 your way safely to a house which Mr. Redding recommends — 
 a house where the landlord isn’t a robber and where the 
 vittles and wine aren’t poison. So with your leave,, sir, 
 I ’m going to put you in a fly and in a jiffey you ’ll be inside 
 the Hotel Haas, a comfortable house, where you don’t need 
 to speak the Dutch lingo. I can’t leave the ship just now: 
 but I shall have the honor, God willing, of paying my respects 
 to you to-morrow morning, sir. I must n’t forget to give you 
 the book from Mr. Redding. I wish you good-day, sir. Al- 
 ways at your service, sir. ’ ’ 
 
 The book was a guide to the Rhine-land, written in English 
 
 178 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 179 
 
 by a bookseller of Coblenz and printed in Leipsic. Before 
 Harry could fairly examine it, be found himself beset by 
 formidable officials from the customs-house. The steward, 
 however, came to his aid and he was not even asked for his 
 keys. Within half an hour of The Queen of the North Sea’s 
 first bump against the quay wall, Harry was standing in a 
 foot-bath in his bed-room at the Haas Hotel splashing himself 
 from head to foot. 
 
 Edward Redding’s was a wonder-working name in this hos- 
 pitable house. It turned out that he was constantly recom- 
 mending it to his friends and that he had himself stayed thrice 
 under its roof. An abundant and interesting meal soon made 
 its appearance, accompanied by half a bottle of racy Piesporter 
 beautifully cooled. After luncheon Harry obtained a supply 
 of small coins and wandered out to see the sights. His guide- 
 book glowed about the Boyman’s Museum: but on enquiring 
 the way thither he was informed by a Dutch gentleman who 
 spoke English that the building had been burned down only 
 a year before, and most of the pictures with it. 
 
 Harry soon found, however, that there were pictures, 
 hundreds of glowing pictures, to be seen without entombing 
 himself in the stuffy interior of a museum. At every step he 
 encountered something enchanting or astounding. In a sunny 
 square, bordered by a giant canal, the traveler stumbled into 
 the chattering, fragrant midst of an open-air flower-market. 
 He fled bashfully from the buxom Dutch flower-maidens, but 
 not without marveling at their picturesque head-gear and 
 especially at the spirals of solid gold projecting from their 
 foreheads. 
 
 The Groote Kerk, or Great Church of St. Lawrence, rose 
 before him. Taking them two at a time with his nimble legs, 
 he soon climbed the three hundred and twenty-five steps to 
 the top of the tower. As he leaned, looking downwards and 
 upwards, northwards and southwards, eastwards and west- 
 
180 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 wards, he wondered how Teddie Redding could have said that 
 the Continent was not “new heavens and a new earth/ ’ The 
 heavens were certainly new heavens ; for like an inverted bowl 
 of turquoise and mother-o ’-pearl, they came down and met 
 the horizon at every point, like the sky over the open sea, 
 without one distant mountain-range, without even one low 
 hill to rob the lucent hemisphere of a single inch. And the 
 earth was a new earth. As flat as a chessboard, nearly a 
 thousand square miles of humming, smiling country lay in 
 full sight. The waterways, which had looked peagreen and 
 smelt worse than brackish as Coggin walked beside them from 
 his hotel, seemed to become a gem-like blue as they flowed 
 through rural Holland, sometimes cutting narrow lanes 
 straight through the fields, sometimes spreading out like lakes 
 or estuaries. The droll sails of hundreds of windmills, flip- 
 ping round and round, gave to the beholder who looked at 
 them too long the feeling that he was gazing not at a patch 
 of the real world but at a vast toy, at a set-out of Noah’s-ark 
 trees and buildings, at a painted model run by hidden clock- 
 work. Here and there where the light nor’-easter suited 
 them, barges with big sails shining swan-white in the strong 
 sunshine seemed to be moving across the dry land, like 
 hay wains through English meadows. 
 
 An inscription on the parapet informed Harry Coggin that 
 the more distant belfries within this field of vision belonged 
 to towns whose names he had long known well — the Hague and 
 Delft, Dort and Leyden. But even these far-off towers fas- 
 cinated him less powerfully than the spectacle immediately 
 below him. Excepting his hurried glimpses of Hull on the 
 short drive from the inn to the steam-packet, this was Harry’s 
 first sight of a large town. It was also his first ascent of a 
 tower ; because the crumbling stairway ^vhich led to the top 
 of St. Michael’s at Bulford has been closed to the public for 
 many years. Having nerves of steel he leaned well over. 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 181 
 
 More than two hundred feet below, pigmies pottered hither and 
 thither with the absurd insistency of black ants. Through 
 the fresh June foliage of trees which looked as if they could 
 have been pulled up with one hand and transplanted into 
 flower-pots, he could see toy. boats moving along gutters of 
 bronze-blue water. Thousands and thousands of painted 
 houses made gay silhouettes against the sky with their stepped 
 gables and their squeaking, glittering weathercocks. All the 
 while there rose up from the chimneys a weak smoke; and 
 from the streets a dull hum, pricked through by the cracking 
 of whips and the cries of children. 
 
 Harry spent more than a week in Holland. Armed with 
 cards of introduction from his Rotterdam landlord, he found 
 comfortable quarters and pleasant people everywhere. With 
 a little help from waiters and from chance acquaintances he 
 soon commanded enough of the language to make known his 
 wants and to understand the directions he often asked for in 
 the streets. Traveling in the Nederland was distinctly dear, 
 running up to at least a guinea a day : but he had brought from 
 England nearly twenty pounds of current cash which had not 
 been reckoned in Redding’s £3842 1. 2. and he felt it would 
 please his friend if he spent this extra money in seeing some- 
 thing of the Low Countries without overmuch counting of the 
 cost. Including ten florins which he paid at Haarlem, as a 
 fee for a special recital on the world-famous organ, his total 
 expenses for a week did not amount to a ten-pound note ; and 
 although he would have been staggered a month before at the 
 idea of spending even forty shillings on a holiday, somehow 
 it seemed quite natural to be tipping sacristans and paying a 
 couple of guilders for a bottle of Rhenish. 
 
 Since English pounds and Dutch florins were first minted, 
 nobody could have got richer value for the coins he left be- 
 hind him than Harry Coggin during those sunny days in Rot- 
 
182 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 terdam and Delft, in the galleries of the Hague, on the sea- 
 shore at breezy Sclieveningen, in learned Leyden, and in 
 Venice-like Amsterdam. The blaze of tulips had burned low 
 on the bulb farms, but the storks were as proud as ever in their 
 high nests, the decorators were smothering the water-side 
 summer-houses with vivid green and blue and yellow paint, 
 and even the 4 ‘dead” cities which he visited by steamboat from 
 Amsterdam were all alive with bustling people in the old 
 national dress. 
 
 Harry loved it all. He loved the rollicking carillons which 
 seemed hardly ever silent in the huge brick belfries. What 
 was the short broadside of the Bulford bells compared with 
 these batteries of bells, big and little, which could stamp along 
 like a giant in seven-leagued boots and at the same time spin 
 all round the bumping tune an accompaniment as light as a 
 spider's web? He loved the pictures — not only such world- 
 famous canvases as Rembrandt’s ‘ 4 Night Watch” and Paul 
 Potter’s “Bull” and van der Heist’s “Banquet of the Arque- 
 busiers,” but also the less notorious master-pieces of Flinck, 
 of Vermeer, of Hals, of Steen, of Hobbema. He loved the 
 copper-beeches and the lime-trees overhanging the canals : the 
 leaning towers ; the vast meres with the vanes of steeples and 
 the tops of windmills just peeping above the embankments. 
 He loved the brisk, light, innocent Bavarian beer : the liberal 
 meals, especially the bewildering breakfasts of smoked beef 
 and rusks and butter and cheese and strawberries: the lan- 
 guage, so often like a kind of English spoken from a larger 
 mouth ; and especially the life of the cafes and inns where you 
 could talk English or French, German or Dutch, as you 
 pleased. 
 
 The youth’s only disappointment was in the churches. 
 Throughout the old hard days at Bulford, when he used to 
 pore over illustrated books of travel with never a hope or a 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 183 
 
 dream of setting foot on a foreign shore, the engravings and 
 descriptions of dim and huge cathedrals had impressed him 
 more than everything else. In Holland, however, he looked 
 in vain for majestical and mysterious temples, where the com- 
 mon daylight could not enter until it had filtered through 
 painted glass, staining itself with the blood of martyrs, puri- 
 fying itself in the snow of virgins and catching glory from the 
 golden crowns of saints triumphant. In vain he sought for 
 the pale sweet mists of incense, for the sonorous antiphons, 
 for the myriad candles, for the slow processions with tink- 
 ling canopies and broidered banners, for the peasant devotees 
 huddled before a smoke-blackened image and a silver lamp in 
 some shadowy recess between enormous piers. 
 
 Harry soon gave up trying to penetrate the interiors of 
 Holland’s great parish churches and old cathedrals. The 
 Dutch Reformed Church like the Bulford-on-Deme Baptists 
 and Methodists, kept the temples locked up except when some- 
 body was going to preach. At first, Harry persisted in his 
 effort till the doors were opened: but, as a rule a precious 
 hour had to be wasted. Often the key would have to be un- 
 earthed at some old book-shop or office a long way from the 
 church. There was nearly always a fee to be paid to a grumpy 
 sexton or to a member of his family : and when, after all this 
 expenditure of time and, money and temper, the big keys 
 turned in the locks at last, the church-interior was almost sure 
 to prove a disappointment. In place of a stone vaulting there 
 was usually a poor wooden ceiling, while lumbering pews 
 and stalls obscured the architectural lines, and acres of white- 
 wash chilled and cheapened the walls and columns. Now and 
 then the cicerone would shew a curiosity such as a carved 
 pulpit or a grandiose monument of some seventeenth-century 
 Dutch admiral, in a pagan style. And if Harry thought little 
 of these desecrated naves and aisles, it was evident that the 
 
184 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 sacristans thought still less ; for they usually kept their hats 
 on their heads the whole time and even went on smoking their 
 pipes. 
 
 On his first morning in Amsterdam, after waiting awhile op- 
 posite the barred and bolted portals of the cruciform, four- 
 teenth-century Oude Kerk in the Warmoestraat, Coggin was 
 working along the Oudezijds Yoorburgwal towards the quays 
 when he noticed two women in black, with what appeared to' 
 be prayer-books in their hands, hurrying into an old building. 
 Glancing towards the door, he saw that it was open ; and, hav- 
 ing already begun to acquire a sightseer’s habits, he did not 
 scruple to mount the steps. On the threshold a strange, pleas- 
 ant odor met him and suddenly brought him to a halt. Where 
 had he inhaled that faint but insistent perfume before? Al- 
 though it was so weak and elusive, it asserted itself even above 
 the rankness of the broad canal which crawled along a few 
 yards eastward of where Harry was standing. 
 
 He remembered. This was the smell of incense. At Bul- 
 ford, very rarely, certainly not more than half-a-dozen times 
 in his whole life, Harry Coggin had ventured inside the tiny 
 Catholic Chapel in Tripp Street. The place had always re- 
 pelled him; because it was not merely small and poor but 
 mean and ill-kept. An aged and infirm priest ministered 
 there to a handful of Bulford’s poorest people. Indeed, if 
 Harry had been pressed to say what he remembered of Tripp 
 Street Catholic Chapel, he would have named only the grimy 
 windows, the whirligig ventilator which had long ceased to 
 whirl, some statuettes daubed with many faded colors and a 
 few vases of paper roses. It would not have occurred to him 
 to mention the lingering scent of incense. And yet, as he 
 halted almost in fear on this old doorstep in wealthy, famous 
 Amsterdam, the ghostly sweetness was closer to him than his 
 own breath. As if on a magic carpet, worn thinner than a 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 185 
 
 rose-leaf dried in an old book, Bulford and all its memories 
 were borne to him across the Deme, across half England, across 
 the North Sea, in the twinkling of an eye. 
 
 Two more women with prayer-books brushed past him and 
 entered what he now knew was a church: but, although he 
 immediately recovered his self-possession, Coggin did not dare 
 to follow them. For all he knew to the contrary, some sort 
 of Romanist Mother’s Meeting was toward; so he reluctantly 
 turned away. An hour afterwards, however, he came upon 
 another and newer Catholic Church, of more obvious ecclesi- 
 astical character. This too was open : and he ventured inside. 
 
 The same fragrance of incense pervaded the place: but all 
 else was unfamiliar. In St. Michael’s and in St. Peter’s at 
 Bulford and in the great white-washed churches of Rotterdam 
 and Leyden and Haarlem he had seen decorous communion- 
 tables: but this was his first sight of a High Altar, with a 
 painted reredos, with a crucifix, with six tall candlesticks and 
 with a row of seven lighted lamps hanging before it. The 
 frontal, of finest linen, was embroidered with the words Adoro 
 Te devote, Latens Deltas and there were many other tags of 
 Latin to be seen in the stained glass windows and on the sten- 
 ciled walls. The Dutch language, however, was not absent. 
 For example, Harry was deeply impressed by a series of vivid 
 paintings, seven on the right-hand wall and seven on the left ; 
 and he noticed that the legends under these pictures, which 
 represented stages of the Sacred Passion, were all in the ver- 
 nacular. Here and there were religious paintings in mellowed 
 frames and life-size statues of saints. 
 
 For ten minutes or so, Coggin had the church to himself. 
 At length a man came in — a young man of about Harry’s own 
 age — and made a genuflexion. Beginning at the first of the 
 fourteen pictures, the stranger compassed the circuit of them 
 all, kneeling for a few moments before each painting and say- 
 
186 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 mg some prayers. This task done, he knelt more deliberately 
 in the nave, with his gaze bent on the High Altar, his lips 
 moving the while. Then he rose and went away. 
 
 Perceiving an arched opening to the right of the chancel, 
 Harry went forward on tip-toe and found a shallow chapel. 
 Several candles were burning on a stand; and above a low 
 altar there stood amid white flowers a life-size statue of the 
 Virgin Mother of God holding the Babe in her arms. The 
 sight-seer was about to pass on when a strong beam of sun- 
 light suddenly illumined the image, from the small white foot 
 peeping out under the Lady’s blue robe to the great jeweled 
 diadem which crowned her golden hair. A memory even more 
 powerful than the incense brought Harry, for the second time, 
 to a standstill. In his lonely house at Bulford there had been 
 an old print, one among hundreds, which never failed to en- 
 chain him. It was an engraving “before letters” of some 
 altar-piece, a Madonna and Child. Austere ecclesiastics might 
 have condemned it, on the ground that it was outside the hier- 
 atic tradition; while superfine art-critics would have sniffed 
 at it because it gave great and immediate pleasure even to the 
 untrained eye. Upon Coggin it had cast and fixed a spell; 
 not by its religious appeal but by the power of the Maiden’s 
 gracious loveliness. The artist had not portrayed an un- 
 worldly bloodless Dei Oenitrix but had preferred to dilate 
 upon the human beauty of that second Eve from whose chaste 
 body the Eternal Word was made flesh. 
 
 The statue on which the June sunshine glowed down in this 
 Dutch chapel had probably been carved and gilded by some 
 competent and enthusiastic journeyman, who had found in- 
 spiration in the very picture from which Coggin ’s old print 
 was copied. To Harry, however, it was as if a Galatea had 
 warmed and quickened into life. His engraving at Bulford 
 was after all only a flat sheet of paper, printed brownish-black 
 on white, and not more than twelve inches by ten: but this 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 187 
 
 queenly image was the size of life, with the flush of life in the 
 cheeks and with the bounded contours of life as well. Yet it 
 was instinct with the dignity of great sculpture, and was free 
 from the slightest suggestion of dressed-up wax-work. Harry 
 beheld his picture come to life; but not to such "life as his 
 own. It had come to the life wherein corruption has put on 
 incorruption and wherein this mortal has put on immortality. 
 
 From that morning Vnwards, Coggin practised the rule, ob- 
 served by nearly all true travelers, of never passing an open 
 church door without taking a peep inside. This meant that 
 he examined the interior of at least one Catholic church every 
 day. The shells of these fanes were generally unpretentious : 
 but when once the threshold had been crossed there was yearly 
 always some novel architectural arrangement, some legend or 
 unfamiliar saint told in stained glass or on canvas or in 
 carven stone, some pithy sentence in sonorous Latin, some 
 significant change in the color of antependium or vestment. 
 Little by little it dawned upon Harry that Catholicism, which 
 he had vaguely regarded as a mere antiquarian survival, like 
 the Pyramids of Egypt, was pulsing with life; and that the 
 houses of death in Holland were the huge chilly white-washed 
 churches of the Reformers, sealed up all the week like enor- 
 mous tombs. In the museums and picture-galleries he saw 
 countless religious paintings which had been executed centuries 
 ago : but in the Catholic churches, living and breathing men 
 were chiseling new images, or plying brush and palette-knife 
 on new altar-pieces. This conviction of the abounding and 
 actual vitality of Catholicism was deepened in him one after- 
 noon by the sight of some pile-drivers forcing tree-trunks, 
 over fifty feet long, perpendicularly into the swampy ground. 
 These piles, he was told, were the foundations of a new Catho- 
 lic church. 
 
 At Utrecht, whither he ran for half a day from Amsterdam, 
 
188 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Harry’s new interest in ecclesiastical things was whetted by a 
 recollection that he was in the city where the dank heresy 
 of Jansen, Bishop of Ypres, at last bore its bitter fruit of 
 schism. In the space of a single morning, he visited not 
 only the remnant of the ancient cathedral which had 
 passed into the Reformers’ hands but also the cathedrals of 
 the Jansenist archbishop, still in schism, and of the Catholic 
 archbishop, in communion with the See of Rome. In his 
 early boyhood, when tattered and torn books of dogma and 
 polemics had made up by far the larger part of the printed 
 matter which came under his hungry eye in the marine-store 
 yard, Harry had read omnivorously ; and now, like a steam of 
 bubbles rising to the surface of the water from some long- 
 sunk wreck suddenly ripped open by the prongs of a casual 
 anchor, all sorts of odd facts and fictions about these Jan- 
 senists and this town of Utrecht and the bull TJnigenitus came 
 gurgling up from the deeps of his memory. 
 
 By the end of his first week in Holland, Harry had grown 
 bold enough to kneel with about a hundred worshipers all 
 through a Low Mass. But his heart w T as in his mouth. He 
 dreaded every moment that somebody would buttonhole him. 
 In the Baptist Chapel at Bulford it was the custom to buzz 
 round every stranger like flies round a jam-pot; and not until 
 he had regained the street did Harry lose his fear of some 
 friar or Jesuit pouncing upon him. 
 
 The truth was that these churches, like his old engraving 
 of the Virgin and Child, did not interest Harry Coggin 
 primarily on religious grounds. He was attracted by the 
 novelty of their warm decoration and varied ceremonial, so 
 unlike the bare stone and the white surplices and the plain 
 services in the half-dozen Gothic churches which he had seen in 
 Bulford and its neighborhood. He was attracted also by the 
 chance of hearing a little organ-playing. Most of all, how- 
 ever, he liked the churches for their quiet, their solitude, 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 189 
 
 their restfulness. Apart altogether from religion, it was good 
 to have some place where one could sit down between two 
 tramps through museums instead of having to visit and re- 
 visit the cafes for too much Bavarian beer. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 O N Friday, June 10th, just as he was facing an under- 
 done steak in a restaurant at the corner of the 
 Damrak, Harry felt a tap on his shoulder. Look- 
 ing up, he recognized a young man, evidently a traveler like 
 himself, whom he had noticed three or four times already in 
 various public places. The number of foreigners visiting Hol- 
 land so early in the summer being small, Harry was sure of 
 the young man’s identity. The young man seemed no less sure 
 of Harry’s. In a pleasant and easy tone he said: 
 
 u We are fated to meet. Let me see. Delft one ; the Maurit- 
 shuis at the Hague, two; the old round castle at Leyden, 
 three; the hut of Peter the Great at Zaandam, four; and this 
 table with the raw steak on it, five. Five times, if not six. 
 Can I take this vacant place beside you?” 
 
 He sat down and ordered a meal, giving instructions in 
 French. Coggin had passed so many days without conversa- 
 tion and his mind was so full of new ideas that he was de- 
 lighted to worry through his beefsteak in company with a 
 lively compatriot. The stranger had traveled widely in 
 France and Spain, in Italy, and in all the German-speaking 
 states. He seemed to have lived for pictures and to have re- 
 tained wonderfully exact recollections of the hundreds he had 
 seen. About Munich he was somewhat contemptuous ; but 
 he glowed at the memory of Florence and Venice; of Paris; 
 and especially of Madrid and the Prado. Harry Coggin knew 
 practically nothing of Spanish painters, save Murillo, and he 
 listened eagerly to the remarks his table-companion poured 
 out concerning Velasquez and Goya and a Toledo artist called 
 
 190 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 191 
 
 “the Greek .’ 9 At the end of the meal, the stranger burst out : 
 
 “Look here. You ’ve seen all the regular lions of Amster- 
 dam, the Podor Museum and the Arti et Amicitiae and so on : 
 but I ’ll wager you haven’t seen the Jan Six Gallery! 
 There ’s a marvelous, unfinished Rembrandt there, and my 
 favorite Hobbema, and Lord knows what else. Then there ’s 
 another little private museum, in the Heeren-Gracht, with a 
 stunning lot of the Little Masters. You can’t get in without 
 influence, but I have a letter here from our Minister at the 
 Hague.” 
 
 “Minister?” echoed Coggin, mystified. During his life in 
 Bulford he had only heard the phrase “our minister” applied 
 to Pastor Clupp, of the Baptist Chapel. 
 
 “Yes. Our Minister. Our Ambassador, or whatever you 
 like to call the Johnny. Anyhow, he ’s not a bad chap and 
 his letter always does the trick. Like to come with me? 
 Right. Let ’s mizzle. ’ ’ 
 
 Before Harry could recover from his astonishment at having 
 hobnobbed with a young personage of such distinction that he 
 could not only claim the acquaintance of ambassadors but 
 even call them Johnnies and chaps, his new friend had called 
 the waiter and paid the two bills. Coggin’s expostulations 
 were in vain. The friend of ambassadors simply ignored 
 them and began a lively chatter about the influence of Michael 
 Angelo on Rubens. Never had Amsterdam seemed so delight- 
 ful to Coggin as at that moment. The people in the streets 
 looked prosperous and happy. The avenues of elms were at 
 the height of their June glory, and the waters of the broad 
 canals twinkled in the sun and made a merry sound against 
 the prows of the gaudy barges. 
 
 While they were waiting in the entrance-hall of the old 
 house once belonging to Burgomaster Jan Six, the patron and 
 friend of Rembrandt, Harry’s companion said: 
 
 “Better have your card ready, eh?” 
 
192 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Harry winced. He had never boasted a card in his life. 
 Further, Edward Redding had expressly begged him not to 
 have cards engraved for his journey, but to suppress the name 
 of Coggin as much as possible. Fortunately the man-serv- 
 ant re-appeared and opened a tome like a family Bible. This 
 turned out to be the visitors ’ book. Taking up a quill, Harry’s 
 conductor forgot all about cards and signed his name, in large, 
 easy writing, “ Colin Guy Withers Huntly-Martin. ’ ’ Then he 
 handed the pen to Harry and moved off to examine a bust by 
 Artus Quellin. 
 
 With nobody looking over his shoulder, Harry wrote, in his 
 stiff, almost uncial, but rapid script, “ Henry Coggin.” Mr. 
 Huntly-Martin ’s signature sprawled across seven inches of 
 paper, while Harry ’s did not exceed an inch and a half. The 
 homely surname looked mean and forlorn indeed in such com- 
 pany; for higher on the same page a Roman princess, an 
 English archbishop and a Russian Grand Duke had set their 
 august autographs. Perhaps Edward Redding was right. 
 Perhaps the name of Coggin would never do. 
 
 On completing the tour of the house, it was Mr. Huntly- 
 Martin who conveyed suitable largesse to the attendant, and, 
 as they came out again upon the canal bank, he said: ‘ 4 That 
 was worth while. And the pictures weren’t the best part. 
 By Jove, I wish I could have burgled that old tulip-shaped 
 silver goblet and one of those round Delft tiles. By the way, 
 remind me to tell you later on about the sort of Delft tiles they 
 have in Portugal, instead of mural paintings. Now for those 
 Little Masters. Let ’s slope.” 
 
 After the Little Masters had been visited, Mr. Huntly- 
 Martin brightened up and exclaimed: “Why not a glass of 
 Advocaat ? I know the best shop in all Holland for Advocaat ; 
 and that means the best shop in the world. ’ ’ 
 
 “I ’ve seen the name,” answered Coggin frankly, “but I 
 don ’t know what Advocaat is. Is it a kind of Schiedam ? ’ ’ 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 193 
 
 “ No. It ’s a kind of egg flip. It ’s made of yellows of 
 eggs, mixed years ago with old brandy. You can take it with 
 a spoon. The place is quite near here. Let ’s bolt. ’ ’ 
 
 Harry enjoyed his glass of Advocaat, which was like a thin 
 yellow cream redeemed from sickliness by a little Cognac; 
 but he became uncomfortable when his fellow-drinker again 
 paid the reckoning. A happy idea flashed into him and he 
 said: 
 
 ‘ ‘ Come. This will not do. You have been paying for both 
 of us these last three hours. I want my turn. Will you be 
 so kind as to come and dine with me at my hotel, the Zeven 
 Provincien ? It ’s quiet, but they have good claret and Rhine- 
 wine. ’ ’ 
 
 ‘T ’m your man/’ responded Mr. Huntly-Martin heartily. 
 “And the sooner it ’s feeding-time the better. I loathed my 
 luncheon. Another Advocaat ? No. Better not. Too sickly. 
 Let ’s hook it.” 
 
 The Zeven Provincien, to which he had been introduced 
 by his Rotterdam host, was an inn whereof Harry had no cause 
 to be ashamed. Most of the clients were sedate and sub- 
 stantial Dutch people ; so dinner was always ready soon after 
 five o’clock. Thus Harry was spared the expense and anxiety 
 of arranging a special meal. As for the wine, he had heard a 
 gentleman, the night before, praising the hotel’s Chateau 
 Brane Cantenac ’48. He ordered a bottle of this, which his 
 guest pronounced the best claret he had tasted for a month. 
 In short, the dinner turned out a great success. Although 
 this was the first time Harry had entertained a fellow-creature 
 outside his own house, he did not feel ill at ease ; partly be- 
 cause his recent dinner-parties in Bulford had taught him 
 table-manners and table-talk of the hour, and mainly because 
 Mr. Huntly-Martin proved himself one of the most entertain- 
 ing and entertainable of guests. 
 
 All of a sudden, however, Mr, Huntly-Martin stopped talk- 
 
194 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 ing and became morose. Coggin looked round. The other 
 diners, whose animated chatter had made the table cheerful, 
 were passing through the doorway. Meanwhile the sun had 
 sunk so low that the room was growing shadowy and chilly. 
 
 4 4 This gives me the blues,” grunted Mr. Huntly-Martin. 
 1 4 I can ’t stand it, can you ? Let ’s absquotulate. ’ ' 
 
 Coggin had never heard the word 4 4 absquotulate ’ 9 but by 
 this time he had guessed that his new acquaintance boasted 
 a rich thesaurus of synonyms for exire and that 4 4 mizzle ’ ’ and 
 4 4 slope’ ’ and “bolt” and 4 4 hook it” all meant merely 4 4 go.” 
 And as he too felt depressed by the surroundings, he readily 
 agreed to a stroll. 
 
 4 4 Ever been to Tiddens’, eh?” asked Huntly-Martin. 
 
 4 4 No. I should like to.” Coggin answered. He took it for 
 granted that Tiddens’ would be a cafe where some special beer 
 or curacao or 4 4 half-om-half ” was to be imbibed: and there- 
 fore he followed his guide with pleasant hopes. In the leafy 
 square called the Rembrandt-Plein, still warmed and bright- 
 ened by the setting sun, he would gladly have sat down to 
 watch the bustling people, from the front of his favorite cafe ; 
 but Mr. Huntly-Martin strode on and crossed the Binnen 
 Amstel where it was fully three hundred feet wide. After the 
 chilly wind blowing along the water, the narrow old streets on 
 the north bank seemed snug, especially as many gas lights 
 were being lit in the windows. They turned into a still nar- 
 rower lane. 
 
 4 4 Here we are,” said Mr. Huntly-Martin. 
 
 He had hardly spoken when a door was jerked inwards, 
 as if somebody had been eagerly awaiting this visit. The place 
 did not look like an ordinary cafe, but Harry had seen too 
 many unfamiliar interiors that afternoon to be surprised by 
 the curious little vestibule to which they were admitted. It 
 was bare of chairs and benches. Indeed, it held nothing save 
 a huge plaster-of-paris statue holding a lamp. Harry felt 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 195 
 
 an immediate and violent distaste for this big image. 
 Throughout a whole week he had been looking at pictures and 
 statues in the public galleries and had gradually come to per- 
 ceive that some modem painters and sculptors, while pre- 
 tending to represent the nude, were simply copying the naked. 
 This buxom plaster-of-paris lampbearer did not strike him as 
 a woman but as a mere female. It was not a work of art but 
 a thing deliberately made for sale to some ignoble buyer. 
 
 A very fat old woman appeared. As she planted herself 
 alongside the pedestal, even the statue seemed classical and 
 gracious by contrast. The old woman was very ugly, very 
 voluble, very gaudy. She hailed Mr. Huntly-Martin as if 
 he had been' a long-lost son, gesticulating a great deal with 
 her unpleasant be jeweled hands and jerking out a lot of 
 French, too rapid for Harry’s unpracticed ears. He had a 
 vague idea that the discussion had to do with some new kind 
 of punch which his lavish friend was ordering to be brewed. 
 At last the woman turned to him and said : 
 
 “Diss vay.” 
 
 She pushed open a swing-door and stood aside for the two 
 young men to pass. Harry recalled the skill with which 
 Mr. Huntly-Martin had gained entrance to two other Dutch 
 houses only a few hours before, and he went forward expect- 
 ing to see some old-fashioned kitchen or perhaps a little col- 
 lection of domestic brass and pottery. No doubt, rich old 
 Amsterdam was full of treasures not mentioned in the guide- 
 books. 
 
 A bell clanged somewhere, and a door at the far end of the 
 short broad corridor was flung wide. In an instant Harry, 
 with a smothered cry of horror and fear, leapt backward. He 
 had never heard or read a description of such a scene ; yet his 
 keen, clear instinct revealed to him in a flash the character 
 of the place which he had so innocently entered. The vision 
 seemed to outrage not only his eyes, but his ears, his nostrils, 
 
196 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 and all tlie senses of his body and soul. No wonder he leapt 
 back. It was as though the door of a fiery furnace had been 
 suddenly plucked open, letting a belch of scorching, blind- 
 ing flame and choking, sickening vapors drive full in his face. 
 He felt a reek of vile tobacco and viler perfumes, he heard a 
 shriek of lewd laughter and the pounding and shrilling of a 
 piano which seemed to be made of iron, and, most horrible of 
 all, he saw through clouds of smoke the inmates of the room. 
 
 The gaudy proprietress had waddled ahead: but Huntly- 
 Martin heard Coggin’s dull cry and hurried back to him. 
 
 “What ’s up?” he asked anxiously. “111? Tummy-ache? 
 Dutch cholera? What is it?” 
 
 If Harry had said: “Look here, you ’re mistaken. Hang 
 it all, I draw the line somewhere. I thought Tiddens’ was a 
 cafe or an exhibition. I ’m off,” Mr. Huntly-Martin would 
 probably have felt ashamed of himself and would have mizzled 
 or hooked it or absquotulated in Harry’s company to some 
 decent beer-garden. But, although the marine-store-dealer’s 
 son had rapidly learned the table-manners of the day and 
 could use the approved jargon about pictures, it was less than 
 a month since Edward Redding had begun to extricate him 
 from the life of a hermit. So he did not even attempt to 
 behave like a man of the world. Instead of explaining, ex- 
 postulating, arguing, he surrendered his whole mind to one 
 question — the question of escape, or flight, from his captors. 
 It did not occur to him that Huntly-Martin was merely an 
 immoral and idle young man who had simply made a colossal 
 blunder. He felt he was trapped in an ante-room of hell, 
 with fiends, hags, witches, syrens, sorceresses, demons tingling 
 to pounce upon him. » 
 
 Two jerks of Harry’s powerful shoulder sent Huntly-Martin 
 spinning back into the house and bumped the swing-door out- 
 wards. Three strides of Harry’s lithe legs carried him to 
 the more massive door which shut him off from the street — 
 
BOSTON c6Ll£GE LIBRARY 
 CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. 
 
 THE WANDERER 197 
 
 a door studded with nails and fastened by many locks and 
 bolts. He had just laid hold of a sliding knob when the fright- 
 ful old vrouw wheezed alongside and jostled him away. For 
 a moment it looked as if she was locking him in more se- 
 curely, and the desperate Coggin was confronted, for the first 
 time in his life, with the problem of whether he could do 
 physical violence to a woman. Springs clicked, levers rattled ; 
 and then the door, pushed by a light wind outside, moved in- 
 wards, revealing the street and the passers-by. 
 
 “If he vish to go Vay, he can go Vay,” said the furious 
 hag in a voice which seemed to be as shrill as a scream al- 
 though it was not much louder than a hissing whisper. “Rut 
 go Vay like gentlemans.” 
 
 “Yes,” rapped out Huntly-Martin, who had followed her. 
 “Clear out quietly. Don’t make a damned fool of yourself. 
 We don’t want the police. If there ’s a row, you ’ll jolly well 
 be in it. Confound you, sir, what did you mean by saying 
 you wanted to come to Tiddens’? How was I to know that 
 you were a white marble statue of Innocence, just off the 
 pedestal? Skedaddle. Cut it. Be off. And, next time, 
 mind whom you shove with that shoulder of yours, or there 
 may be a bit of trouble. Melt.” 
 
 “Good-night, babba, go Vay home to mudder,” hissed the 
 old fury as she thrust him into the street. Her hiss could not 
 have been more terrible if all the envenomed serpents in the 
 world had been spitting out poison together. It seemed to 
 splash Harry’s cheek, like something scalding and unclean. 
 
 For fifty yards or so Harry stumbled forward, heeding 
 nothing but the fact that he was free. Then he perceived 
 that he was penetrating deeper and deeper into the haunts of 
 shame. He passed brightly-lighted cafes where grinning 
 creatures sat in the windows or stood at the doors and hailed 
 him as he passed. Evidently the place where Mr. Huntly- 
 Martin had taken him was not the vilest of the vile. It 
 
198 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 seemed as if he would have to retrace his steps, even at the 
 risk of running the gauntlet of Madame Tiddens’ rage and 
 scorn once more : but he came upon a short cross-street and at 
 the end of it he caught the gleam of a broad canal. 
 
 Beside the cool water he began to breathe more freely. But 
 where was he to go? Not to his inn: because Mr. Huntly- 
 Martin would probably seek him there, with more taunts. Not 
 to his favorite cafe; because the life of the town, which had 
 appeared so honest and jolly, was now all suspect in his excited 
 brain. ** 
 
 He hastened on, running rather than walking, in the un- 
 conscious hope that he would soon be in open spaces and pure 
 air. At Bulford, amidst his heaviest griefs, it had been his 
 habit to seek the quiet banks of the clear river or his sacred 
 grove in Yellowhammer Lane. Bulford was so small a town 
 that in twenty minutes he could be clear of the sickly gas- 
 lamps, the stamping horses, the jaded people, the stuffy 
 streets; and, whenever he left the moil behind and felt turf 
 instead of flagstones under his feet, he always seemed to have 
 walked away from his troubles as well as from the houses. 
 But here in Amsterdam it was different. On and on he went ; 
 but still he was among people, people, people ; houses, houses, 
 houses: and although Deme might be called a mere brook in 
 comparison with the Singel and the Rokin and the other great 
 canals, Harry began to crave for its pure air and sweet waters, 
 like a traveler in a desert. 
 
 His whole body and soul suddenly loathed the ubiquitous, 
 brackish, almost rotting smell of Amsterdam ’s countless water- 
 ways. "Why had he left his own dear town, his own breezy 
 country-side, his books, his piano, his organ, his horse, his 
 simple pleasures? Why had he so weakly allowed Mr. Red- 
 ding’s prankish son to turn him out of house and home and 
 fatherland? It rushed over him that he must turn home, 
 that very moment, home again to Bulford, where he could 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 199 
 
 once more shatter and down his troubles in great organ- 
 music, rushing and roaring like a mill-race; where he could 
 begin each day with a deep dive into the purifying Deme; 
 where he could pelt across country on the willing back of his 
 best friend, Bay Rum ; where he could live frugally and work 
 hard ; where, although difficulties and dangers might be daily 
 visitors, vice never showed him her leering face. Yes. He 
 must go home, this very night. 
 
 The wrathful old woman’s parting gibe hissed again in his 
 head. “Go vay home to mudder!” And in that moment a 
 sword pierced his soul. “Home to mother” ; and all the time 
 the mother who bore him was lying quietly under eight feet 
 of Bulford earth. As for his home, strangers at that very 
 moment were tearing down partitions, bundling out his old 
 possessions and painting their own names over the name of 
 Henry Coggin. He had a lock-up cubicle in a London furni- 
 ture repository, secured for him by Edward Redding, where 
 his books and music were stored, together with his old piano 
 and a new box ; but nowhere had he a home. Once more his 
 heart flamed with resentment against Edward Redding. He 
 clenched his fists and swore to himself that he would be back 
 in Bulford, back in the chapel, back facing his foes, back with 
 Bay Rum, before forty-eight hours could pass. 
 
 He felt for his watch ; but at the same instant the bells of 
 the Wester-Kerk, a few streets away, began a rippling chime. 
 Glancing up he recognized a familiar building, with an open 
 door. Almost but not quite unwittingly, his hurrying steps 
 had brought him to that Catholic church wherein stood the 
 image of the Virgin Mother which had allured him so strangely 
 a day or two before. 
 
 Harry entered the church. The nave was chill and dim: 
 but a hanging lamp burned before the High Altar. The tiny, 
 restless flame was like a drop of living blood from a Heart 
 on fire with love for men. Pressing nearer, he saw other lights 
 
200 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 twinkling in a side-chapel ; and a moment later he was kneel- 
 ing before the Woman, the gracious, lovely Woman of his old 
 engraving at Bulford. He could hardly resist an impulse to 
 step over the low brass rails and to lay his hot forehead against 
 the small white feet. The mats, the cushions, the chairs, the 
 pictures, the candlesticks, the walls, the windows, might be- 
 long to Dutchmen ; but he felt as if this chapel and this image 
 were his own, his very own. Without murmuring one prayer, 
 without thinking one definite thought, he remained on his 
 knees, gazing into the beautiful, pitiful face, until an im- 
 patient sacristan loudly jangled a bunch of keys and aroused 
 him from his trance. 
 
 Harry Coggin walked back to his hotel with a light tread. 
 On descending the steps of the church, he had suddenly de- 
 cided to leave Amsterdam for Germany that very night. Not 
 that he was afraid. Throughout his life, cleanliness of mind 
 and body had been his master-passion. To Harry the knowl- 
 edge of the existence of such places as Tiddens’ was a rude 
 and sickening disillusionment, but it was not even the shadow 
 of a temptation. All the same, he accepted that evening ? s ex- 
 perience as a loud summons to move on. He knew that there 
 was a late train by which he could regain his honest quarters 
 in Rotterdam before midnight, and that there was a steam- 
 boat starting early the next morning, by way of the river Waal, 
 for Nijmegen and the Rhine. 
 
 The streets were full of people, but Harry no longer shrank 
 from them. Sanity and fairness had returned to him and he 
 understood that, in spite of the foul canker which Huntly- 
 Martin had revealed to him, most of the men and women 
 he passed were clean-living, honest and industrious. He even 
 entered his favorite cafe for a last hurried visit and drank 
 a farewell glass of lager beer. At the table adjoining his 
 own, an innumerable Dutch family party was merrily cele- 
 brating some innocent anniversary. Yet Harry did not envy 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 201 
 
 the bouncing girls and the light-hearted lads; for he knew 
 already in his heart, though not yet in his head, that he 
 too had a Mother and that for him too a home was waiting, 
 walled and roofed, warmed and garnished. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 T AKING Edward Redding’s advice, Coggin avoided 
 the great cities and began his German travels in 
 university towns and in riverside or upland vil- 
 lages. So rigidly did he follow his friend’s counsels that he 
 did not land at Cologne but supped and slept on board the 
 steamboat. 
 
 The bank of the Rhine at Bonn was the first stretch of 
 German soil to be trodden by Harry’s feet. At that moment 
 he felt it good to be alive. Mounting eagerly to the bastion 
 called the Alte Zoll he gazed across the noble stream, fully 
 five hundred yards wide, towards the peaks and saddles of the 
 Seven Mountains. A hot sun shone from a blue sky upon the 
 shimmering water, but the June heat was tempered by a de- 
 licious breeze blowing from the cool hill-tops over the fresh 
 flood. Here and there the slopes wore a thin green verdure, 
 not like grass; and Coggin knew that, for the first time, he 
 was beholding vineyards. 
 
 That day in Bonn was a day of marvels. The traveler 
 could have lingered for hours in and around the Romanesque 
 minster, with its two choirs and its many towers and its pil- 
 lared cloisters. He had never seen a Romanesque church be- 
 fore, and its lines, its masses, its plan fascinated. So did 
 the miles of avenues, the vast buildings of the University, 
 the knots of students, the fountains, and the old houses. With 
 some difficulty he gained admission to a strange dwelling- 
 house in the Bonngasse — the birthplace of Beethoven. As he 
 had never visited Stratford-on-Avon or any other artistic 
 shrine, his first emotions in Germany surprised him. He had 
 expected to be merely interested in this Beethovenhaus ; but 
 
 202 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 203 
 
 when the moment came he was overwhelmed by the mighty 
 memories of the spot and by his own presumption in having 
 thought that he too might write music which should never 
 perish. Twenty minutes later, when he stood in the old 
 cemetery beside the plain grave of his beloved Schumann who 
 had died only eight years before, this conviction of his own 
 littleness and impudence again possessed him. Would a pil- 
 grim ever journey, guide-book in hand, to the birth-chamber 
 of Henry Coggin, in Bullock Yard at Bulford? Would a 
 disciple ever uncover a bowed head over Henry Coggin ’s grave 
 at ... ? 
 
 At . . . where? The lance of utter loneliness once more 
 drove its sharp length through Harry’s soul! Till this 
 moment, in his youth and strength, he had never given a 
 thought to his burial-place: but all of a sudden he realized 
 that, wherever else it might be, he could never rest with his 
 own kindred in the green acre above the rippling Deme. 
 
 Shaking off these gloomy thoughts, Harry hastened back 
 through the cheerful market-place and was soon seated in a 
 cafe on the bank of the Rhine. Mid-day dinner had just 
 begun to be served — watery soup, boiled beef with stewed 
 cherries, an excellent veal cutlet, and a kind of hot cake. 
 Having taken nothing since the night before save a cup of 
 coffee and a buttered roll, the young man was so ravenously 
 hungry that this meal seemed the best he had ever tasted. 
 It was helped by a bottle of Drachenblut — the blood of the 
 dragon slain by Siegfried halfway up the castle-topped 
 Draehenfels, which was in full view as Harry looked upstream 
 through the open window of the cafe. With such legendary 
 names ringing in his ears and with such sights before his eyes, 
 he had a pleasing consciousness that he was a traveler in- 
 deed. And this consciousness was sharpened when a middle- 
 aged German, who spoke English, entered into affable con- 
 versation. 
 
204 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 On hearing that Coggin had visited Utrecht only a few 
 days before, the German, who was evidently a person of 
 academic importance, questioned him closely about the Old 
 Catholic sect and seemed disappointed at the meager answers 
 he received : but when Henry asked if there were many Old 
 Catholics in Bonn the stranger seemed more vexed and made 
 haste to change the subject. Becoming genial again, he en- 
 larged on several things which were puzzling the young 
 Englishman. He explained, for instance, the meaning and 
 uses of a gigantic bowl or goblet, big enough for half-a-dozen 
 gold-fish, which was being ceremoniously served to a party of 
 roystering students; and he would have given the recipe if 
 his English had not failed him when he tried to name the 
 fruits and flowers which were thrown into the bowl with six 
 or seven bottles of good Rhenish. But his English was again 
 serviceable enough when he proceeded to instruct Harry in the 
 best way of visiting the Seven Mountains, the Volcanic Eifel, 
 and the valleys of the Moselle and the Ahr. 
 
 On Midsummer Day, while an almost tropical rain was turn- 
 ing the cobbled street outside his hotel window into something 
 like a mountain torrent, Harry Coggin wrote as follows to Ed- 
 ward Redding: 
 
 Limburg, Nassau , 
 June 24, 1864. 
 
 Dear Mr. Edward, 
 
 1 hope you received my second letter from Holland. It 
 was posted at Gouda, where I saw the windows by the 
 Crabeths. 
 
 Germany is a very fine country; much finer than Holland. 
 The Seven Mountains are beautiful, but not so savage and 
 grand as the mountains you took me to see last month, before 
 I left Bulford. The rivers are splendid. I have seen the 
 Rhine, the Ahr, and the Lahn; and to-morrow I hope to begin 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 205 
 
 steaming up the Moselle. Good light rowing-boats are hard to 
 find on these rivers; but I get my morning swim. In Holland 
 I missed it very much , and I do not strongly wish to see the 
 Canals again. The Dutch seem to be very clean people at 
 first , until it occurs to you that they scour their things with 
 dirty water. 
 
 The food here is good and very cheap. Perhaps the soups 
 are rather poor , but they often give me newly-caught trout and 
 sometimes venison. I seldom pay more than a thaler for 
 supper and a bed and breakfast. Even on the steamer they 
 charge only two silbergroschen for a cup of coffee. “Silber- 
 groschen” may sound important but, of course, two silber- 
 groschen are only about twopence-half penny. I take your ad- 
 vice, Mr. Edward, and always stay at good inns, without 
 stinting myself. For example I drink wine every day at both 
 Mittagessen, as they call their mid-day dinner, and at Aben- 
 dessen. I try the wine of the district I am in, nad it gen- 
 erally costs about sevenpence the small bottle. Nearly all the 
 wines are white; but I found some good pale red or pink wine 
 while I was walking up the valley of the Ahr, called Walporz- 
 heimer. 
 
 1 think I like the Germans. They are always ready to be 
 friendly and to give you their ideas. You were quite right 
 though, Mr. Edward , when you said that they would rather 
 practise their English than let me practise my German; and 
 sometimes it is difficult to shake them off when you want to 
 go about alone. 
 
 You said I was to make myself known to the organists. Here 
 in Limburg I screwed up my courage to do so and the organist 
 of the cathedral allowed me to play yesterday. The cathedral 
 is a splendid old building with seven towers, standing high) 
 above the river. I felt it was a great honor, being allowed to 
 play. It ivas strange to be playing an organ once more. 
 There is a piano in this inn, so I am quite musical again. 
 
206 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Mr. Edward, you told me I would not like the English 
 travelers on the Rhine and you were right. I never show any 
 inclination to address them, hut nevertheless they look at me 
 as much as to say “keep your distance and we will keep ours.” 
 At Konigswinter I felt sorry for an English gentleman and 
 two ladies, because they spoke no German and could not ex- 
 plain that they wanted horses instead of donkeys to go up the 
 hill: hilt when 1 tried to he of assistance they snuhhed me for 
 my pains. On the other hand , there are some English people 
 traveling in Rhine-land who are not stiff and particular 
 enough. At the Kreuzherg, behind Bonn, I was shown round 
 the Servitenkloster in company with a family from London. 
 They made fun of the Holy Staircase ( copied in Italian marble 
 from the staircase at the Lateran in Rome, which is said to he 
 the very staircase trodden by Our Savior’s feet when He was 
 brought before Pontius Pilate) and afterwards they made a 
 sad disturbance. It appeared that, some years ago, visitors to 
 the Kreuzherg used to be shown the skeletons or mummies of 
 some dead monks in a vault under the church. My com- 
 panions had read an account of these corpses in a book by Tom 
 Hood and they were very angry at hearing that the remains 
 were no longer exhibited. One of the party kept demanding 
 “to see the Bishop about it” and another told our guide that 
 they would not mind paying something extra. 
 
 All the same, Mr. Edward , I like the English best, in spite 
 of their faults. If I must take a German name (as you say 
 that all composers do, except when they call themselves 
 Italians) I shall still always be an Englishman at heart. 
 
 To-day it is raining hard, so 1 shall spend most of the after- 
 noon studying German. I have begun to make a manuscript 
 collection of words and phrases which are not in the ordinary 
 dictionaries, and I find this task very interesting and instruc- 
 tive. Nor have I forgotten that you want some German pot- 
 tery and such things . There was a fair at Ober-Lahnstein and 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 207 
 
 1 found some curious pewter, earthenware and glass there . 
 
 Trusting and praying that you and your esteemed parents 
 are enjoying good health, and once more thanking you for 
 favors which I can never hope to repay, 
 
 I remain, Dear Mr. Edward, 
 
 Tour obliged and obedient servant , 
 Henry Coggin. 
 
 Before receiving this letter, Edward Redding had begun to 
 feel a little ashamed of his raid on Bulford and more than a 
 little doubtful of his plan of turning Henry Coggin into a Ger- 
 man. But there was a strong strain of obstinacy in his char- 
 acter, and he hated turning back or admitting himself to have 
 been in the wrong. So Harry’s letter was good^to read. It 
 restored his complacency. Events were proving that he had 
 done right in sending Harry to Germany. But Edward Red- 
 ding did not show Coggin ’s letter to his father. 
 
CHAPTER Y 
 
 T HE costliness of his days in Holland notwithstanding, 
 Harry Coggin found, at the end of his sixth week 
 on the Continent, that he had spent a good deal less 
 than the twenty pounds a month prescribed by Edward Red- 
 ding. He gave tips liberally and always drank something 
 better than the cheapest tischwein: yet his expenses in the 
 little German towns never surpassed three pounds a week. 
 This discovery so troubled his excessive scrupulousness that, 
 before falling asleep one night in early July, he said to him- 
 self : 
 
 “ To-morrow, God willing, I will have a great day. After 
 my swim I will order a big breakfast, with cold bacon, such 
 as I used to have in Bulford. Then I will get permission 
 to play the church-organ. And after that I will find a horse, 
 for a good gallop. ’ ’ 
 
 Harry ’s plunge into the gentle Moselle was glorious. As he 
 came to the surface and dashed the water from his eyes he saw 
 the big sun staring at him through the one window of a ruined 
 castle on a hill, high above the vineyards. Breakfast did not 
 ex'actly reproduce his Bulford repast, but the cold sausages 
 with their terrible names of Blutwurst, Leberwurst and 
 Schlachtwurst were fascinating and tasty. 
 
 A thaler to the sacristan, and six silbergrosehen to the 
 sacristan’s little son for blowing the bellows, sufficed to ar- 
 range the affair of the organ ; and, as the parish priest was ab- 
 sent on business, Harry drew music from the strange little in- 
 strument, to his heart’s great easing, for nearly an hour. He 
 was about to leave the church when it occurred to him that 
 
 208 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 209 
 
 the sacristan might be able to put him in the way of hiring a 
 horse; and after some misunderstandings on both sides the 
 boy organ-blower guided the young Englishman to some 
 shabby stables in a back street of the village. 
 
 The four poor beasts which met Harry’s disappointed g'aze 
 were jaded post-horses, mournfully awaiting their turn be- 
 tween the shafts of the diligence. He was about to move away 
 when the job-master appeared. A lively discussion arose and 
 at last the man wrote some lines on a sheet of paper, which 
 he despatched somewhither by the hand of the boy. Then, 
 opening an inner door, he revealed, in a clean stall, a beautiful 
 black mare which would not have disgraced an English stable. 
 
 Harry ’s command of the German language had so much im- 
 proved that he was able to begin bargaining. The man, 
 however, shook his head scornfully and muttered some re- 
 marks which his hearer was still trying to understand when 
 a loud voice sounded without and a broad-shouldered German 
 came striding in. The new-comer’s gait and manner showed 
 at once that he belonged to the squire class. 
 
 “Guten morgen, mein Herr,” began Coggin nervously, 
 when the stranger had stared at him for ten seconds or so with- 
 out a word. “Wiirden Sie freundlichst ...” 
 
 “Bitte, sprechen Sie English. Ich verstehe Englisch. Ich 
 bin zweimal in London gewesen,” said the other. 
 
 Harry had no difficulty in translating the answer and was 
 immensey relieved at being able to speak English with this 
 brawny gentleman who had been twice in London. Framing 
 his sentences clearly and simply, he explained that for six 
 weeks he had not mounted a horse and that he was trying to 
 find a hack for an hour or two. He added modestly that he 
 perceived there had been a mistake and he congratulated the 
 owner on his splendid black mare. 
 
 The German was pleased and they were soon talking horses 
 with much animation. In the end the mare was saddled and 
 
210 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 led forth to a spot where the vineclad slopes shrank back from 
 the winding Moselle, leaving a flat green strath between the 
 hills and the river. Clambering rather clumsily into the 
 saddle the mare’s heavy master proudly showed Coggin her 
 paces. After galloping the whole length of the strath and 
 back, in a showy style, he dismounted and invited the English- 
 man to take his place. 
 
 The dainty beast whinnied with pleasure at the touch of 
 Harry’s lithe limbs and at the caress he gave her as he vaulted 
 lightly upon a back which had too often endured a rider at 
 least two stone too heavy for her. This black mare and the 
 black-haired Harry Coggin seemed made one for the other. 
 Off they went like the wind. The end of the strath was gained 
 in a flash ; and thence they flew on along the high-road, skirt- 
 ing the river till they had turned a headland and disappeared 
 from sight. Five minutes later they came racing back and 
 Harry leapt to the ground so radiant with delight that he failed 
 to notice the relief of the German, who had begun to think 
 that his black mare was gone forever. 
 
 Having thus failed to lighten his purse by more than the 
 trifles he had bestowed as trinkgeld, Harry ordered at his mid- 
 day dinner a bottle of Schloss Johannisberger, ’51, to follow 
 his halbflasch of thin young Moselwein. The meal was served 
 in a summer-arbor, clad with freely-growing vines, on the 
 river-bank. The diner ought to have been content ; for the 
 food was excellent and he preferred solitude to the best of 
 company. Yet he could not abandon himself to simple happi- 
 ness. Six weeks had passed in idleness. If only he could have 
 helped to shell the peas or to wash his own plates, he would 
 have felt less useless and guilty. 
 
 An exclamation from the road, which ran a little above the 
 arbor, made the lonely diner glance up. He saw the black 
 mare’s German owner looking down at him. Harry rose at 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 211 
 
 once and opened the wicket-gate. The German, after hesitat- 
 ing a moment, came into the garden and sat down at the 
 dinner-table, where Harry, seizing the opportunity of 
 acknowledging the loan of the mare, very politely pressed him 
 to have a glass of wine. 
 
 The German was on the point of refusing, somewhat curtly, 
 when he caught sight of the label on the bottle — a label show- 
 ing that the wine was from the renowned estate of Prince 
 Metternich. With a start of surprise he pushed forward a 
 goblet and allowed Harry to fill it full. Having sniffed and 
 sipped it with reverent attention, he half emptied the glass 
 and straightway became a different man. Not that the Fiirst 
 von Metternischer Cabinet-wein could affect him so much and 
 so soon. It was rather that the label and the seal shed luster 
 on the young Englishman and dispelled the German’s doubts. 
 The inexpensiveness of Harry’s neat clothes and his deferen- 
 tial bearing had given this Rhenish Junker pause; but sud- 
 denly he remembered that simplicity of dress and manner was 
 the vogue among the younger English aristocracy and he re- 
 solved to go on with the project he had formed an hour before. 
 
 At the end of half-an-hour’s dialogue in English and Ger- 
 man, Harry understood what was asked of him. This new 
 acquaintance, the Freiherr von Ehrenwald-Bendelheim, was 
 anxious to arrange a race-meeting on English lines. The long 
 flat strath was a splendid racecourse. Two hundred and fifty 
 thalers would be given by the Freiherr as prize-money. Was 
 Harry able tp stay in the neighborhood a week or so longer, 
 and to direct the whole affair? 
 
 Coggin’s first impulse was to beg off and to get out of the 
 village at once. But a fierce desire, helped by the Schloss 
 Johannisberger, to be busy somehow, suddenly shriveled up 
 both his Puritanism and his pettiness. After all, why should 
 he not do this? Much of his life had been spent among 
 ostlers and other horsey people; and, although he had only 
 
212 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 seen Bulford Races as one of the plebs, his prehensile wits and 
 retentive memory had made him understand racing as if to 
 the manner bom. Of course in 1864 there was no handicap- 
 ping ; and most race-meetings were on simple lines. So Harry 
 filled his own and the Freiherr’s glasses once more and boldly 
 said “Yes.” 
 
 The days which followed were a long delight to Harry and 
 a season of pride for the Freiherr. The fame of the pale 
 black-haired young Englishman, who invariably swam a kilo- 
 meter in the Moselle before sitting down to eat a breakfast 
 for three, flew along the valley. The Anzeige of every little 
 town published tempting paragraphs about the forthcoming 
 races. Everybody except Harry knew that the meeting was 
 being got up to spite a certain upstart Baron — neugebcicken, 
 or new-baked, the Freiherr dubbed him — who had lately 
 arranged an ostentatious gala regardless of expense ; and this 
 lent a keener piquancy to the event. 
 
 Just above the narrow end of the strath, the conformation 
 of the hill-side was so suitable for a grand stand that Nature 
 seemed to have had the Freiherr’s race-day in view for thou- 
 sands of years. The cou||e presented many difficulties, but 
 Harry was equal to them all. He often amazed the gentry by 
 throwing off his coat and showing the rustic carpenters what 
 to do and how to do it. This caused uneasiness until the 
 Freiherr explained that he had seen in England a certain 
 young Count Cecil, belonging to the most ancient nobility, who 
 had washed his own shirt and baked his own bread in the 
 Australian gold-diggings. On hearing that the Freiherr had 
 said this, the village schoolmaster turned up an old magazine 
 article about racing in England and it soon began to be whis- 
 pered about that the Freiherr’s young English friend was a 
 near relative of the hochwohlgeboren Lords Derby and Epsom 
 who owned all the most famous English race-horses. 
 
 There were only three races on the card : but, according to 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 213 
 
 the custom of the time, each race was run in three heats, thus 
 giving a good afternoon’s racing. The question of two-year- 
 olds did not arise, as nobody had any in training. The 
 Freiherr’s two hundred and fifty thalers, which were worth 
 less than forty pounds in English money, sufficed to provide 
 prizes of a hundred thalers each for the two open races while 
 the remaining fifty purchased a respectable little silver gob- 
 let for the Officers’ Cup. 
 
 The great afternoon came and went. For the Freiherr it 
 was a resounding triumph. As for Harry, the Anzeige de- 
 clared that he was covered with glory ; and so said everybody. 
 Had he not so grouped what seemed to be the hopelessly ill- 
 assorted competitors in the short-distance race that the final 
 heat was the most exciting struggle of the day ? Had he not, 
 when riding himself in the long-distance race, carried the 
 Freiherr’s English mare Dark Dollie to easy victory, running 
 clean away from everything and everybody? Above all, when 
 the blacksmith’s idiot son fell into the river, had not the 
 Englishman plunged instantly to the rescue and saved the 
 queer little life? 
 
 While the country folk buzzed round him after he had put 
 on dry clothes, Harry himself did not feel conceited. He had 
 fished too many people out of canals and rivers to grow ex- 
 cited over one more or less. Nor was there much to boast 
 of in his winning the long-distance event against such a field. 
 Indeed, Coggin had formed a poor opinion of the Germans as 
 horsemasters ; and he thought that even the officers had small 
 ground for feeling proud of their mounts. What pleased 
 him most was that the people had enjoyed themselves and that 
 the Freiherr was more than satisfied. 
 
 Somebody bawled a command and the crowd fell back, re- 
 vealing an elderly stranger whose importance was proved by 
 the fact that the officers themselves made way for him. Harry, 
 
214 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 who had been partially instructed by the Freiherr in Ger- 
 man modes of address, thought he heard some one say the words 
 wirklicher Geheimrath , meaning Veritable Privy-Councilor. 
 The great man hulked forward and drew Harry on one side. 
 
 “I am glad to make your lordship’s acquaintance,” he be- 
 gan, addressing Harry in English which would have been 
 good if he had been able to pronounce 6 and g and th. 
 “ Freiherr von Ehrenwald has told me apout you. I wish 
 more Englishmen would travel in Shermany and learn Sher- 
 man.” 
 
 “I speak German very badly, Excellency,” said Harry. 
 And he was about to explain that he was not a lord when the 
 stranger interrupted him with a blunt question about the war 
 with Denmark. Why had so many Englishmen gone mad in 
 favor of the Danes? “Her Royal Highness the Princess of 
 Wales is very pewtiful,” he said, “but there is no Danish 
 plud in her veins.” He went on to declare that the people 
 of Schleswig-Holstein would be far happier under Prussian 
 rule and with German culture. Then he praised Lord Palmer- 
 ston for recognizing hard facts. What would have happened, 
 he asked, if England had fought Prussia on Denmark’s be- 
 half? “Unless France and Austria and Switzerland and 
 Pelgium and Holland and Russia had joined you, your won- 
 derful navy could not have plockaded Prussia, and you had 
 not an army to fight us on lant. ” 
 
 Harry, who had followed the short course of the Prussian- 
 Danish war with great eagerness up to his leaving England, 
 but had not seen a report of the speech made by Lord Palmer- 
 ston only a week before, respectfully began to make comment, 
 but the great man again cut him short and poured out a long 
 harangue in praise of a certain Herr von Bismarck. He fin- 
 ished by saying: “It is good that you travel in Shermany. 
 Go pack to England and tell your compatriots that our two 
 countries must be always friends. Who is your protection 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 215 
 
 against Russia? It is Prussia. What watches France, your 
 old enemy? It is Prussia. We are cousins, of the same plud. 
 Schleswig-Holstein will soon be contented with the change, 
 like your Scotland and your Wales/’ 
 
 “We have also Ireland and the Fenians,” objected Coggin. 
 But at that moment the Freiherr joined them; and close on 
 his heels pushed two beaming, well-groomed young English- 
 men, entirely lacking reverence for the divinity which hedges 
 a wirklicher Geheimrat. 
 
 “Look here, I say,” blurted out the first young English- 
 man. “Who the devil are you?” 
 
 “Yes,” cried the second, “that ’s what we want to know. 
 We heard about your races at Coblenz. We were sick of the 
 beastly Rhine and the beastly steamer so we cut along here. 
 The beastly steamer stuck near Cochem, — not enough water — 
 and we couldn’t get anything except a beastly diligence, full 
 of fleas.” 
 
 The word ‘ ‘ beastly ’ ’ was only just establishing itself in the 
 English language; and Harry had never heard it used save 
 in its dictionary sense. Before he could think of any answer 
 to make, the second Englishman fired another volley of ques- 
 tions, with “beastly” in every one of them. 
 
 “I wish your lordship goot evening,” said the Veritable 
 Privy-Councilor, deeply offended. And he went away with 
 the Freiherr, leaving Harry still tongue-tied. 
 
 “There!” chuckled the first Englishman. “We ’ve picked 
 up the scent. He ’s a lord.” 
 
 “I ’m not a lord,” retorted Harry, becoming exasperated. 
 And after the two young men, who were evidently very keen 
 sportsmen, had mentioned Eton and Harrow, Oxford and Cam- 
 bridge, and had pressed him beyond endurance, he suddenly 
 snapped out: “I ’m a poor man’s son. I only went to school 
 for a fortnight. I ’ve never seen Oxford or Cambridge in my 
 life.” 
 
216 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “Fiddlesticks,” said the elder. 
 
 “Gammon,” said the younger. And after a pause, he 
 asked : ‘ ‘ Then what ’s your name ? I suppose you ’ll say it ’s 
 William Smith or John Jones.” 
 
 “My name is Coggin,” Harry answered. 
 
 “Exactly,” laughed the younger. “So they told us at the 
 beastly inn. That ’s what excites our curiosity. Of course 
 we twigged it at once.” 
 
 “I don’t understand,” said Harry uneasily. “Twigged 
 what ? ’ ’ 
 
 “Why, the name Coggin of course. We ’re not fools, or 
 as blind as bats. Come, come, your lorship. Cogg-in . . . 
 or In-cog ... we ’ve got it, now haven’t we?” 
 
 Harry stood thunderstruck at this undreamt-of but plausi- 
 ble theory. While still speaking, the younger Englishman 
 had been rapidly scribbling with a pencil. He held up a card 
 and Harry read: 
 
 COGGIN 
 
 INCOO 
 
 “My name is Coggin, Henry Coggin, and nothing else,” 
 said Harry desperately. “It ’s the only name I ever had. ’ ’ 
 
 “Hang it all, don’t be so beastly unsociable,” said his cross- 
 examiner. “Your race-meeting was stunning and we ’re 
 proud of you. I ’ll tell you who we are ourselves. Just turn 
 over the card. My name ’s Brasher — Sir Richard Brasher. I 
 hunt the Digg county, y’ know. My friend is Mr. Copping- 
 ton, the Honorable Everard Coppington, Lord Knott’s only 
 son — Lord Knott of the Jockey Club, y’ know. You ’ve told 
 these beastly German fellows who you are, and I ’m sure you ’ll 
 tell us too.” 
 
 Harry retreated, in dismay and utter bewilderment. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Of course, if you have reasons for secrecy, we have enough 
 delicacy to respect them,” put in Mr. Coppington. “But I 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 217 
 
 hope you will pardon the liberty if I make a single observation. 
 Unless I am greatly mistaken you are Lord Sarrow of Sar- 
 rowden. Everybody knows that Lord Sarrow has been roving 
 incog, about the Continent ever since he came into the title. 
 If I ’m right, let me assure your lordship that nobody speaks 
 ill of your father any more. The affair was explained, the 
 cloud lifted; and you would return to find nothing but wel- 
 comes and kindness. ’ ’ 
 
 4 ‘ This is all a ridiculous mistake,” cried Harry, in conster- 
 nation. And, as they shrugged their shoulders in good- 
 humored incredulity, he added wildly : ‘ 6 If you want to know 
 the truth, my father dealt in rags and bones.” 
 
 “And your grandfather was Burke, the poisoner,” said Sir 
 Richard Brasher. “And your mother took in washing. And 
 your great-uncle was a tripe-dresser, And your twin-brother 
 is an undertaker’s mute, with a red nose. Very well, Lord 
 Sarrow; if you haven’t the grace to reciprocate what was 
 merely the friendly act of two fellow-countrymen you can 
 jolly well take yourself to Coventry. We are spending the 
 night here — at the other inn, not yours — and if you are 
 ashamed of yourself by the morning you can come and say so. 
 All I ’ve got to say is that it was a damned good afternoon’s 
 racing ; and you can go to the devil. ’ 9 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 I F Henry Coggin had been a charlatan and an adventurer 
 he would have found it easy to deepen the mystery which 
 had begun to enshroud him and to reap a rich harvest 
 of pleasures and profits. He had read more than one novel 
 wherein shady Englishmen had found Germany a happy 
 hunting-ground : but, as he was simply an honest and modest 
 man, he felt no itch to copy these flashy humbugs of romance. 
 
 The Freiherr had invited Harry to dine that evening at the 
 Schloss, three miles away, with a numerous party. What was 
 to be done? The Veritable Privy-Councilor would certainly 
 be there ; and perhaps Sir Richard Brasher and the Honorable 
 Everard Coppington as well. Harry promptly decided on 
 flight. Returning to the inn he wrote a very polite letter to 
 the Freiherr, explaining that he was suddenly forced to go 
 away. He made a respectful suggestion concerning Dark 
 Dollie ’s prize-money and enclosed a hundred thalers with the 
 request that a two-kilometer race should be run annually un- 
 der the odd name of “The Bay Rum Cup.” 
 
 Having swallowed a hasty meal and paid the reckoning at 
 his inn, Harry bespoke the services of a lad to carry his 
 luggage over the hill to the nearest steamboat-pier. The 
 Moselle made one of her great bends at that point, and many 
 miles could be saved by climbing the narrow neck of the prom- 
 ontory and catching the steamer on the other side. When 
 nearly all the people were engrossed in rustic merry-makings 
 on the strath, Harry and his porter stole almost unheeded out 
 of the village and up through the vineyards. But as soon 
 as the summit was reached, Harry stopped and said in Ger- 
 man : 
 
 “Here are twenty silbergroschen. Give me my rucksack. 
 
 218 
 
THE WANDERER 219 
 
 If I do not return here before the church clock strikes eight, 
 you may go back home.” 
 
 The rucksack or pouch was not very heavy ; for most of the 
 traveler’s baggage had been left in a gasthaus at Oberwesel, 
 on the Rhine. Abandoning his intention of catching the 
 steamer Harry went forward at a great pace until the by-road 
 steepened and began winding up to the table-land of the 
 Hohe-Eifel. He gained a good and fairly level road at a 
 height of perhaps seven or eight hundred feet above the 
 Moselle ; and there a cart, coming from the east, overtook him 
 and gave him a lift and a rest for a couple of hours. When the 
 carter had to turn aside into a by-lane, he gave his strange pas- 
 senger full directions concerning an inn, not far away: but 
 Harry preferred to tramp on through the cool dusk, under the 
 tranquil stars — the self-same stars that had often beamed down 
 pitifully upon him during his grievous pacings to and fro in 
 Yellowhammer Lane. 
 
 The nights were at their shortest; and soon the half -dark 
 made room for a glorious dawn and a flaming sunrise. Just as 
 the wayfarer ’s strength was failing, his instinct told him that 
 he was near water. The road dipped and he found himself 
 close to a hurrying stream gurgling against a dark cliff which 
 supported a broken castle. Five minutes later he was splash- 
 ing in a crystal pool; and straightway Sir Richard and the 
 Honorable Everard lost their terrors, like nightmares when 
 the night is past. 
 
 Harry rambled about the Eifel for a week, tramping nearly 
 thirty miles a day. The highland air did him good. No 
 whistle of steamboat or of railway-engine broke the mountain’s 
 ancient peace. As the high roads were made of basaltic lava, 
 harder than a marble pavement, which grew fearfully hot un- 
 der the July sun, he cut across the grain of the country, by 
 field-paths and mere wheel-tracks ; yet he generally contrived 
 
220 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 to walk at dinner-time or at supper-time into some white- 
 washed inn where there were eggs and trout, hams and fowls, 
 cheese and conserves, as well as young, sharp thirst-quenching 
 wine. 
 
 Rising above meadows as luxuriant as any in the rich vale 
 of the Deme, Harry came, again and again, upon strange long- 
 cold volcanoes. In one old crater he watched men cutting 
 peat; in another haymakers were busy; while the third and 
 fourth held deep and silent lakes. To go up-hill instead of 
 down to find a lake was odd. It seemed like going upstairs to 
 a wine-cellar. But the climb merely served to heighten the 
 delight of a plunge into those pure and mysterious waters, 
 nestling like soft blue birds in Vulcan’s forsaken forges. 
 
 One day, Harry sat basking in the sun after a long swim 
 in the circular Pulvermaar, a crater-lake of about a hundred 
 acres, set in pine-woods. He was turning over with his toes 
 the large-grained black volcanic sand which formed the beach, 
 when he heard wheels on the lava road a furlong away. He 
 grabbed his clothes and sought shelter. 
 
 Hardly was the bather’s toilet finished when a German, 
 rather absurdly dressed as if for feats of mountaineering in 
 the Dolomites, pushed slowly through the trees to the edge 
 of the water. He seemed to have come in quest of something 
 which he could not find, and his disappointment was so great 
 that Harry felt bound to step forward with an offer of help. 
 
 4 'Good!” cried the stranger. And, speaking a little Eng- 
 lish, mixed with much German, he explained that Harry was 
 the very gentleman he was seeking ; that he had read, two days 
 previously, an account of the races in a Trier newspaper; that, 
 only an hour before, in the inn at Gillenfeld, he had heard that 
 a young Englishman answering to Harry’s description was in 
 the neighborhood ; and that he had posted at once to the lake, 
 where he felt sure of finding him. Finally, he insisted on 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 221 
 
 giving Harry a seat in Ms carriage, as they were both going to 
 Monreal, in the Eltzthal, twenty miles away. 
 
 Fortunately for Harry, the stranger was one of those Numer- 
 ous Germans who preferred talking to listening. His favorite 
 phrase seemed to be ‘ ‘ was halten Sie ? ’ ’ meaning 4 4 what is your 
 opinion ?”, but he never waited for the opinion to be given. 
 The young Englishman was beginning to feel the strain of 
 listening to a polyglot discourse in a ramshackle carriage when 
 an unexpected question was put to him. Did he know the 
 Domprobst Carl Kingsley? 
 
 Coggin had often heard of a clergyman named Charles 
 Kingsley but he could not fathom the meaning of Domprobst. 
 Luckily a German word for “author” came to his mind; so 
 he asked if this Charles Kingsley happened to be a schrift- 
 steller 
 
 Yes. It was the same. The German had “two times read 
 ‘ Vestvard Ho!*” Good. Well, in this very country, this 
 self-same Volcanic Eifel through which they were trundling, 
 Harry’s new acquaintance had met the Herr Pastor Kingsley 
 and, had helped to get him out of prison. 
 
 “Prison?” echoed Harry, in blank astonishment. 
 
 “Yes. Prison.” Herr Kingsley had been mistaken for a 
 spy or an assassin. His collection of bits of basalt and tufa 
 and other geological specimens, hidden in old socks, had been 
 mistaken for an incendiary’s stock-in-trade and the reverend! 
 schriftsteller had been flung into gaol. 
 
 4 4 But do not too much blame us, ’ ’ added the German, after 
 narrating his own part in the affair at great length. “You 
 say this would not have happened in England. It remains to 
 know. In my father’s lifetime, our Fatherland was invaded 
 by the French. They pillaged our cities, they ruined our 
 churches. Some day we must fight the French. Then Ger- 
 many will be once more united and will become rich and great 
 
222 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 — as great and rich as your England. And I beg you, mein 
 Herr, to remember that we are at war even now. It is a little 
 war, this war with Denmark : but we could not be sure that the 
 Emperor Napoleon, and even you English too, would not join 
 the Danes against us. No, no. Here in Germany we cannot 
 take risks. Our police must know who are the strangers who 
 come among us.” 
 
 In speaking thus, the deliverer of Charles Kingsley was 
 merely boasting of a good deed and airing his opinions, and 
 he had not the faintest suspicion that any mystery had re- 
 cently grown up around this young Englishman who sat facing 
 him on the opposite seat of the carriage. Harry Coggin, how- 
 ever, took it for granted that trouble was in the air. What was 
 he to do? How could he prove that the name of Coggin was 
 not a play on incog? A cloud seemed to have come over the 
 sun. Why was it that misunderstandings followed him 
 whithersoever he went ? 
 
 Although the German immediately turned the talk first to 
 Mexico and then to Louis Napoleon’s policy in the Papal 
 States, Harry was not fully reassured. He insisted on paying 
 for the rough mittagsmahl which they ate in a poor inn at the 
 foot of the Wolfsberg; but when Monreal was reached, he 
 gave his companion the slip, and without staying to see the 
 two castles, just caught the diligence to Niedermendig, whence 
 he could easily regain the busy Rhine. 
 
 In one of his tattered books Harry, when still a little boy, 
 had read a marvelous account of the beer-cellars at Nieder- 
 mendig — those miles of galleries, sixty feet underground, 
 quarried by the Romans in the solid lava. After visiting the 
 caverns by torch-light and after tasting the famous beer, the 
 fugitive again recovered his common sense. Provided he took 
 care never again to get out of his social depth, who could harm 
 him? His passport and his letters of credit were in order. 
 All the same he thanked Heaven that Edward Redding had 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 223 
 
 not arrived on the scene, by some terrible chance, at the mo- 
 ment when he was being taken for a lord; for Heaven alone 
 knew what immeasurable prank would have followed. 
 
 It was Harry ’s practice to pay his hotel-bills over-night, so 
 that he could take the road at cock-crow. He left Nierder- 
 mendig while the roses of dawn were still unfolding in the 
 eastern sky. After an hour of brisk going he caught sight of 
 the noble Laacher See, or Lake of Laach, just as the sun 
 cleared the hill-top on the further side of the water. 
 
 For many days the traveler had longed for this moment; 
 and the fruition was even better than his hopes. The crater- 
 tarns of the Eifel were only “maare,” or meres; but this was 
 a < ‘ See, ’ ’ like the Sea of Galilee, with stubby little blue waves 
 clop-clopping on the foam-flecked beach. Round the lake rose 
 five extinct volcanoes, some wooded, some bare; and to the 
 left stood the glorious old church of Our Lady of Laach with a 
 dome and five towers. 
 
 As it was so early, Harry decided to tramp round the lake, 
 a circuit of about five miles, and to reach the church in time 
 for Mass. He had accomplished half the journey when he 
 met, coming down from the village of Wassenach, a boy with 
 so honest a face that Harry felt he could trust him. The lad 
 readily promised to look after the Englishman’s clothes: and 
 soon Harry Coggin was reveling in the deep water. 
 
 A mad idea came to the bather. This was to be his last 
 experience of the volcanic lakes. On the morrow he would 
 probably find nothing better for his morning splash than a 
 German bedroom basin, about as big as a soup-plate. Why 
 should he not swim right across the lake? 
 
 Having shouted new orders to the admiring farm-boy, 
 Harry struck out. If he had realized that he had two miles 
 to go he would have resisted the temptation: but the roofs 
 of the abbey-church, wet with the night ’s heavy dew and flash- 
 
221 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 ing like a jeweled reliquary in the slanting beams of the sun, 
 seemed less than a thousand yards away. Never troubling 
 to husband his forces, off he went, lunging at the pretty crests 
 of the bobbing waves and sporting like a porpoise. 
 
 Suddenty he knew that he was tired and that it would be 
 prudent to swim ashore at once. He glanced to the left. 
 There was the boy, trotting along with Harry’s clothes and 
 rucksack: but the left bank was as far away as the church 
 at the end of the lake. He turned to the right ; but the right 
 bank seemed the most distant of all. Then he understood that 
 he had reached the very middle of the See and that he, who 
 had saved so many others from watery graves, was himself in 
 grave peril of drowning. The cold clear water enfeebled him 
 and refused to buoy him up. He gave a shout, which echoed 
 mockingly among the dead volcanoes; but nobody heard it 
 save the trotting and trusting little boy on the froth-strewn 
 shore. 
 
 Keeping a level head despite the hopelessness of his task, 
 Harry settled down to work. He employed every device he 
 had ever tried or heard of for economizing strength but this 
 false and lisping water seemed to be his enemy, eager to 
 suck him down and to gloat over his bones forever. In de- 
 spair, he cried aloud once more. This time the lad on the 
 beach understood. Harry saw him drop clothes and hat, 
 stick and rucksack, and then watched him racing like a wild 
 colt towards the abbey, until trees and bushes hid him from 
 sight. 
 
 Harry was alone. In his gray life he had been called to 
 endure many an hour of bitter solitude, but never such a mo- 
 ment as this. The strong young arms, the tough young legs, 
 the stout young heart could hold out no more. Death by 
 drowning had never terrified him in he past. Indeed it had 
 even appealed to his cleanly nature as something wholesome 
 and tranquil and sweet. Yet, in this fearful moment, he 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 225 
 
 wilted with horror; because he remembered that the deep- 
 down bed of this pitiless lake, with its long-drowned rocks 
 which no mortal eye had even seen, was not a bit of England 
 but a bit of Germany; and his quailing spirit cried out des- 
 perately for home, for home. 
 
 From one of the five towers a silvery bell slowly began toss- 
 ing out small clear sounds, like polished pebbles into the lake. 
 A moment afterwards the excited boy and a tall man in black 
 came rushing toward^ the water. Harry laughed bitterly. 
 What could they do ? Not a boat was to be seen. It was too 
 late. The swimmer closed his eyes . . . 
 
 A great splash, as if a giant had taken a header from the 
 top of one of the towers, brought Harry back to himself. The 
 boy was gesticulating on the beach : but where was the man in 
 black ? He had vanished. No . . . what was that black knob 
 floating on the wavelets ? In a flash, Harry guessed what had 
 happened. A powerful swimmer was urging forward to the 
 rescue. The knowledge gave him not only new hope but new 
 strength. Instantly the water seemed less deathly cold and 
 he struck out briskly once more. Very soon he perceived that 
 he had swum better than he knew and that barely a quarter 
 of a mile separated him from safety. Then the spurt died 
 down; and hope would have died with it if a great hearty 
 voice had not bawled out in English: 
 
 “ Never say die! I ’m coming !” 
 
 Harry had worked his way so near to the western shore that 
 he was now sheltered from the wind, and the See lay calmly 
 around him. His deliverer’s words, which had been shouted 
 along the surface of the water, sounded in Harry’s ears as if 
 they had been spoken only fifty yards away. If he had known 
 that there was still a furlong of struggle before him, he would 
 have collapsed and gone under; but he did not know and he 
 battled on. His legs had ceased to serve him. All he could 
 do was to clutch at the water and jerk himself forward ; even 
 
226 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 as a soldier whose legs have been shot away grasps with des- 
 perate hands the tufts of grass before him and tugs himself, 
 faint and bleeding, up a fire-swept slope towards some ditch 
 or thicket. 
 
 “I 'll race you home," cried the hearty voice. 
 
 A giant, with hair blacker than Harry’s own, was along- 
 side him, near enough to dash to the rescue if he should be 
 wanted. The challenge not only drove into Harry’s ears but 
 seemed to rush through his veins and along his marrow, like 
 a warm elixir of life. The danger was over now ; and instead 
 of choking and sinking down to rot in the dregs of a deep 
 German lake, he was within arm’s length of a jovial English- 
 man. 
 
 The race began. From the age of seven Harry had been so 
 marvelous a swimmer that no competitor had ever kept up 
 with him. Only a year before, he had easily out-paced a 
 famous professional in an early-morning swim in the river 
 Deme. And so, at the word 4 'off’’ roared by the black- 
 headed man, Harry drove forward mightily, determined to 
 win. But his rescuer, quickly discerning how the matter 
 stood, cunningly pretended to be a poor swimmer and very 
 nervous, until they were both paddling along as gently as two 
 young ladies. 
 
 Coggin’s feet struck something hard. He stopped, and 
 found himself stumbling on a submerged pavement of smooth 
 lava. His rival was less lucky and fell floundering, from the 
 edge of the shelf-like rock, back into deep water. Harry 
 shoved on till the pavement ceased and then with a score of 
 exultant strokes, gained the furthest beach and fell full length 
 on the warm stones. 
 
 When Harry came to himself, he saw that his rucksack had 
 been shoved like a pillow under his head, while a bulky black 
 coat had been swathed round his body. As he opened his 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 227 
 
 eyes, somebody raised him up gently and pressed to his lips a 
 cordial. Harry drank it eagerly. It seemed to be old brandy, 
 sweetened a little with honey and strongly tinctured with mint 
 and other herbs. He stared in front of him. Close at hand 
 was the blue-eyed boy from Wassenach. Beyond stretched the 
 round blue lake ; and the scene was closed by the dead volca- 
 noes. But whose was this great arm supporting his head and 
 whose this black cloak ? 
 
 “Mortuus erat et revixit ” murmured a big but gentle voice, 
 close in Coggin’s ear. “Deo gr alias.” 
 
 Both the sound and the sense startled Coggin. Latin! 
 Somebody was talking his beloved Latin. In Latin, some- 
 body had said “He was dead and is alive again. Thanks be 
 to God.’ ’ Harry wrenched himself free and looked behind. 
 There on the stones sat the giant who had plunged into the 
 See to help him: a black-haired, clear-skinned, superb giant, 
 wearing nothing save a coarse shirt and breeches. 
 
 “Good!” the Titan cried. “If you ’re well enough to jump 
 like that, I can take back my habit. Thanks. I ’ll rub you 
 down with this rough towel. I found it in your bag. ’ ’ 
 
 Feeling horribly shaky, Harry dressed himself with diffi- 
 culty. From time to time he was aware of a vast but nimble 
 hand softly pushing aside his own numbed fingers and fasten- 
 ing for him some buckle or button. When his teeth had ceased 
 chattering he turned to thank his benefactor and beheld, with 
 fresh amazement, the towering figure of a monk, in a black 
 habit. On a boulder somebody had set out neatly the pro- 
 visions from Harry’s rucksack — half a white loaf, two hard- 
 boiled eggs, some thin slices of black rye-bread, and a large 
 pat of butter. To this repast there had been added a smoking 
 little brown pipkin, a bottle and a black flagon. 
 
 “Try to eat,” said the monk. “You ’ve to thank this clever 
 boy of yours for the soup and wine and for the drop of Bene- 
 dictine. While we were both in the water he rushed up to 
 
223 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 the abbey and brought this good stuff back with him. Drink 
 this. It ’s red whine — Assmanshauser, more warming and 
 generous than the white. Here ’s a spoon for the soup . 9 ’ 
 
 ‘'You are going to eat too?” said Harry. “There seems 
 plenty for all three of us.” 
 
 “No. I can’t. You see, I haven’t said my Mass yet. I 
 happened to be walking by the lake, saying my Office, when 
 this good kid of yours butted right into me and told me there 
 was a gentleman drowning. I suppose you can spare him a 
 slice of bread-and-butter and one of these eggs and a sip of 
 wine? But don’t talk. Stuff yourself. Guzzle. You need 
 it.” 
 
 Harry could not have talked if he had tried. In his omniv- 
 orous reading he had come across a good deal about monks 
 and had studied an illustrated History of Costume so thor- 
 oughly that he easily identified the giant as a son of St. Bene- 
 dict. But, having never before seen one in the flesh, he had 
 taken it for granted that monks must be either red-nosed, 
 paunchy gluttons and tipplers, roaring with laughter over 
 some merry story and emptying straw-covered wine-flasks, or 
 emaciated fanatics principally occupied in digging their own 
 graves. The Hercules before him was certainly a genuine 
 monk : for had he not just spoken of saying his Mass and his 
 Office? Yet he seemed as jolly as Mr. Huntly-Martin or Sir 
 Richard Brasher or the Honorable Everard Coppington, as 
 well as a good deal more happy than all the three put to- 
 gether. Harry had heard that monks hated cold water: yet 
 this monk swam like a fish. Strangest fact of all, he talked 
 slang, such as “stuff’ and “guzzle.” 
 
 “When you ’ve finished, let Hans or Gottlieb, or Fritz or 
 Karl bring everything up to the abbey,” said the Benedictine. 
 “You must rest an hour or two with us.” 
 
 Comforted by the warm sunshine and the good meal, Harry 
 once more felt that he had his wits about him. He thanked 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 m 
 
 the monk fervently, and then added: “ Excuse me, sir, but I 
 have read in a guide-book that the Benedictine Abbey of Maria- 
 Laach was suppressed in 1802 and that there are no monks 
 left.” 
 
 “ Quite so,” the other answered. “But let us be thankful 
 that the French revolutionary armies spared this beautiful 
 church, seeing that they wrought such frightful destruction 
 elsewhere. They destroyed some cathedrals utterly, such as 
 Bruges and Boulogne and Arras ; and they knocked down one 
 Rhineland cathedral at auction for less than a hundred pounds, 
 to be carted away as building materials. It is true that the 
 Benedictines are at Laach no longer: but you will find kind 
 hosts and a welcome. You see, the Jesuits have bought the 
 place and they took it over only a few months ago, for a school. 
 There is a big turning-out and clearing-up going on. You 
 see that I am a Benedictine? Well, I happen to be interested, 
 in music — not exactly waltzes and polkas, you know — and I ’ve 
 come here to see whether anything in my line happens to have 
 been hidden away. Hallo! Half -past six. My Mass. Be 
 sure to come and have a cup of coffee with me at half -past 
 seven . 9 ’ 9 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 H ENRY COGGIN approached the Abbey of Laach 
 timidly, intending to rest there for three hours. 
 He stayed three weeks. On first hearing from the 
 big Benedictine that he was to be the guest of Jesuits, even 
 for one short summer morning, Harry had felt alarmed. 
 Jesuits, as he imagined them, were inscrutable, sinister, velvet- 
 footed beings, who had never been young and never grew 
 old. While he was too well informed to believe all he had 
 heard against them, Harry would nevertheless have preferred 
 to slink away: for how could he be sure that his absurd tri- 
 umphs at the races had not reached this Abbey in some ex- 
 aggerated version? Gratitude, however, compelled him to 
 accept the invitation to a cup of coffee : so he faced the ordeal 
 and found it pure delight. 
 
 Although the pupils of the new school were not in residence, 
 the monastery seemed full of life. Most of the Jesuits, of 
 course, were Germans : but among them worked a Spaniard, two 
 Irishmen, a Brazilian and even a Russian. After the first 
 strangeness had worn away, Harry felt marvelously at home 
 with these men. In many respects he had recaptured the 
 atmosphere of his beloved house in far-off Bulford. There 
 were the same habits of early rising, of hardness, of long-sus- 
 tained industry, of order, of cleanliness: the same keen enjoy- 
 ment of one good meal a day : the same relish for brief recre- 
 ation after long labor: the same background of books and 
 pictures and — thanks to the Benedictine — even of music. Al- 
 though he immediately made it known that he was not a 
 Catholic, nobody argued with him about religion. As the 
 
 230 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 231 
 
 Jesuit Fathers read their breviaries in private instead of sing- 
 ing the Divine Office in choir, there were no high functions 
 in the superb twelfth-century church: but Harry invariably 
 assisted at the Mass celebrated by his friend the Benedictine, 
 and he spent at least an hour of every day in the cool and 
 silent Romanesque nave, looking up into the dome or at the 
 Roman monoliths, quarried a thousand years before the foun- 
 dations of the church were laid. 
 
 After his cup of coffee with the monk, on his first morning 
 at Laach, and while he was still fully determined to be on the 
 road again within an hour or two, Harry Coggin was taken 
 round the monastery. At several points he noticed heaps of 
 discarded odds and ends, ready to be burned or given away. 
 His twelve years’ experience of upholstering and cabinet- 
 making and china-riveting could not be suppressed ; so he very 
 modestly offered a few suggestions for turning some of the 
 lumber to good account. In the end, joiners were summoned 
 from Coblenz and Harry found himself that night established 
 in a monk’s cell. He had always pictured a cell as a tiny 
 vaulted chamber, hid behind cold walls of enormous thickness 
 and furnished with a skull and some ponderous volumes : but 
 his cell at Laach was a large and cheerful room overlooking 
 the blue waters of the sunlit lake. A crucifix hung on the 
 wall and the few engravings all depicted religious scenes. 
 Otherwise the cell was furnished pretty much after the man- 
 ner of his own plain bedroom at Bulford. 
 
 Days grew to weeks. Never in his life before had Harry 
 been continuously so happy. Foot-rule in hand, he went 
 everywhere, planning and contriving; and there was never a 
 day when he did not also put in a few hours’ good work with 
 saw and plane and hammer. Under the Benedictine’s guid- 
 ance he broke his way into a new province of music — plain- 
 chant and the polyphonic masterpieces of the sixteenth cen- 
 tury. He acquired the unfamiliar notation and tonalities with 
 
232 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 surprising quickness and was soon able to help his master by 
 copying MSS. and by jotting down the discrepancies between 
 them. Unfortunately the good Jesuits were neither musicians 
 nor antiquaries: and therefore Coggin’s acquaintance with 
 plain-chant was all on paper while he was at Maria-Laach. 
 
 When August began and he could not for shame linger at 
 the Abbey any longer, Harry resolutely wore down the pro- 
 tests of his kind hosts and fixed the next morning for de- 
 parture. A plan for requiting the hospitality he had received 
 occurred to. him. Despite his fertility of suggestion, there still 
 remained a medley of objects of which no decorous use could 
 be made by the Fathers. There were two gilded Cupids from 
 an eighteenth-century altar; several old pictures, especially 
 mythological subjects and, portraits of long-dead burgesses; 
 stamped leather ; ancient locks and keys ; pewter vessels, dis- 
 colored and distorted; moldings, knobs, a huge hour-glass; 
 and even a few pieces of once grandiose furniture. 
 
 Remembering that Edward Redding had asked for some 
 old German things, Harry respectfully offered to purchase a 
 selection of this cast-away stuff for one hundred and fifty 
 thalers, or about twenty guineas of English money. The 
 Superior, after vainly entreating his guest to take away the 
 goods as a present, at last reluctantly accepted one hundred 
 thalers. But Harry had hardly discharged one obligation 
 when he was entangled in another. The Fathers presented 
 him with a bursting wallet containing letters of introduction 
 and commendation to- abbeys and others religious houses all 
 over Germany and Austria. 
 
 Quitting Laach at dawn, and halting for a night at Oberwesel 
 where his larger luggage had been stored, Harry steamed far 
 up the Rhine, past the Cat and the Lorelei and the Mouse- 
 Tower, through Bingen and Mayence and Worms, to Mann- 
 heim. He held fast, however, to the promise he had given 
 Edward Redding and did not sleep in any of the big towns. 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 233 
 
 Passing southward he entered the Black Forest just as the 
 August heats were becoming unbearable. 
 
 At Baden-Baden, his heart in his mouth, Coggin made so 
 bold as to present himself, with an introduction which he had 
 obtained, at the house of Clara Schumann in the Lichtenthal : 
 but the famous lady was away, having fled from the crowd of 
 gamblers and bathers to some quiet spot in the Forest. Harry 
 did not presume to track her down : but he too hated the ex- 
 travagant and restless life of Baden-Baden so heartily that he 
 turned his face to the mountains. 
 
 At the end of August the traveler reckoned that during his 
 eleven weeks in Germany he had walked fully a thousand miles 
 along river valleys and, through pine-forests and over moun- 
 tains. He perfected a contrivance for binding to his left wrist 
 a small dictionary from which he memorized words and 
 phrases as he trudged along. Every day he made a point of 
 paying some educated native to read and speak with him until 
 his command of German idiom and pronunciation enabled 
 him to talk easily and to listen confidently. In the village 
 inns there were always tourists with whom to converse : and on 
 the roads he often became a fellow-tramp with German stu- 
 dents making walking-tours in loquacious parties. 
 
 Coggin had begun to cherish an affectionate reverence for 
 German scholars: because he had already met some noble 
 specimens of the class. They had impressed him as poor, 
 carelessly dressed, uncouth of manners, absent-minded, unprac- 
 tical; yet they were redeemed by humble wisdom and trans- 
 figured by noble idealism. And so, whenever he ran against a 
 party of students, in shabby clothes, walking barefoot to save 
 their boots, he took it for granted that such dusty striplings 
 were necessarily the worthy successors of those old scholars who 
 preferred to pass the dog-days drinking co’ol store-beer in 
 Heidelberg and Bonn. Little by little, however, he began to 
 perceive that a change was coming over Germany. Even al- 
 
234 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 lowing for the carnality of youth, the youngsters were evi- 
 dently more materialistic, more arrogant than the oldsters. 
 As Edward Redding had foretold, they stuck to Harry like 
 leeches, always taking care to air their English and never let- 
 ting him practise his German. Yet they nursed against Eng- 
 land jealous hatred which they hardly attempted to conceal. 
 
 One noontide, as he was resting beside the little lake called 
 the Titisee, Harry suddenly felt the good air shut away from 
 him by the big bodies of half a dozen broad-backed young 
 Germans who surrounded him, all talking at once. They had 
 heard in the village that an Englishman, after climbing the 
 Feldberg, was gone to the Titisee ; and they simply made him 
 a present of their company for the rest of the day. At first 
 Coggin could not feel much displeased, although he had wished 
 to explore the mountains alone. The youths had good voices 
 and they sang some difficult part-songs in a delightful man- 
 ner as they walked along. Probably they could not have shown 
 a hundred thalers if they had emptied all their six purses on 
 the table together ; and Harry could not help comparing them 
 favorably with a young Englishman he had encountered in 
 Baden-Baden, who confessed to having spent and gambled 
 away fifteen hundred thalers in less than a week. 
 
 One of the party, an open-faced, likable young man, was 
 called the Worm; which sounded unjust till Harry remem- 
 bered that this German word meant “ Dragon.’ ’ The Worm 
 and another youth, nicknamed the Love-sick Lion, chatted with 
 Coggin very pleasantly about the Black Forest and their ad- 
 ventures in it. At last, however, they were shoved out of the 
 conversation by a blond, weak-eyed person, dubbed the Croco- 
 dile, who was better dressed than his companions. The 
 Crocodile disdained mere travel-talk and began putting ques- 
 tions about academic life in England. He demanded to know 
 whether it was true, as he had lately read, that the students 
 at Oxford and Cambridge spent most of their time rowing 
 
235 
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 boat-races and whether the young men at the University of 
 Exeter know nothing of Greek, preferring to go out with small, 
 dogs to kill rats. 
 
 When the Englishman gently explained that there was no 
 University of Exeter, but that there was a college of that name 
 at Oxford, the Crocodile showed great annoyance. He was 
 accustomed to be regarded as infallible. In his chagrin, he 
 went off into an unmannerly and violent attack upon the Eng- 
 lish universities. All the world knew, he declared, that they 
 had long ceased to be seats of learning. He could not deny 
 that they turned out sportsmen and athletes : because, only a 
 few weeks before, he had read in a newspaper how a young 
 English nobleman had swum the Laacher See. i;j 
 
 “It is wider than Leander’s Hellespont and much colder, 
 said the Lovesick Lion, “and there was no beautiful maiden at 
 
 the window to encourage him. 
 
 ‘ < That may be, ” snapped the Crocodile. ‘ ‘ But we German 
 youths use our strength more nobly. With the oar and l the 
 crickey-batz we may be inferior : but we do not, like the Eng- 
 lish, neglect the career of arms. We can use the sword, 
 have read that the duel is now almost unknown m England. 
 Truly, I cannot understand. If I should insult you, worthy 
 Herr Englishman, what would you do?” 
 
 “I should knock you down,” answered Coggin simply. 
 
 The Worm and the Lion saved the Crocodile’s honor by 
 laughing boisterously; and then a bilious-looking student 
 called the Yellow Fox, with great tact, reminded the^ Croco- 
 dile that they had been discussing the academic life. Turning 
 to Coggin he explained in a reverential tone that the Crocodile 
 was writing a thesis to be called “The Influence of Onomato- 
 poeia on the Development of Classical Meters.” Thus encour- 
 aged, the Crocodile plunged noisily into a swamp of erudition, 
 in which he splashed about with great delight. . Suddenly he 
 interrupted himself and demanded Coggin s opinion. 
 
236 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “I think, ” said Coggin, “that we should be sparing in our 
 use of this long word. You have described many passages as 
 onomatopoeic where I think there is nothing more than the 
 verbal propriety which we expect in poetry. Many words, in 
 all languages, are in themselves mimetic or descriptive and the 
 poets used these words because there were no others. As for 
 what you said about the Eupolideus Polyschematistus, you 
 will not deny that Eupolis was a sophisticated comic poet, 
 And will you excuse my saying that your example of the 
 Phalaecian hendecasyllable is not an example of that meter 
 at all? The dactyl is not preceded by an ithyphallicus. ” 
 
 Horror struck the Worm, the Lion, the Fox, and the other 
 students dumb. By a common instinct they came to a halt 
 in the midst of the pine-wood. The Crocodile, the learned 
 Crocodile to whom they owed money without exception, had 
 been flatly contradicted by a healthy young English barbarian, 
 not on a point of horse-racing or fox-hunting but on the 
 Crocodile’s very own subject, on the matter of the Crocodile’s 
 very own thesis. With one accord they turned to the Croco- 
 dile, dumbly imploring him to save Germany’s honor as well 
 as his own. 
 
 “I am glad to discover,” said the exasperated savant, “that 
 there are, after all, some young Englishmen who concern 
 themselves with the classics. But with great respect I say you 
 are wrong. If we were in a town instead of a pine-wood, and 
 if these tree-trunks were the shelves of a library, I would at 
 once convince you of your mistake.” 
 
 Coggin shook his head good-humoredly but confidently. 
 “Let us talk of something else,” he suggested. “Or, better 
 still, let me hear another of your songs.” 
 
 They were singing the last bars of a doleful madrigal about 
 home-sickness, when the path curved sharply and dipped 
 steeply, revealing a large plain building in the midst of newly- 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 237 
 
 made gardens. From a laborer standing at the gate the Yel- 
 low Fox learned that this was a Jesuit college, recently opened. 
 
 1 6 There will be a library inside, ' ’ said Harry. * 4 1 am sure 
 they will allow us to consult it.” 
 
 “I hate the Jesuits,” retorted the Crocodile, “and I will not 
 be under an obligation to them.” 
 
 The Worm, with unwormlike spirit, replied that they must 
 think of the inmates of the building not as Jesuits but as 
 scholars; and he led the way through the gate. A fairly 
 good library was willingly opened and Coggin proved that the 
 Crocodile was wrong. 
 
 “We all make slips sometimes,” he said generously. 
 
 “You may. But I don't,” shouted the Crocodile, in a ter- 
 rible rage. And to Coggin’s utter stupefaction, he denied 
 having said that his quotation was intended as an example of 
 the Phalaecian hendecasyllable. What was still more appal- 
 ling, the Yellow Fox and two of his toadies, Schwarz and Beck- 
 mann, instantly and loudly agreed that the Crocodile had made 
 no such statement. On being challenged by the Fox, with a 
 meaning leer, the Love-sick Lion hummed and hawed and at 
 last affirmed that he could not clearly remember. Only the 
 Worm dared to take the Englishman's side. 
 
 Before departing in disgust, Coggin politely thanked the 
 Jesuit who had opened the library : whereupon the good Father 
 said: 
 
 “Pardon me. We meet so few Englishmen who speak good 
 German that I must ask you a question. Is it possible that 
 you are the young gentleman who stayed three weeks in our 
 new school at Maria-Laach? One of our Fathers received a 
 letter about it. Perhaps you are the Englishman who swam 
 the Laacher See. If so, you are indeed doubly welcome here. ' ’ 
 
 “It was I who stayed at Maria-Laach,” Harry confessed 
 modestly. “And I shall never forget the kindness of the 
 
238 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Fathers there. Allow me to accompany these ... to go with 
 my traveling companions a little way further: then I will 
 return and pay my great respects.” 
 
 He had begun to say “these gentlemen”; but the word 
 stuck in his throat. And when they were all seven out again 
 on the road he drew back from the others, attaching himself 
 to the Worm alone. In the village, less than a mile off, he 
 led the party to the best inn and ordered a four-bottle “bowl.” 
 Two hours before, the Crocodile had given everybody a draught 
 of wine and Harry was not willing to remain in his debt. 
 
 When the bowl had been emptied, mainly by the prowess of 
 Beckmann and Schwarz, Harry, ignoring a dozen eager ques- 
 tions about the Laacher See, rose and said : 
 
 “In my country we often use the expression ‘a scholar and 
 a gentleman.’ I perceive that, with the exception of the 
 Worm, whose hand I shall be proud to shake, you students 
 are neither. If anybody considers himself insulted, let him 
 challenge me now. The choice of weapons will be mine, and 
 I shall choose the only weapons I carry with me — my two 
 fists. But let me warn you that I have used them before 
 and that I was not the vanquished. Herr Worm, I admire 
 you : not for taking my part, but for speaking the truth with- 
 out flattery and without fear. ’ ’ 
 
 He went out slowly and loitered in the road. Through the 
 open window he saw the Crocodile making a big pretense of 
 struggling away from the restraining grasp of his parasites 
 and he heard angry exclamations. But the Crocodile failed 
 to follow him : and even the Worm did not turn. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 FLAW in a letter of credit cut short Harry Coggin’s 
 
 wanderings in the Black Forest and compelled his 
 
 1 \ return to Cologne without even a glance at Freiburg. 
 
 The weather too was breaking and a visit to an English tailor 
 had become imperative. 
 
 Fogs delayed the steamboat and it was very late when 
 Harry stepped ashore at Cologne. He could not see the towers 
 and spires : but he knew that they were all around him, climb- 
 ing here and there into the dark, because the chilly night was 
 a-hum and a-throb with the mutterings of a hundred muffled 
 bells. The grandeur of these solemn peals and the hush of the 
 narrow streets impressed Harry deeply. He thought at first 
 that the King of Prussia must be dead : but a friendly citizen 
 told him the truth. Cardinal von Geissel, Archbishop of 
 Cologne, had just breathed his last. The shops were shuttered, 
 the cafes and theaters closed. Cologne seemed a city of the 
 dead ; and when the tired traveler blew out his bedside candle 
 the muffled bells were still crooning in he autumn gloom. 
 
 Very early next morning Harry made his way to the Cathe- 
 dral. Pie drew near with a faster-beating heart. Excepting 
 the huge whitewashed barns of Holland, he had never in his 
 life beheld a church on the grand scale. Nevertheless, as he 
 mounted the steps, he sturdily reminded himself of what Ed,- 
 ward Redding had said and he prepared himself for a great 
 disappointment. In at least half a dozen books of travel he 
 had read the same jokes about eau de Cologne and about the 
 city’s forty distinct smells, together with the same protesta- 
 tions of disillusionment at the interior of the cathedral. 
 
 239 
 
THE HARE 
 
 240 
 
 He entered the church when the sunshine, paled by ghostly 
 vapors from the Rhine, was pouring an unearthly light through 
 the eastern windows. Harry could have cried out in fear and 
 amazement. He was standing in a temple so vast that it 
 seemed more like a wonder of nature than a work of art. So 
 large a part of the earth was here enclosed that shadows hid 
 the roof a hundred and fifty feet above Harry’s head while 
 light veils of mist blurred the High Altar, more than half a 
 furlong away. The pile was as solid and solemn as a lime- 
 stone cavern, yet as lissom and airy as a larch-wood in spring. 
 
 Harry perceived what had happened. Since Edward Red- 
 ding’s visit, since the printing of even the latest guide-books 
 to Cologne, the authorities had pulled down the partition wall 
 which for five hundred years had divided the choir from the 
 nave. He, Harry Coggin, was beholding what Edward Red- 
 ding had never beheld and what the grumblers who wrote 
 the travel-books had not been able to imagine. He was gazing 
 down the whole length of a Dom which had been six centuries 
 a-bnilding. 
 
 As the light grew, the vast house came to life. Bells began 
 tolling, out of sight. Every five minutes or so a priest, vested 
 for Mass, would pick his way through the forest of columns, 
 attended by a surpliced boy, and take possession of one of the 
 countless altars. Hundreds of the townfolks came dribbling 
 in, some in punctilious black, some in smocks or aprons with 
 market baskets or the tools of their trade. Some remained for 
 half an hour, hearing Mass : some knelt low and prayed before 
 a great Crucifix or before the image of a saint; and some, 
 after bowing down and crossing themselves, hurried back to 
 their toil and their worries. 
 
 As Harry, with lingering steps, quitted the cathedral he 
 noticed a burly cleric instructing a band of carpenters and he 
 guessed that arrangements were already being made for the 
 lying-in-state of the dead Cardinal. Passing out into the 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 241 
 
 streets he found them more animated than the night before : 
 yet half-masted flags, black shutters and scarves of crape were 
 everywhere. He walked rapidly westward, intending to visit 
 the tomb of Duns Scotus in the church of the Minorites before 
 breakfast; but in this church also black- vested priests were 
 already saying Masses for the repose of the Archbishop ’s poor 
 soul : The same dread business was toward in the astounding 
 church of St. Gereon, with the sarcophagi and the skulls of the 
 three hundred and eighteen martyrs of the Theban legion ; in 
 the old Irish church of St. Martin : in the cruciform shrine of 
 St. Maria in Capitol; in St. George’s and in St. Peter’s, in St. 
 Severin’s and in St. Cecilia’s, in St. Cunibert’s and in St. 
 Pantaleon’s; in the domed basilica of the Apostles; and also 
 in the church of the sainted English princess Ursula, so that 
 Coggin could not decently linger over the bones of the eleven 
 thousand virgins. 
 
 Throughout that soft September day, Harry almost lived in 
 churches. In the cathedral alone he spent two or three hours, 
 watching the erection of the catafalque, marveling at the tall 
 yellow candles and drinking in the poignant, ancient chants 
 and the resounding Latin. And even when he was in the 
 street he could not feel that he was quite out of church: be- 
 cause, all the time, half-hushed peals of near bells seemed to 
 shelter him from common sights and sounds with a moving 
 canopy of sable velvet borne on poles of massy bronze. 
 
 By every train and steamboat, ecclesiastical personages were 
 arriving in Cologne. Dignitaries drove hither and thither in 
 chariots. Praying nuns abounded in the churches. Repre- 
 sentatives of religious orders, in their picturesque and 
 varied habits, were always passing in and out of the Dom. 
 Nor was military pomp to seek. Brass-bound generals and 
 other high officers in resplendent uniforms rode noisily along 
 the cobbled streets. At Harry’s inn the landlord asked him 
 to mount two floors higher, to make room for some enormous, 
 
242 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 sliort-necked, loud-speaking civilians who had come from Ber- 
 lin. It began to be evident that an outsider and an English- 
 man, like Henry Goggin, stood a poor chance of gaining admit- 
 tance to the supreme ceremonies. 
 
 Among the letters of introduction in his pocket-book, Harry 
 knew that there was one addressed to a Prior in this very city 
 of Cologne, but bashfulness held him back from using it. It 
 fell out, however, that his good friend, the Superior at St. 
 Maria-Laach, accompanied by the big English Benedictine 
 monk, had just come downstream from Andernach to assist at 
 the funeral. Harry was in the south transept of the cathedral, 
 gazing at the colossal statue of St. Christopher, when their 
 two hearty voices hailed him. 
 
 Business soon hurried the Jesuit away but the Benedictine 
 was free. He had taken a strong fancy to Harry, and he ap- 
 peared to be more conscious of their common nationality than 
 of their difference in religion. During the hours which fol- 
 lowed, his influence unlocked two libraries of rare books and 
 MSS. and four church-treasuries of vestments and reliquaries. 
 He pointed out a hundred things not mentioned in the guide- 
 books, and rapidly narrated the legends of saints as set forth 
 in the carvings and paintings and windows of the churches. 
 He showed — though Harry knew some of these things already 
 — how one could distinguish by their dress a Franciscan from 
 a Dominican, a Benedictine from a Carmelite, and he briefly 
 explained not only the origin but the practical condition of 
 these great orders. He stepped into a shop and bought for 
 his friend a prayer-book in Latin and German ; and when the 
 old shop-woman insisted on selling Harry a rosary this good- 
 natured monk took him into a quiet little church and taught 
 him how to number the beads, how to say “Ave, Maria,” and 
 how to meditate on the Mysteries of Redemption. 
 
 They ate their midday meal at the hospitable table of the 
 Jesuit Fathers, where grief for the dead Archbishop was al- 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 243 
 
 ready beginning to be lightened by speculations as to his 
 successor. After dinner, the Benedictine led Harry into the 
 Jesuits' church and, standing before the over-decorated pul- 
 pit, exclaimed: 
 
 “I detest Jesuit architecture, Jesuit decoration. The 
 Jesuits have aimed at grandeur and have achieved only 
 grandiosity. Yet their intention was sincere as well as gran- 
 diose. Remember that when this church was built, in the sev- 
 enteenth century, the kings and nobles of Christendom were 
 busy piling up vast and ornate palaces, often to the neglect of 
 churches. Think how mean is the cathedral at Versailles in 
 comparison with the Grand Monarch's over-grown house, half 
 a mile away. The Jesuits were determined that Almighty God 
 should have His due : that He too should have new enormous 
 halls rich with gold and marble. But give me instead the 
 solemn interiors of the Romanesque, the yearning arches of 
 the Gothic. You have seen St. Gereon's?" 
 
 “Yes. I have seen nearly twenty churches here," replied 
 Coggin. 
 
 “Then try to imagine what Cologne was, until about sixty 
 years ago. There are old men in this town who remember the 
 day when Cologne boasted more than a hundred churches. 
 Think w T hat an Archbishop ’s funeral must have been in those 
 days. The cannon. The muffled peals from fifty belfries. 
 No gas lamps ; all candles. No steamboats, no railways. The 
 river alive with row-boats, with sailing-craft; the streets 
 blocked with coaches, with travelers on horse-back. Still, the 
 sights we are seeing to-day are imposing enough. But listen. 
 Those bells, just beginning overhead, were cast with metal of 
 captured cannon." 
 
 Out in the street, Harry returned to the question of the 
 hundred churches and observed: “I suppose the people of 
 Cologne don't want a lot of little churches now that their im- 
 mense cathedral is nearly finished." 
 
244 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 They were passing through a public garden. The Benedic- 
 tine stopped dead, as if dumb struck. Then his tongue was 
 loosened and he poured out a stream of simple eloquence which 
 swept away Harry ’s preconceptions and overwhelmed him with 
 new ideas. 
 
 A cathedral, the monk declared, was not a magnified parish 
 church. It was an august shelter for the seat of the Bishop, 
 the successor of the Apostles, where he sat throned in the 
 midst of his Chapter, teaching and ruling the faithful. It 
 was a stately palace of the Incarnate Redeemer, truly present 
 on the Altar. It was a temple where Almighty God was 
 praised with lofty praises seven times a day. Whether ten 
 thousand people crowded in, or whether the vast nave was 
 empty, made no difference to this high work of praising God 
 — a work as needful to be done as the work of baking bread, 
 the work of carrying water, the works of spinning, of weav- 
 ing, of tanning, of fishing, of plowing, of sowing, of reaping. 
 
 They resumed their walk until the Dom came in sight. 
 “Look!” cried the monk. “Here in stone and in wood and 
 in glass is your whole Bible, from Genesis to Revelation. 
 Carved or painted, inside or outside, you find Paradise; the 
 Deluge ; Abraham, Isaac and Jacob ; the patriarchs, the judges, 
 the prophets, the kings, the apostles, the martyrs. And here 
 is the future as well as the past. Here are the Day of Judg- 
 ment, Heaven, Purgatory, Hell. Here are the gracious mira- 
 cles of beloved saints, so plain that an unlettered child can 
 read them.” 
 
 He set forth the other uses and meanings of a cathedral, 
 and then added abruptly : ‘ ‘ But surely, even in your Church 
 of England, the cathedrals, our old cathedrals, have taught 
 you nearly all that I have just tried to say.” 
 
 Coggin hesitated. On the one hand he hated to speak about 
 himself: and, on the other, he hated still more to remain in 
 a false position. At length he said: 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 245 
 
 “I never saw a cathedral in England. I lived in the same 
 little town all my life until three months ago and I had to 
 work very hard. As for my being a member of the Church 
 of England . . . well, I suppose I am. I was brought up a 
 Baptist. When I was twelve years old, I was baptized by a 
 Church of England clergyman ; but he became a Roman Cath- 
 olic a few weeks later. I have never been confirmed and I 
 have never been to Holy Communion.’ ’ 
 
 The astounding monk relieved himself by a long low whistle. 
 He gazed at the half -made Anglican so fixedly that Coggin be- 
 come alarmed and began to feel sure that a stern reproach, 
 full of odium theologicum, was preparing behind that knitted 
 brow. But when the Benedictine spoke it was not in ful- 
 minant Latin or even in academic English. He said : 
 
 4 ‘Here ’s a rummy go. Never heard anything like it in 
 my life. Now look here, my young friend, I’m going to talk 
 to you like a Dutch uncle. At Laach I swam out to save 
 you from the water. This afternoon I shall speak out to save 
 you from the fire — from hell-fire. Do you understand?” 
 
 “Yes,” retorted Harry, stung by the words. “You mean 
 that only Catholics can go to Heaven. You mean that all those 
 who are not Catholics must go to hell.” 
 
 “I mean no such rubbish, no such heresy, no such blas- 
 phemy,” said the monk warmly. “I wish I could feel as 
 sure of getting to heaven as I ’m sure that my old aunt 
 Charlotte will go there. She hates the very name of the 
 Pope and she gives half her income to the Irish Protestant 
 missions : yet in her own way she is a saint. She is not against 
 the Church but only against a silly and wicked travesty of it 
 which bigots have steadily held before her eyes. She does not 
 deny the Catholic faith, but only a vile perversion of it which 
 she does right to abhor. No, no. I fear some Catholics will 
 go to hell and I believe many Protestants will go to heaven. ’ 7 
 
 “You mean, perhaps,” suggested Harry, when the monk’s 
 
246 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 pause had lasted some time, “that in my case I can't plead 
 ignorance; that if I don't turn Catholic I shall be wilfully 
 shutting my eyes." 
 
 “Not exactly," said the other. “What you have just said 
 is obvious. My thoughts are traveling quicker and further 
 than that. I 'm pretty sure you 'll become a Catholic sooner 
 or later. What troubles me is that you may come into the 
 Church for the loaves and fishes. No, no, don't jump, don't 
 get angry. Let 's go into the cathedral and I 'll explain." 
 
 Within the holy place the monk said: “There are many 
 kinds of loaves, many kinds of fishes : loaves that never came 
 out of an oven, fishes that never swam in the sea. We despise 
 those who hang round the Church simply for what they can 
 get. But think. You have money. If you hadn’t, you 
 could n 't spend all these months gadding about Germany. So 
 a loaf of baker's bread wouldn't tempt you to profess piety, 
 as it tempts a poor hungry widow. Yet . . . yet I am afraid 
 that some day you may turn Catholic for your particular loaf, 
 for your particular fish. Music, Architecture, Vestments, 
 Images, Ceremonies, Latin. To you are not these things crisp, 
 crusty, golden rolls, are n't they tasty little silver fishes? 
 
 “My dear friend, mark me well. The Church is a city set 
 on a hill, a city fair to behold. Her gates, her walls, her 
 towers, her gardens, her palaces, her banners make a brave 
 show. Music murmurs and resounds in her streets like rush- 
 ing water-brooks. Her fountains run wine. But while you 
 are thankful for these delights, while they refresh you and 
 strengthen you, it is not for these pleasures that you must 
 climb the path to her gateway. You must knock humbly at 
 her portals simply because Almighty God has appointed this 
 City for your soul's habitation. Even if her many mansions 
 were mud-hovels, if her streets were choked with nettles and 
 thorns, if her fountains poured forth bitter waters, if her 
 
THE WANDERER 247 
 
 fig-trees bristled with thistles, her true citizens would abide 
 just as trustfully, just as thankfully within her walls. 
 
 “Look up. Look round. How glorious are these roofs, 
 these columns, these marbles, these windows, these rolling 
 chants. Yet they are man’s work, fated to decay. If a 
 hundred immensely wealthy rascals pooled a hundred ill- 
 gotten fortunes together they could build a copy of this cathe- 
 dral, just as vast, just as solid ; they could put into it a grander 
 organ, they could hire sweeter choristers, more sonorous can- 
 tors. But they could n’t buy the Presence of God. And if, on 
 the other hand, the Catholics of Cologne were driven out of 
 this cathedral, driven out of St. Gereon’s and all the other 
 churches, driven into dank caves or crazy barns, with not one 
 chasuble, with no chalice save an earthenware cup, without 
 bell or candle, without one statue of a saint, without one paint- 
 ing, without one relic, without even a crucifix, they would still 
 be Catholics. Their priests in everyday clothes would still 
 be priests, their caverns and sheds would be Catholic churches, 
 their Mass, with a boulder for an altar, would be as truly the 
 Holy Sacrifice as the High Mass sung by the Pope himself in 
 St. Peter’s on Easter Day. 
 
 “I entreat you, when the moment comes for your choice, to 
 ask yourself searchingly whether it is the Master Himself you 
 are choosing or merely the Master’s golden loaves, the Master’s 
 silver fishes. 
 
 ‘ 4 Glance at that lady standing under the statue of St. Apol- 
 linaris. Look at the cross hanging round her neck. It 
 sparkles with gems. Christ ’s cross, with the passing of eigh- 
 teen hundred years, has become encrusted all over with jewels 
 — the spoils of His conquests in the fields of art and poesy and 
 music. But I repeat, when the hour of choice comes, de- 
 mand of yourself whether you are desiring the diamonds or 
 rubies rather than the little hard cross underneath, the cross 
 
248 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 which was once a symbol of utmost shame and must always be a 
 symbol of self-renunciation, of griefs, or sorrows. Do you un- 
 derstand me? ,> 
 
 "Yes,” said Harry, rather feebly. “I have always heard 
 that one of the great mistakes of the Catholic Church is to 
 intoxicate the senses by mysterious architecture and wonderful 
 music, so that the soul does not worship God in spirit and in 
 truth.” 
 
 “ There are no such things as mistakes of the Catholic 
 Church, my friend,” retorted the monk, smiling, “but I know 
 what you mean. That Puritan heresy is not new to me, be- 
 cause I was bred and bom in it myself. It hates the breaking 
 of the alabaster box of precious ointment over the head of 
 Our Lord. Church windows must be of leaden gray; harsh 
 voices, with no organs to mollify them, must lead the divine 
 praises: the sacred ministers must go about their high busi- 
 ness in the coats and trousers of the counting-room; lest 
 thoughts should wander away from the Puritan’s unsmiling, 
 unhomely far-off God. 
 
 “I grant that there may be dangers to some souls in a 
 stately ritual. Some people might argue that these obsequies 
 of Cologne’s dead Archbishop are so interesting that they 
 blunt the sharp sense of death and that therefore the remains 
 of Cardinal von Geissel should be thrown into the ground like 
 a dog’s. We do not rob the dead of seemly rites because some 
 musical mourner may speculate as to the pitch of the passing- 
 bell instead of preparing for his own last hour. And we must 
 not rob God of the honors which are His due, merely to pam- 
 per a few spiritual muffs by removing danger from their path 
 instead of teaching them how to overcome it. Believe me. If 
 there are indeed men and women who are made to forget God 
 by the majesty of a Te Deum sung in a cathedral, those men 
 and women would never have been led to find Him by a Tate- 
 and-Brady metrical psalm bawled in a conventicle like a barn. 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 249 
 
 No, no. Let us rejoice that the King of Kings has noble pal- 
 aces, that He is acclaimed in them with brave fanfares. All I 
 pray is that the King Himself may be your soul’s desire. 
 There are too many converts nowadays who approach the 
 Church with a condescending air, graciously signifying their 
 approval of her art, her music, her philosophy. They give up 
 nothing. They merely pluck for themselves the roses of re- 
 ligion, with gloves on their white hands against the thorns. 
 Be on your guard against this subtle hedonism. Do not pat- 
 ronize the church. Enter her courts humbly, thankfully, 
 obediently, generously, more anxious to serve and to suffer 
 than to attain complacency and to increase your sum of fine 
 pleasures.’ ’ 
 
 A Domschweizer or verger approached to say that work- 
 men required possession of the spot whereon the two were 
 standing. As they moved off, an old priest claimed the Bene- 
 dictine and bore him away. 
 
 Harry went down to the bank of the Rhine and crossed by 
 the bridge-of-boats to Deutz, whence he could gaze on the 
 towers and the peaked roofs of Cologne. The monk’s earnest 
 harangue had been based on a complete misunderstanding of 
 his auditor’s character and history: yet it made Harry think. 
 
 “Do not patronize the Catholic Church ... do not come 
 to her with a condescending air.” As he leaned against the 
 wall of the little harbor and watched the bridge-of-boats open- 
 ing for the passage of a great raft, Harry could not hold back 
 a joyless laugh. 
 
 He recalled the very few landmarks in his short and limp- 
 ing religious progress. Even Pastor Clupp ’s tiny chapel and 
 bleak services had commanded the boy’s humble reverence. 
 As for the Church of England, it had been only by a tre- 
 mendous effort that he had screwed up courage, twelve years 
 before, to beg of the Reverend Oswald Redding the supreme 
 
250 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 privilege of baptism in the cool waters of the hurrying Skil- 
 bourne. Until the death of his father, he had continued to 
 sit under the sermons of Pastor Clupp except on days when 
 his relations with Mr. Daplyn, the organist of St. Michael's, 
 enabled him to worship at the parish church. But, as Mr. 
 Redding's successor knew nothing of the lad’s baptism and 
 was determined in any event to give him a wide berth, no- 
 body mentioned Confirmation : apd Harry did not presume to 
 approach the holy table. In the eyes of Bulford's church- 
 people, young Coggin was simply a chapel-going boy whose 
 itch for organ-playing did not entitle them to interfere with 
 his paternal religion. 
 
 While he was shrinking thus timidly from claiming his 
 privileges in the Established Church, it would have required 
 a miracle to make Harry dream of ever entering the Church 
 of Rome. That Mr. Redding, his hero and his ideal, had be- 
 come a Catholic made no difference. Although the boy oc- 
 casionally perused a theological book in the course of his 
 omnivorous reading, he had no strong theological bent, and 
 his ecclesiastical knowledge was neither systematic nor up-to- 
 date. When he thought of Mr. Redding's Catholicism he 
 never identified it with the faith and practice of the shabby 
 and gloomy little Catholic chapel where Bulford's poor and 
 often tipsy Irish knelt in unpicturesque rags before a tawdry 
 altar. And even if he had realized that the Bulford Catholics 
 were in full communion with Mr. Redding's magnificent Catho- 
 lics in Rome and Vienna, in Paris and Rheims and Lyons and 
 Chartres, in Toledo and Seville and Burgos and Braga, Harry 
 Coggin would not have presumed to foist himself upon Mr. 
 Redding's co-religionists. He would as soon have presumed 
 to begin ordering his clothes from Mr. Redding's tailor. 
 
 The Rhine glared so hotly in the afternoon sunshine that 
 Harry turned into a garden-cafe and ordered a glass of Rhine- 
 wine in selterswasser. Over this thin and copious draught he 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 251 
 
 reviewed his Benedictine friend’s exhortation once more. 
 Pushing aside the inapplicable warning against condescension, 
 he faced the monk’s prophecy, “you ’ll be a Catholic some 
 day.” 
 
 It suddenly occurred to Harry that for exactly three months 
 he had heard ^Mass every morning. This habit had formed 
 itself without any deliberate intention. He had simply got 
 into a way of hearing Mass, because the churches were always 
 certain to be open in the early hours and because the old 
 interiors always looked their best with candles burning on the 
 altars, with vester priests celebrating the Holy Mysteries and 
 with devotees kneeling here and there. Beginning, however, 
 merely as an inquisitive tourist, Harry had gradually come 
 to make this daily Mass-hearing a religious exercise. Morn- 
 ing by morning, he had filled the quiet half-hour with his own 
 simple prayers and meditations, without once asking himself 
 whither it all might lead. 
 
 Sipping his Rhine-wine, Coggin faced this new problem. 
 Was he doing right? At Cologne and at Baden-Baden he 
 had been within reach of Church of England services. Surely 
 it was wrong for him, a Protestant, to attend no religious 
 worship save the Romish Mass ? And yet, when he tried to re- 
 solve that he would change his ways, a damp fell upon his 
 soul and there, in the afternoon heat, he nearly shivered. 
 No. This habit must stand. He could not give up hearing 
 Mass. All the same, his native honesty cried aloud within 
 him, demanding that he should make up his mind, one way 
 or another. 
 
 To Harry Coggin the choice between Protestantism and 
 Catholicism presented itself with a strange simplicity. He 
 had heard many sermons at St. Michael’s on the errors of 
 the Church of Rome, but they had not greatly impressed him : 
 because, in his earlier worshiping at the Baptist Chapel he 
 had listened to equally solemn warnings against the errors of 
 
252 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 the Church of England. Dogma and theological strife did 
 not appeal to him : but he knew enough of such matters to en- 
 able him, as he sat gazing across the Rhine at the apse of the 
 Cathedral, to catechize himself concerning Popish doctrine. 
 Transubstantiation, Purgatory, the Apostolical Succession, the 
 Immaculate Conception — although these articles of Romanist 
 faith bristled with prickly polemics he knew that he could 
 not confidently deny one of them. More. While he could not 
 say boldly that he believed these dogmas, he felt that it would 
 be harder still to disbelieve them, and hardest of all to believe 
 their contradictories. 
 
 In the near past, one Papistical claim and one only had 
 pained and repelled him — the claim that there was no salva- 
 tion outside the Church’s pale. This he had interpreted al- 
 most in its literal sense; and if the Benedictine had not, in 
 homely fashion, brushed the misunderstanding away, it would 
 have sufficed to keep Harry Coggin from giving a moment’s 
 practical attention to the summons of the Catholic Church. 
 Unweakening loyalty to his mother would have made him scorn 
 the thought of deserting her. How could he, on the Day 
 of Judgment, have borne to turn his head from the steeps of 
 light and to look down upon hell-bound goats with his own 
 mother pushed onward and downward by the dark and un- 
 savory herd, merely because of her unwitting heresy and 
 inherited schism? 
 
 The solemn day came. From a privileged seat in the 
 crowded Dom, Harry Coggin beheld the throng of cardinals, 
 bishops, mitered abbots, monks, friars, nuns, princes, warriors, 
 burgesses. He heard the stupendous hymn “Dies irae,” he 
 bowed with the kneeling thousands at the Elevation of the 
 Host, he followed word by word the startling Latin of the 
 Offertorium and of the five Absolutions, he watched the 
 sprinkling and censing of the bier. The mere ceremony out- 
 
 I 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 253 
 
 ran his expectations : but the ritual, the music, the vestments, 
 the Latin, did not awe him so deeply as the Church’s mien 
 towards Death. In black raiment she sorrowed over mortality, 
 over mutability: but there was no morbidness in her mourn- 
 ing. Her sable velvets heightened the brightness of Hope’s 
 silver star. To her children, sad-eyed Death was not a horror 
 but God’s pitiful and holy messenger. 
 
 What impressed Harry most was the calm faith of these 
 Papists in the life everlasting and in the power of the living 
 to help the dead. They could not lift the veil and accom- 
 pany their friend and pastor into the strange realms beyond : 
 but they could win for him supernal reinforcements to follow 
 him through the ebon gate and to fight victoriously with him 
 in the mysterious battle. They could pray the Father that 
 He would send twelve legions of angels to be His servant’s 
 bodyguard against the Accuser and his demons. 
 
 When the clergy gathered round the catafalque and the 
 choir sang Libera me , Domine, de morte aeterna , in die ilia 
 tremenda: “Deliver me Lord from endless death in that 
 tremendous day, ’ ’ Coggin hardly knowing what he did, began 
 to pray for his own dead — for his father, for his mother, for 
 George Placker’s boys. But when all was over and the muffled 
 drums of the military bands rolled out the first bars of a 
 funeral march, Harry came to himself. The tension was ended 
 and the vast congregation prepared to return to the common 
 tasks of the city’s life. But Harry made his way towards the 
 great doors with pangs in his heart. What right had he to 
 genuflect, like the real Catholics, to pause with bowed head be- 
 fore the Crucifix, to cross himself with holy water? How 
 had he presumed, in this Catholic cathedral, to comport him- 
 self like one of the faithful and to pray for his Protestant 
 dead ? 
 
 Pushing across the sunny and now noisy Domhof he squared 
 accounts at his inn and then hurried to the station. This 
 
254 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 young man who had been warned forty-eight hours before 
 against patronizing the Catholic Church had only one thought 
 — how to escape from the magnificent scene of his presump- 
 tion into some obscure and frugal valley where neither Frei- 
 herr nor Benedictine monk would make fantastic mistakes 
 about his ignorance, his lowly birth, his wandering life, his 
 friendliness, his aimlessness, his homelessness, his muddled re- 
 ligion, his fustian name. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 O N the wooded mountains of the Odenwald and in 
 waterside townlets of the upper Neckar, Henry 
 Coggin passed the second half of September, tramp- 
 ing, climbing, swimming, studying. In dream-like weather he 
 witnessed the beginning of the vintage, just outside a village 
 near Neckarelz. Learning that the wines made thereabouts 
 were of such little merit that they were all consumed locally, 
 Harry betook himself to the Rheingau, fondly imagining that, 
 as the wines of the Steinberg and the Johannisberg were im- 
 measurably finer than the coarse juice of Neckarelz, so the 
 Steinberg grape-gathering and the Johannisberg pressing 
 must necessarily be far more interesting than the jovial, rough- 
 and-ready vintage-doings of Neckarelz and its countryside. 
 
 Harsh and dusty fact soon withered this pleasant fancy. 
 Riidesheim and Geisenheim and Hattenheim, Rauenthal and 
 the Marcobrunnen gave no welcome to the eager Englishman. 
 Indeed, it would have been hard to picture anything much 
 more unlike the vintage-time praised by poets and by painters. 
 Where were the black-eyed olive-skinned maidens bearing 
 laden baskets on their black coiffures with the dignity of 
 caryatides ? Where the lithe peasants, strumming beribboned 
 guitars ? Where the great vines clambering up giant trees or 
 hanging in festoons from the rafters of moss-grown marble 
 pergolas? Where the huge pendulous clusters, purple and 
 amber, glowing like fabled gems in the green ceiling? In- 
 stead of these things there were hundreds of short-necked, 
 grumbling boors perspiring amidst thousands of stunted cur- 
 rant-bushes stuck in dry and burning earth. When Harry 
 
 255 
 
256 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 nervously asked a question or two he was eyed with so much 
 suspicion that he suddenly felt a detestation of these baked 
 slopes and parched hearts. 
 
 He turned eastward. At Eisenach he threaded a fairy 
 ravine, in some places hardly a yard wide, until he reached 
 the castle on the Wartburg, the throne of St. Elizabeth. 
 The Minnesingers’ Hall of Song had been made dreadfully 
 spick-and-span by a restorer: but from Martin Luther’s four- 
 square chamber Harry looked down on the Thuringian forest 
 in its autumn glory and felt that at least one of his dreams 
 had come true. 
 
 "Weimar and Gotha and Coburg did not detain him long: 
 but at Jena Harry lingered two or three days, profiting by 
 the erudition of a stumpy, kindly, ugly, wordy scholar from 
 the University whom he chanced to meet in a beer-garden. 
 From this wheezy fountain of knowledge Coggin quaffed some 
 useful draught. He learned, for example, w T hy there were 
 so many petty princes and princedoms in Germany; and 
 how, through delay in adopting the principle of primogeniture, 
 the once great land of Saxony had been chipped into Saxe- 
 Eisenaeh, Saxe-Weimar, Saxe-Coburg, Saxe-Gotha, Saxe- 
 Altenburg, Saxe-Saalfield, Saxe-Hildburghausen, and other 
 Saxes too many to mention. He was told, further, that if it 
 had not been for all this division and sub-division, Saxony 
 and not Prussia would have become the leading German King- 
 dom. Over a pot of Pilsener which looked nearly as tall as 
 himself, the scholar confided to Harry a political prophecy. 
 Germany, he said, was bound to become a great and united 
 Empire as a safeguard against the Emperor Louis Napoleon 
 and his ambitious wife. In one sense this would be a glorious 
 event, and the mere thought of it made every true German 
 heart beat faster. But he feared it might bring immeasur- 
 able evils in its train; because the Prussians instead of the 
 Saxons would usurp the hegemony and wield power. He 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 257 
 
 finished by drinking deeply to Harry as an Anglo-Saxon and, 
 by using an unacademic word to express what he would do 
 if he met an Anglo-Prussian. 
 
 Resuming his journey, Harry hung reverently about Halle : 
 for was it not the birthplace of Handel? In Dresden he 
 spent only a few hours, because he chanced to dearn, from a 
 fellow visitor to the Sistine Madonna, that there was to be 
 a specially interesting “Abendunterhaltung” that self-same 
 Friday evening at Mendelssohn’s famous Conservatoire in 
 Leipsic. One of the few definite items in Harry’s program 
 was to visit Leipsic with a view to settling down there for 
 twelve months under eminent masters of piano-playing and 
 composition. 
 
 The Abendunterhaltung, a regular Friday fixture, was held 
 in a bare-looking plastered room which became fearfully hot. 
 Henry Coggin sweltered in the midst of lost illusions. In- 
 stead of breathing an ample atmosphere of manly art he 
 seemed to be sharing scanty oxygen with schoolma’ams and 
 favorite pupils. Many fine compositions were played under 
 the frowns or beams of the Conservatoire professors who at- 
 tended the Abendunterhaltung with portentous airs : but 
 Harry’s modesty did not suffice to suppress the feeling that he 
 could teach as well as learn in this far-boasted institution. 
 
 Firmly believing that his unfortunate experience had been 
 exceptional, he presented himself the next morning before the 
 professors who had been most highly commended to him. 
 They were patronizing and discouraging. Indeed they prac- 
 tically told him that his musical studies must begin over 
 again. Harry’s humility had returned to him and he might 
 have entered his name meekly at the Conservatoire if it had 
 not befallen that he strayed into a restaurant at mid-day 
 which was the favorite eating-place of the more lively English 
 students. These young people swarmed upon Harry like flies, 
 all sucking him with questions at once about his musical past 
 
258 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 and present. Happily for the victim they paid little heed 
 to his few answers and many silences, because they wanted 
 to do the chattering themselves. Like the boys he had met 
 during his two bitter weeks at school, these youths spoke a 
 language of their own, composed of slang, abbreviations, 
 English words with German endings, German words chopped 
 down into English, and innumerable cryptic nicknames and 
 personal allusions. As their keen blades of satire flashed in 
 the air, Harry shrank back into his solitariness and decided 
 that Leipsic had been tried and found wanting so far as his 
 musical plans were concerned. Had he been capable of self- 
 analysis he might have perceived at that moment what Ed- 
 ward Redding meant by urging him to be young. 
 
 Tearing himself away from Leipsic ’s book-shops, Coggin 
 moved on to Berlin. In. 1864 the Prussian capital was a dull 
 and provincial-looking town which he would have quitted at 
 once if a certain event had not turned it into a city of en- 
 chantment. In Berlin Harry heard an opera. 
 
 It was the first time in his life that he had entered a theater. 
 At Bulford-on-Deme the Baptists looked upon the dingy and, 
 stuffy Theater Royal as the headquarters-tent of the devil and 
 Harry had unconsciously carried round Germany the feeling 
 that “theater-going” was not for him. When, however, he 
 saw Der Freiscliiitz billed at the Opernhaus he forgot every- 
 thing else in his excitement : and when, that same evening, 
 the gas-lights were turned down and the curtain was drawn 
 up, he felt that the proscenium was a great doorway or 
 triumphal arch through which he was beholding a new world. 
 
 Many numbers in Der Freischiltz were familiar to Harry. 
 He had tried them on the piano and the organ and had even 
 heard some of them performed by small bands in German 
 parks and beer-gardens. But to hear them played by an 
 opera-house orchestra and sung by first-rate singers as parts 
 of a drama, against a warmly-painted and cunningly-lighted 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 259 
 
 scenic background, was a different thing. His experience of 
 orchestras having been limited to military and other out-of- 
 door bands, he was astounded by the full yet delicate passages 
 given to the strings alone. The woodwind spoke with a subtle 
 expressiveness which no organ could equal ; and never until 
 that night had Harry known the high majesty of drums and 
 trumpets. 
 
 On regaining his hotel, the traveler once more perused the 
 long letter of advice written four months earlier by Edward 
 Redding and especially the paragraphs about opera-going. 
 He had shrunk, in the first instance, from following these 
 counsels and the matter had been made easier for him by the 
 fact that in June, July and August, according to custom, all 
 the German opera-houses were closed. During his brief stay 
 in Cologne, the obsequies of Cardinal von Geissel had in- 
 volved a stoppage of theatrical shows, as a matter of course. 
 From Dresden he hurried to Leipsic without thinking of the 
 Court theater ; so that if Edward Redding had challenged him, 
 Coggin could have truthfully answered that he had jumped 
 at the first opera which came his way. 
 
 The next day Harry left his hotel and established himself 
 in two bare rooms where he could enjoy the luxuries of a cold 
 bath and a hot fire. The bath was a new oak tub, which he 
 had to buy himself, but the fire burned in a Berliner 
 kachelofen, fed by hard beechwood logs, of which his landlady 
 was immensely proud. Rising with the raw October dawn, 
 this odd young Englishman helped to carry his own batli-water 
 upstairs (for in a majority of Berlin flats the water was not 
 laid on) and, when his frosty ablutions were completed, he 
 invariably strode off to hear Mass in the curious round church 
 of St. Hedwig, near the King’s palace. On wet days he sat 
 near the cozy Berliner kachelofen, alternately poring over the 
 full score of some opera which he had hired from a library or 
 patiently adding to his already copious MS. dictionary of Ger- 
 
260 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 man colloquialisms, proverbs and allusions. On fine morn- 
 ings lie did not return home for breakfast but went off to 
 swim in the chilly Waldsee. His dinner, a hearty meal, was 
 always eaten at noon in the German burgher fashion. And 
 by twenty minutes past six he was taking his seat in the 
 Opernliaus ready for the first bar of the overture. 
 
 After Der Frcischiitz, Harry heard Marschner’s Vampyr, 
 Lortzing’s Undine, Cornelius’ Barbier von Bagdad , and operas 
 by Rossini and Verdi, Bellini and Donizetti, Auber and Meyer- 
 beer and Spontini. He ventured to enquire when Schumann’s 
 Genoveva would be played and was smiled at for his pains. 
 He was deeply interested in a version of Faust called Mar- 
 guerite by a Frenchman named Gounod. But what roused his 
 most lively expectations and gave him the most abundant and 
 exquisite delight was a pair of legend-operas by the hotly-dis- 
 cussed Herr Richard Wagner. He thought the end of the 
 second act of Tannhauser was the best opera-music he had 
 heard : yet, on the whole, he judged Lohengrin the finer work 
 of the two. 
 
 It was while listening to the Grail-knight ^ recital in 
 Lohengrin that an odd thought leapt into Harry’s mind. 
 What would Mr. Clupp say if he knew that he, Harry Coggin, 
 sometime worshiper at Bulford-on-Deme Baptist Chapel, was 
 beginning his day in a Popish church and ending it in an 
 opera-house? No doubt the excellent pastor’s scanty hair 
 would have stood on end. Yet what were the facts as com- 
 pared with Pastor Clupp ’s fancies? At Mass, Almighty God 
 was worshiped, not only on Sundays but every day, with in- 
 tense devotion. At the opera, every night some hero or heroine 
 — and often both of them, with a squire and a tiring-maid 
 thrown in — went ecstatically to death, singing high swan- 
 songs in praise of fidelity, chastity, honor, loyalty and true 
 love. 
 
 In Don Giovanni and in some other operas there were ballets 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 261 
 
 which would certainly have horrified Pastor Clupp : but the 
 twirling white ladies did not perturb Henry Coggin’s pure 
 mind and, as the stolid and solid folk around him were as 
 little upset as himself, the young man accepted these interludes 
 merely as inevitable items in the traditional operatic program. 
 As for the prime donne, or “ goddesses’ ’ as they were styled 
 by certain Italianizing elements in the audience, the gifted 
 creatures were usually of such mature age and of such ample 
 proportions that Harry’s dreams were not tenderly haunted 
 by remembrances of their grace and beauty. More than one, 
 however, of these elephantine heroines was artist enough to 
 become transfigured in the supreme moments of the opera ; and 
 thus it fell out that although Harry Coggin was never at the 
 stage-door with a bouquet for a prima donna, yet the prima 
 donna’s tragic queenliness made the day-time maids and 
 matrons of Berlin appear so insipid that Harry went on bliss- 
 fully with his masses and his operas, his dinners and his 
 dictionary, unhindered by even the slightest preoccupation 
 with the feminine. He was working very hard, copying many 
 pages from full scores before returning them to the library, 
 and recording on the copy-book margins his impressions of 
 different instrumental combinations. Furthermore, he had 
 begun to plod at a grand opera of his own, to be called 
 Boadicea. 
 
 Stem winter came on apace. Harry accepted an invitation 
 from a musical family whom he had come to know at the Opem- 
 haus, to visit them at Christmastide ; but although he was 
 fascinated by the charming old German customs of the season, 
 he was blind to the coy glances of blue-eyed Gretel and the 
 flaxen-haired Charlotte who were the belles of the Weihnachts- 
 fest. He went home, without one twist of his heart-strings, 
 to enrich his dictionary with an unfamiliar proverb he had 
 heard at the supper-table and to jot down some suspensions 
 for double-bass, double-bassoon and tuba which, during a 
 
262 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 dismal solo on the piano by a black-browed young lady named 
 Adelheid, had struck him as what he wanted for the prelude 
 to Boadicea’s second act. 
 
 The mammas of Charlotte and Gretel and Adelheid did 
 not abandon hope. In their eyes this leisurely young English- 
 man was a wealthy dilettante worth winning. Throughout 
 the New Year roysterings, Harry could have sat every night 
 in some Berlin house or flat, eating herring-salad and smoked 
 goose-breast and pfeffer-kiichen, had not the counter-attrac- 
 tion of certain symphony-concerts and of some new works at 
 the Opernhaus proved too strong. He accepted, however, an 
 invitation to a wedding. 
 
 If the wisest man in Germany had been charged with the 
 task of keeping Harry Coggin at a long arm’s length from 
 matrimonial fancies he could not have devised means more 
 effective than the marriage of Ida Borchardt with Julius 
 Rodenstock. Harry could understand elemental passion and 
 he could believe in romantic love, although he had never 
 known its power. But his clean and sterling spirit was re- 
 volted by the sickly philandering and mawkish gush which 
 surcharged the atmosphere. The so-called lovers, were not 
 content merely to hold hands before their intimates. They 
 kissed, they fawned, they cuddled under the admiring glances 
 of Herr Papa and Frau Mamma. What sickened Harry most 
 was the knowledge, which he had gathered from the tittering 
 lips of Julius himself at a bachelor supper a night or two 
 before, that the amorous Brautigam had not the faintest in- 
 tention of breaking certain arrangements by which he had 
 been enlivening his loneliness for some years past. As for 
 the Braut, although she was unable to name one young matron 
 of her acquaintance who had not immediately become a mere 
 hausfrau, she turned up her eyes and sighed over the doggerel 
 poems which were recited in her honor as if she had been one 
 of Parnassus’ aery Muses gracing a banquet of nectar and am- 
 
THE WANDERER 263 
 
 brosia instead of a ponderable young woman seated in the 
 midst of Westphalian hams and Pilsener beer. 
 
 One January morning the week’s lists of music came out 
 with practically nothing in them save repetitions of operas 
 and suites and symphonies which Harry had already heard. 
 It was such a magnificent winter day — a hard frost, a clear 
 sky, a windless air — that the traveler decided to move still 
 further eastward, towards the frontier of Russia. He wished 
 to see the five-naved Marienkirche in Danzig and to visit 
 Konigsberg, the old capital of Prussia. 
 
 A sudden change in the weather, followed by a heavy fall 
 of snow, blocked the railway, and Harry left the train, late 
 on a Thursday evening, at a small town in Pomerania. He 
 was quickly established in a gasthaus which surprised him 
 by its comforts. His enquiries had taught him that these 
 eastern tracts of Prussia exceeded other parts in agricultural 
 prosperity. The holdings were large, after the English 
 fashion, thus giving the Junker proprietors an immense ad- 
 vantage over the small western yeomen whom Harry had 
 pitied as he saw them wasting horse-power and man-power in 
 the tillage of farms so absurdly divided that a holding of 
 less than fifty acres was sometimes scattered over more than 
 a hundred little patches, here, there, and everywhere. 
 
 The wdne-list of the inn deepened this impression of 
 opulence. Over and above the familiar growths of the 
 Rheingau and its rivals, the cellars boasted several generous 
 wines of Burgundy. Harry ordered a bottle of old Corton. 
 The comfortable red juice made a welcome change from the 
 white wines and light lager-beers which he had been drink- 
 ing. The dining-room was well warmed by a porcelain stove ; 
 the soup was true soup and not merely hot water from the 
 boiled beef: the veal, the chicken, the venison were succulent 
 and well-dressed: the omelet blazed gaily with the lavish 
 
264 * 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 aid of flavory Kirscliwasser ; and the coffee was innocent alike 
 of dandelion-roots and of roasted acorns. Harry began to 
 feel that Germany grew better the nearer he approached the 
 rising sun. 
 
 During supper, a bluff and masterful German who had been 
 informed by the landlord of the newcomer’s nationality, 
 struck up conversation in English, without troubling to ask 
 whether his fellow-guest could speak German. Harry re- 
 plied in English ; partly because of his perennial modesty and 
 partly because it was a real pleasure to hear his native tongue 
 once more. The German’s command of English grammar was 
 feeble and his vocabulary was as meager as it was inexact; 
 but this did not hinder him from explaining England’s as 
 well as Prussia’s and Hanover’s and Bavaria’s and Austria’s 
 and France’s and Sardinia’s affairs to his meek auditor. 
 
 Very early the next morning, w T ith no light to aid him save 
 the pale sheen of the waning moon on the drifted snow, Harry 
 stepped out of the silent inn and made his way along a bleak 
 Bahnhofstrasse towards the center of the sleeping town. Ar- 
 riving in the market-place he asked a watchman the way to 
 the Catholic church. The watchman could hardly have been 
 more astounded if he had been asked the whereabouts of the 
 nearest Temple of Diana or the shortest cut to a Mohammedan 
 mosque. He replied that there was no Catholic church. 
 
 Harry thanked him and turned away. The battered old 
 moon had slunk behind a cloud. As he passed the end of a 
 side-street which ran into the square a bitter wind nearly 
 blinded him with a lash of icy flakes torn from a neighboring 
 snow-drift. Hurrying on, he gained shelter under the huge 
 lee of a church ; but no ruddy lamp or starry candle twinkled 
 through the big windows. The doors were shut, the gates were 
 padlocked. 
 
 A gruff voice aroused Harry Coggin. The watchman had 
 followed him. 
 
THE WANDEREft 
 
 265 
 
 “When does the church open?” Hairy asked. For the sake 
 of Latin and because he had come to understand the cere- 
 monies, Harry had stuck to Catholic churches for his morn- 
 ing devotions ever since his first and ever-memorable experi- 
 ence of them in Amsterdam. But he still considered himself 
 a Protestant and he once more began to blame himself for not 
 having frequented a Lutheran church in Berlin instead of 
 St. Hedwig’s. According to a book he had been reading, 
 Lutheranism stood midway between Anglicanism and Ro- 
 manism. When visiting Lutheran churches these last few 
 months to examine their architecture, he had noticed crucifixes 
 and confessional-boxes. The Lutheran Mass ought to be very 
 interesting, although it would be in Cerman and not in Latin. 
 
 “When does the church open?” echoed the watchman, begin- 
 ning to be suspicious and angry. “You must be mad. To- 
 day is only Friday. It opens on Sunday, of course ; more than 
 forty-eight hours from now.” 
 
 His tone and manner conveyed a hint which could not be 
 disregarded. There was nothing for Harry to do but return 
 to the inn where he found some slight comfort in perusing the 
 Latin prayers and lessons which he knew were being 
 enunciated, that very hour, at a thousand Catholic altars. 
 None the less, his desire to attend a Lutheran service remained ; 
 and as the railway running northeastward was still blocked, 
 he waited quietly for Sunday, alternately working at his 
 dictionary of colloquialisms and ransacking the smaller shops 
 for gay pottery and colored engravings and toys to be sent 
 in due course to Edward Redding. 
 
 Sunday dawned — a beautiful day, with a return of hard 
 frost and clear skies, and Harry duly went to church. The 
 experience puzzled him even more than it disappointed him. 
 Excepting two or three official-looking personages there was 
 hardly a man in the congregation, and not very many women 
 and children. He had heard that church-going was not the 
 
266 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 strong point of Protestant Prussia, but this almost complete 
 indifference of the population to public worship astounded 
 him. Not that there was much in the service to attract the in- 
 different. Instead of Mass the Herr Pastor plodded through 
 a routine so bare of churchly pomp and circumstance that 
 even the rather “low” matins in Bulford parish church would 
 have seemed stately and reverential in comparison. The at- 
 mosphere was that of Pastor Clupp’s chapel, less the fervor. 
 
 Throughout the sermon, which was devoted to proving that 
 the “so-called Gospel according to St. John” could not have 
 been written until two generations after St. John’s death, 
 Harry Coggin glanced about the building. In every Catholic 
 church, even the poorest, there was something to see — an altar 
 or a window, a statue or a painting, a reliquary or a tapestry. 
 Here there was nothing for the poor bored children to stare 
 at while the preacher discoursed above their heads — nothing 
 save one large Crucifix. 
 
 Before long, Harry had counted the pillars and windows 
 till he knew them by heart, and he fixed his gaze upon the 
 Figure. From childhood he had been blessed with such a 
 lively faith in the historic truth and continuous reality of the 
 Incarnation that, in moments of perplexity, he was wont to 
 talk to his Divine Lord as if to some visible and tangible 
 friend. On this January morning the nearly empty church 
 was very cold; and, as Harry stood, strange thoughts came 
 into his head and a strange trouble chilled his heart. 
 
 Morning after morning for seven months he had knelt face 
 to face with a Crucifix. And in all his meditations on the 
 Sacred Passion, he had thought of that almost nude Figure 
 being scorched under an Eastern sun. He had thought of 
 that distressful cry “I thirst,” as a cry for cool water or for 
 sharp vinegar. But suddenly, while the Lutheran pastor 
 prosed on, he seemed to behold the stripped Body shiver- 
 ing in an arctic wind of unbelief, and he seemed to hear 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 267 
 
 an “I thirst” which was a cry for the warm and gen- 
 erous wine of human love. He remembered some Latin 
 words which he had seen on many a Catholic altar cloth: 
 Deliciae meae esse cum filiis hominum, “My delights are to 
 be with the children of men.” He remembered too many 
 strange Catholic statues showing the Most Holy Redeemer 
 pointing to His own heart, a heart laid bare and all on fire. 
 
 The mid-day meal was even better than usual: this being 
 the principal Prussian homage to the Lord’s Day. Over a 
 roasted suckling-pig Harry ventured to ask his table-acquaint- 
 ance, the broad-shouldered Pomeranian, to explain the town’s 
 apparent indifference to religion. The Pomeranian answered 
 bluntly that Harry was now in the “enlightened” part of Ger- 
 many where fanaticism and superstition had been long out- 
 grown : that religion was all very well for children and women ; 
 and that he counted on seeing, within ten years, a Kultur- 
 kampf or layman’s war against the Catholics. He declared 
 that if the Jesuits were ousted from the Rhineland, Bavaria 
 and Austria would soon follow suit. 
 
 The traveler went on to Danzig, to Konigsberg, to Tilsit, 
 visiting some fine buildings, eating some fine dinners, drink- 
 ing some fine wine and hearing some fine music. But in all 
 the churches, despite their architectural novelties, he was dis- 
 mayed by the same spiritual desolation : and everywhere the 
 Crucifix seemed to fix mournful eyes upon him and to murmur, 
 sustinui qui simul contristaretur et non fuit, consolantem me 
 quaesivi et non inveni: “I held on for some one to sorrow 
 with me and there was no man : I sought for some one to com- 
 fort me and I found none. ’ ’ 
 
 Harry’s was an acquisitive but not a ratiocinative brain. 
 Beyond correcting misstatements of fact he rarely argued 
 with anybody, not even with himself. While this applied to 
 his mental life in general, it was especially marked in his re- 
 
268 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 ligion. His prodigious memory retained a mass of theological 
 formulae and of ecclesiastical history which many a divinity 
 student would have envied : yet religion had been vital to him 
 only when it transcended his intellect and moved mystically in 
 his soul. But at Tilsit he began to think. The Protestants 
 claimed to have snatched perishing Christianity just in time 
 from the smothering corruption of Rome; and they spoke 
 of the birth-time of their new religion as the “ Reforma- 
 tion.’ 9 Yet, after little more than three hundred years, 
 Christianity was practically dead in Germany, its own cradle, 
 or at least in those parts of Germany where Protestantism 
 had had things all its own way. Harry had read many articles 
 about a “Branch” theory of religion. He now understood 
 what must be the fate of every branch separated from the 
 parent tree, and this leafless, sapless Lutheranism reminded 
 him of his Lord’s own words about the withered branch, fit 
 only to be cast into the fire and burned. 
 
 Not that he rushed to this conclusion. On the contrary he 
 fought it away as long as he could. The end came one day in 
 a Silesian hotel where two German officials overheard Coggin 
 asking an English-speaking waiter the hours of the church 
 services. Without troubling to find out whether the young 
 Englishman understood German, the pair began a loud- 
 mouthed conversation scorning the hypocritical and brainless 
 English nation and openly deriding the Christian religion, 
 especially the Catholic Church. 
 
 When the insulting duet had passed all bounds, Harry 
 pushed back his chair, walked up to the offenders and said, 
 in idiomatic German and with a perfect Hanoverian accent: 
 
 “As an Englishman, and as a Christian who respects the 
 Catholic religion, I request* that you will either discontinue 
 this conversation or conduct it in a lower tone and in less 
 insulting terms.” 
 
 Leaving the two little great men speechless with surprise 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 269 
 
 and chagrin, Harry returned, to his place, where he very slowly 
 ate a walnut and finished his last glass of ’56 Walporzheimer. 
 Then, without haste, he left the room. In the hall, the 
 English-speaking waiter, a Swiss, who had heard Harry’s 
 short speech, hurried him on one side and advised him to leave 
 the town. It appeared that one of the officials was a per- 
 sonage who could give travelers a lot of trouble with their 
 passports, by reason of the nearness of the Russian frontier. 
 Harry Coggin, however, had already decided, some hours 
 before, to leave Prussia and to visit Bavaria. There was 
 an Opernliaus in Munich, and many famous pictures too. 
 
 In the train to Berlin, where he must needs pack his be- 
 longings, Harry’s fellow-passengers were startled at hearing 
 him laugh a short, unhappy laugh. It had suddenly occurred 
 to this lonely youth that he, Harry Coggin, whom Edward 
 Redding was determined to change into a German, had just 
 been standing up for England; and that he, Henry Coggin, 
 a Protestant and possibly a Baptist, had just thrown down a 
 gage as champion of the Catholic Church. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 T Munich in the eighteen-sixties the swarming artists 
 
 took themselves very seriously. Art was spelt with 
 
 such a large and curly capital A that cynical visitors 
 
 from England and France indulged themselves in many a 
 sly gibe at the miles of gaudy frescoes and the battalions 
 of shivery statues. Harry Coggin, however, had not yet 
 learned to be cynical. Although his travels had lasted eight 
 months they had not effaced the harsh memories of his long 
 years in Bulford when Art could be worshiped only fitfully 
 and stealthily. To him this big town, where vast new build- 
 ings grew up before his very eyes and where new symphonies 
 and operas were being composed by men whom he knew by 
 sight in the cafes, Avas an Athens. Nay, it was something more 
 and something better : because, over and above the artistic and 
 courtly life of the Bavarian capital, there were the fast-en- 
 suing wonders of the Roman Catholic calendar. Five-sixths 
 of the citizens were Catholics ; and, from the royal personages 
 downwards, they gloried in adorning the great festivals of 
 the Church with full military and civic honors. 
 
 As Holy Week in 1865 fell before mid- April, the solemn 
 offices of Tenebrae were sung in a darkness made visible by 
 dwindling tapers. Although Harry ’s expectations of Tene- 
 brae had run high they were overpassed by the event. In this 
 Munich, where, three hundred years before, Orlandus Lassus 
 had lived and worked, the tradition of unaccompanied poly- 
 phonic music Avas not dead. Throughout Passiontide the or- 
 gans and the noisy church-orchestras were hushed. Dust gath- 
 ered on the exuberant scores of Haydn and Mozart and Schu- 
 
 270 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 271 
 
 bert ; and the austerely lovely tone-garlands of Palestrina and 
 his peers were reverently twined about the solemn ceremonies. 
 At Bulford-on-Deme there had been few reminders of Holy 
 Week beyond the long gospels at Morning Prayer, the hot-cross 
 buns on Good Friday and a few flowers (which some parishion- 
 ers resented as a Popish innovation) in the chancel of St. 
 Michael's on Easter Sunday. But in Munich one touching 
 rite followed hard upon another. 
 
 On Palm Sunday, amidst the strange old Bavarian architec- 
 ture of the Frauenkirehe, Harry followed the great proces- 
 sion until he stood in the open air beneath the cupola-crowned 
 towers and heard cantors within the church answering the 
 choristers without, while the Archbishop of Munieh-Freising 
 and his court waited for the moment when the doors should be 
 flung open and they should reenter the church singing a glad 
 hymn, like the first Palm Sunday throng pouring into 
 Jerusalem. He was present at the golden pomps of Maundy 
 Thursday: at the Blessing of the Oils, the Procession, the 
 Washing of Feet, the Stripping of the Altars. In deepest 
 awe he heard the Reproaches on Good Friday morning while 
 the doors of the empty tabernacle stood open wide: but his 
 humility forbade him to join the black-coated citizens in 
 adoring the Cross, and when they pressed forward to kiss 
 a great ivory crucifix he slipped behind a pillar out of sight. 
 On Holy Saturday he was among the first in the cathedral 
 porch to see the smiting together of flint and steel and the 
 lighting of the new fire. And on Easter Sunday, when 
 Schubert and the drums and trumpets and fiddles and clarinets 
 were in full blast once more, he felt as if a long night of 
 noble sorrow had suddenly surrendered to a headlong, blind- 
 ing dawn and that the Lord was risen indeed. 
 
 Lent being ended, the Opemhaus re-opened with Lucia di 
 Lammermoor. Harry was making his way to the box-office 
 when he was checked by a feeling almost of nausea. If the 
 
272 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 piece had been Lohengrin, that chaste legend of the Knight 
 of the Holy Grail set forth in music of unworldly strength 
 and sweetness, he would have been eager to hear it once again. 
 But from Lucia di Lammermoor he turned back. The stock 
 operas, with their amours and intrigues and assassinations, 
 their bombastic orchestration, their glib recitatives, their 
 trashy vocal displays, had turned bitter and dusty in his 
 mouth. 
 
 Spring called him; and he followed her for thirty miles 
 across the heaths and through the forests and up the flower- 
 clad hills until he lost her in the high mountains and stumbled 
 against Winter, her white-bearded father, still gazing blankly 
 at the glaciers and the virgin snow. After a perilous ad- 
 venture he halted in Ulm to repair damages; and there a 
 strange thing befell. 
 
 Again and again Harry had listened to rapturous descrip- 
 tions of a new organ in Ulm which boasted a hundred stops 
 and was the largest in Germany. With difficulty he obtained 
 leave to try this vast machine. Its tone and touch did not 
 wholly please him. On turning round at the end of half 
 an hour he found he had an auditor, who proved to be no 
 less than a retired Hofkapellmeister. After some compli- 
 ments, the Hofkapellmeister asked for and was given the 
 young Englishman’s name. 
 
 “Coggin,” he echoed. “Coggin. So? Perhaps it is a 
 common name in England. Now, can you tell me anything 
 about Henry Coggin, the composer?” 
 
 Harry started violently. As he had never breathed a word 
 in Germany about his compositions it did not occur to him at 
 first that “ Henry Coggin, the composer” was none other than 
 himself. He took it that he had a double — some cleverer 
 and grander and happier Henry Coggin who could really write 
 original music. Here was a fresh complication. But while 
 he was standing aghast the Hofkapellmeister solved the riddle 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 273 
 
 by fumbling in a cupboard beside the organ and by produc- 
 ing a familiar volume. It was the ill-starred album of short 
 pieces for the organ which Harry had published two years 
 before. 
 
 If Pastor Clupp had suddenly bobbed up in the carved 
 pulpit of this Ulm church — it claimed to be the biggest 
 Protestant church in the world — and had given out Hymn 
 Number Four Hundred and Twenty-nine, Harry could not 
 have been more astonished. Observing his stupefaction the 
 Hofkapellmeister explained. 
 
 “ These pieces were given to me,” he said, “by one of your 
 compatriots, a Herr Redding, whom I met with his family 
 in the Schwarzwald. They had received them by post from 
 the composer. I perceive that you are Herr Coggin and I am 
 honored to make your acquaintance. I am proud to grasp the 
 hand of the man who wrote this piece alia capella in C Minor. 
 Whenever I play it, I seem to hear five voices executing some 
 noble polyphonic motet of three hundred years ago. You 
 did not write it to please the public. In some of your other 
 pieces I find that you have bathed in the pure stream of 
 HandePs genius. We undervalue Handel in Germany to- 
 day: perhaps, because he tried to turn Englishman. I am 
 glad to see how deeply you have studied his organ eoncerti 
 and his harpsichord pieces as well as his oratorios. When 
 our poor Schubert met with HandePs work he saw at once 
 how deficient was his own musical equipment: but it was 
 rather lateP’ 
 
 The old musician turned lovingly the well-worn pages, 
 praising here and blaming there. At last he said : 
 
 “Your reverence for the great masters of counterpoint and 
 fugue has delighted me. But I fear you have too much ne- 
 glected your contemporaries. There is a Zeitgeist , a spirit of 
 the age, which has its just claims upon us artists. Your com- 
 positions are too insular. I suppose you have come to Ger- 
 
274 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 many to study. Are you one of the young Englishmen I hear 
 about at Leipsic?” 
 
 In as few words as possible Harry narrated, his Leipsic ex- 
 perience. But he did not add that he had hurried away 
 from Mendelssohn’s Conservatoire because of those very 
 young Englishmen the Ilofkapellmeister had mentioned. He 
 explained that he was not absolutely dependent on music 
 for a livelihood and that at the age of twenty-five he could 
 not contemplate beginning to learn the pianoforte all over 
 again. His tutors and professors, he added, were the con- 
 ductors and singers and players at the opera-houses, the 
 organists and choirs in the churches, the pianists and violinists 
 and vocalists at the concerts. 
 
 “In Germany,” answered the Hofkapellmeister, “that 
 would not be the surest road to a career. No doubt England 
 is different. I see you are a true Englishman. So keep 
 your insularity and resist our German ideas. Go back to 
 conduct The Messiah and Mendelssohn’s English Elijah in the 
 way your countrymen prefer and understand. You are 
 shrewd. None the less, I see you are a talented and intelligent 
 young man and I will do you a service, I will write you a 
 letter of communication to my old friend Richard Wagner in 
 Munich. He is a great man, a very great man : but in your 
 country he is ignorantly attacked and misrepresented. His 
 work must be preached, like a musical gospel. You will meet 
 Herr Wagner at the most important moment of his career. 
 Tell me which gasthaus you are staying in and I will send 
 you the letter to-day.” 
 
 When Harry returned to Bavaria with the precious letter 
 in his pocket, he found Wagner’s name in all the newspapers 
 and on half the tongues of Munich. King Ludwig had ended 
 the famous composer’s long battle with poverty by granting 
 him a seemly house and income and had bidden him realize 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 275 
 
 his magnificent project of operatic reform at the royal ex- 
 pense. Wagner had decided to begin with a festival perform- 
 ance of Tristan und Isolde, a work which had been discussed 
 for years but never once presented on the stage. 
 
 Remembering the Ulm Hofkapellmeister ’s complaint about 
 English irreverence towards Wagner, Harry Coggin was 
 amazed at finding the Germans themselves busily trying to 
 disable the creator of Lohengrin by a daily fusillade of 
 calumny and insult. He was dubbed a dandy, a glutton, a 
 voluptuary in whose extravagant and luxurious home even the 
 Grand Turk would have felt quite at ease. He was accused 
 alternately of republicanism and of an absolutist conspiracy 
 with King Ludwig. It was hinted that in Saxony he had 
 stealthily set fire both to an opera-house and a palace out of 
 pure spite. As for his musical plans, he was roundly cursed 
 as an interloper and a charlatan. 
 
 Harry’s first modest visit to Wagner’s house was brief: 
 but it sufficed to sweep once for all from his mind the non- 
 sense he had heard concerning an Arabian Palace of Delight. 
 Everybody in and about the place seemed tremendously 
 earnest and busy. The Meister did not appear: but, together 
 with a polite excuse, he sent to his young visitor a card of 
 admission to the Hauptprobe or full rehearsal of Tristan on 
 the Friday following. 
 
 The Hauptprobe dispelled all doubts as to Wagner’s mean- 
 ing in calling his work a “festival” play. It recalled the 
 feast-days of the Greeks, when Aeschylus and Sophocles and 
 Euripides brought forth of their best and when song and 
 dance were performed in a deeply religious spirit. Coggin 
 found that Tristan had been expressly separated from the 
 repertory of the royal opera-house and that the event was 
 independent of the box-office. It was to be the herald of a 
 musical revolution even more momentous than Monteverde ’s. 
 
 Before the auditorium lights were lowered a man of master- 
 
276 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 ful appearance took possession of the conductor’s desk. Was 
 this Wagner? No. A student at Harry’s elbow whispered 
 that it was Hans von Biilow and that Richard Wagner had 
 decided to witness the Hauptprobe from the dark depths of a 
 box. 
 
 Harry knew already that in Tristan Wagner claimed to have 
 taken a long musical stride forward from Lohengrin — a stride 
 longer than the stride which divided Lohengrin from Rienzi. 
 But what he heard was not a stride : it was the breadth of a 
 world. Throughout four hours which might have been four 
 minutes or might have been four hundred years he sat in 
 thrall to the music. 
 
 While hearing Tannh.duser and Lohengrin Harry had felt 
 like a man being shown through a royal palace; admiring 
 the state apartments, the furniture, the pictures, the statuary, 
 in their order: pausing to glance through a window at the 
 lakes and fountains and rose-brakes of the pleasaunce; bend- 
 ing a knee in the dim chapel; shuddering in the dungeons; 
 climbing the steep spiral of the keep ; and finally gazing down 
 over the battlements at the whole wonder of roofs and court- 
 yards, of moats and gardens, of bridges and towers. In these 
 two operas, the fanfares, the processional marches, the 
 serenades, the cavatinas, the duets, the choruses were ar- 
 tistically connected and contrasted; but they were “ num- 
 bers’’ which gave the hearer a feeling that he w T as walk- 
 ing along a gallery and coming upon one fine thing after 
 another. 
 
 Tristan was not so. With the first swellings of the prelude, 
 Harry felt as if he were living with sharpened intellect and 
 senses but without will-power in a cradle of bulrushes or in 
 Lohengrin’s faerie barque. The flood of mysterious melody 
 deepened under him until he felt that he was afloat and drift- 
 ing with the stream. He did not have to attend deliberately 
 to the music : because the clamorous tide was below him and 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 277 
 
 around him, before him and behind him. The curtain rose 
 and the current became more impetuous. It urged forward, 
 bearing him on its breast. Sometimes it raced foamless and 
 soundless between the dank cliffs of a sunless gorge. Once 
 it chattered and danced through a garden, singing its glad 
 way under cool arbors hung with trumpet-shaped, flame- 
 colored, madly scented blossoms. Once it broadened into a 
 torpid shallow, sagging wearily through withering sedge under 
 a leaden sky. And in the end, after darkness had brooded 
 over it and a storm had whipped its waters into fury, the 
 river slid tranquilly into the sweetness of a dawn-reddened 
 sea — a sea murmuring like a greenwood with all the birds of 
 the world in its branches, a sea reflecting like a mirror the 
 immeasurable and eternal heaven. 
 
 Thrown ashore at last from the healing depths of this blest 
 ocean, Harry crept back to his lodging, like a man who has 
 been snatched from drowning against his will. The vivid, 
 solid men and women of Munich, chattering and hurrying, 
 jostled him: but for Harry Coggin they did not exist. His 
 ears were still filled with the shrilling of the west wind in the 
 cordage of Sir Tristan ’s ship, with the murmurings of the cool 
 leaves and the hidden waters in King Mark’s garden, with 
 the bumping of the Atlantic rollers against the castle-crowned 
 cliff where Kurwenal and the young hind watched wearily for 
 Queen Isolda. 
 
 Very late in the evening a faintness told Harry that he had 
 forgotten his evening meal. A weinstube was at hand; so 
 he descended the stone stairs and called for a round of black 
 bread, a little cheese made of sour cream and a bocksbeutel 
 of earthy Leistwein. French dainties served on fair white 
 linen in a polite salle-a-manger, such as he had found in 
 one of the Munich hotels, would have offended him at that 
 moment ; but the dim and massive crypt and coarse old-world 
 fare of the weinstube prolonged his dream. 
 
278 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Two students at tlie next table aroused him. They were 
 discussing and condemning Tristan und Isolde , on the ground 
 that the libretto was all compact of pessimism and atheism. 
 Coggin, who had still to learn that any stick was good enough 
 to beat the luckless Wagner with, and that most of the 
 champions who cried out against the atheism of Tristan were 
 men who had not darkened a church door for years, was on 
 the point of bursting out hotly in defense of the Meister: 
 but his better judgment prevailed. As the students desired 
 an audience they spoke loudly and Harry could not help hear- 
 ing every word. 
 
 His ingrained habit of rendering full justice to every op- 
 ponent asserted itself. These bitter youths were right. The 
 text of Tristan left much to be desired, not only by devout 
 Christians but by simple, ordinary, healthy human beings too. 
 Its orientalism and Schopenhauerism, its poverty-struck 
 doctrine of immortality, its revolt against the bright and eager 
 daytime and its longing for night and darkness and nothing- 
 ness were in themselves unwholesome, like strange vegetables 
 forced in a tomb-like cellar. But as Harry Coggin drank his 
 Leistwein he suddenly remembered that Wagner’s poem was 
 not meant to be taken by itself but as part of the whole music- 
 drama. 
 
 It might be true — no, it was true beyond denial that Wagner 
 the poet and philosopher was self-conscious, self-willed. Pes- 
 simism, atheism, hectic emotionalism suffused the poem with- 
 out a doubt. And yet, with the music added, or rather with 
 the music interpenetrating the poem in every line and every 
 syllable, Tristan und Isolde became an exultant hymn of faith 
 and hope and love. Even as the all-enveloping pity of God 
 descends omnipotently upon poor mortals, despite their pride 
 and ignorance and false philosophy, healing the sickness of 
 their souls, bending their stiff wills and softening their parched 
 hearts ; so the music of Tristan, like a burning sun and a rush- 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 279 
 
 ing wind, tore clean alleys through the humid thickets, wither- 
 ing and uprooting the sickly-scented creepers and awakening 
 the sweet, honest flowers of Spring. Like Balaam, Wagner 
 the poet-philosopher had stood forth to curse life and long- 
 ing; and, like Balaam, the musician Wagner had been con- 
 strained to chant over life and love high praises and rich 
 blessings. 
 
 The students went away, the bocksbeutel ran dry, the 
 kellner began to fidget with the lamps. Harry paid the score 
 and sought the bank of the Iser. Watching the waters, he pur- 
 sued to its end the thought which had come to him in the 
 wine-cellar. Surely the conclusion could be none other than 
 this. Wagner the writer was no more than a certainly gifted 
 and possibly conceited man. But Wagner the composer was 
 much more than a gifted and self-confident musician. As a 
 musician, the Master was nothing less than inspired. That 
 was why the musician overwhelmed the poet without the poet 
 knowing it. The text of Tristan was like the spent and rent 
 and blackened old seed which the gardener finds still cling- 
 ing to the strong roots of a glorious flower. From that old 
 seed the growth began : but, as St. Paul said, it had been cast 
 into the earth to die. Harry recalled the words of Tristan 
 und Isolde once more and understood how, at the call of the 
 music, like the moidering dead at the archangel’s trump, 
 “this mortal had put on immortality, this corruption had put 
 on incorruption.” 
 
 In his bedroom, by the light of two candles, he scanned the 
 MS. of .his own Boadicea, The first act was complete as well 
 as the pompously-scored overture. He read some of the 
 dialogue and knew that it was not more stilted than the 
 ordinary opera “book.” He went through Boadicea ’s duet 
 with the baritone which w r as accompanied by a seven-part 
 chorus of priests and priestesses crooning softly in the 
 neighboring temple and by a rich undersong of ’cellos, double- 
 
280 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 basses and bassoons. But in every bar he saw, as if he had 
 been gazing into a mirror, the reflection of an industrious, 
 ambitious earnest, competent, resourceful plodder, plodding 
 away at his desk because he itched to write an opera and not 
 because he had an opera to write. In some scenes the music 
 was imitated from Weber, from Spontini and from the Tann- 
 hduser of Wagner. In other places there was something worse 
 than imitation; namely a most insistent effort at originality 
 of melody and harmony, of rhythm and instrumentation. 
 
 Yes. Boadicea was half superfluous, half insolent, and it 
 was all artificial, all insincere. When he perceived the truth, 
 Harry flushed crimson as if he had been detected in a de- 
 liberate lie. Squatting on the floor he opened the porcelain 
 stove in which he kindled a fire every evening as a precaution 
 against the sudden waves of cold from the Alps which were 
 wont to make Munich shiver on these nights of May; and 
 sheet by sheet he fed Boadicea to the cozy flame. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 H ARRY shunned the Opernhaus for three weeks. He 
 could not have endured Lalla Rookh and Marta and 
 Tine Barber of Seville; so he waited for the evening 
 of the second Saturday in June when Tristan und Isolde was 
 to be publicly performed for the first time. Meanwhile at- 
 tacks on the composer grew more vicious every day. With- 
 out classing himself, even for a single moment, with the great 
 and famous Richard Wagner, Harry Coggin could not help re- 
 calling the intrigues which had ruined his own little concerts 
 at Bulford-on-Deme. From an enemy of Wagner, who rolled 
 the sorry details like sweet morsels under his tongue, Harry 
 learned how Tannhauser had been howled down in Paris, 
 and he remembered the night when his playing of Schumann 
 was stopped by yells of “Rags and Bones/ ’ He longed to 
 stand in Wagner ’s presence and to tell the Master that hence- 
 forth he would have at least one defender in England. 
 
 On June 10, 1865, Munich was allowed to hear Tristan und 
 Isolde . On that first night, admission to the gallery cost 
 rather less than an English sixpence, so that the student 
 partisans of both sides were there. Harry, sitting in one 
 of the best seats, was surrounded by Wagner’s reverent 
 disciples. The poem displeased him less than before, while the 
 music searched him still more deeply and mastered him still 
 more strongly. Boadicea had gone out of his life like a big 
 richly-colored soap-bubble which bursts and leaves only one 
 drop of water behind. And yet, although his operatic am- 
 bitions were scattered to the four winds, Harry never felt a 
 doubt that music was to be his career. 
 
 281 
 
282 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 This inward persuasion became more explicit on the fol- 
 lowing Thursday, June 15th, which was the Feast of Corpus 
 Christi. On that day Munich seemed to become a Holy City, 
 like Rome or Jerusalem. King Ludwig and the court, the 
 archbishop and the clergy, the generals and the troops, the 
 burgomaster and the city fathers and the people, composed a 
 magnificent procession in public honor of the Blessed Sacra- 
 ment. The streets were befiagged, the banging of cannon an- 
 swered the clanging of bells, and little children flung roses 
 in the path of the King of Kings. In one of the churches, 
 Harry attended a recital of Mendelssohn’s Lauda Sion and it 
 dawned upon him that he, “the composer Henry Coggin” as 
 he had been called at Ulm, could set St. Thomas Aqyinas’ 
 noble Sequence to loftier and more faithful music. That 
 night he jotted down a five part setting of the verse Caro 
 cibus , Sanguis potus, and knew that it was not unworthy of 
 the mystic words. 
 
 There were four performances of Tristan and Harry was 
 present at them all. On the days between, he absented him- 
 self from the opera-house and the concert-halls, but never 
 missed a high function in a church. He was finding his 
 musical feet at last and the composition of Lauda Sion went 
 on apace. None the less he devoured every inch of print that 
 came his way respecting the colossal projects of Richard Wag- 
 ner. Though Harry’s own renunciation of opera-writing was 
 without reserve and without remorse, he felt exalted by the 
 knowledge that he had happened to be in Munich at a junction 
 of such supreme import. In a tom old book he had once read 
 that there was a certain month, in the sixteenth century, in 
 Rome, when Palestrina by composing and performing three 
 noble polyphonic masses saved church-music from being driven 
 back into plain rhythmic melody: and it seemed to him that 
 this June in Munich had been equally crucial for the future of 
 musical art. Harry would have given much for one hour’s 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 283 
 
 talk with Tv T agner : but he had left the Ulm Hof kapellmeister’s 
 letter at the Master’s house and could not rally courage to 
 try again. 
 
 July was well advanced when a very polite note in Wag- 
 ner’s own handwriting was brought to Harry’s inn. It con- 
 veyed an invitation to visit the Master on the morrow. 
 
 In good time Henry Coggin, warm with pride and tingling 
 with nervousness, presented himself at the shrine. He had 
 passed and gazed at the house so often that he was familiar 
 with the statuary in the garden and with the projection which 
 gave a bay-window to each of the three floors of the building. 
 Yet somehow the place looked different. While he was wait- 
 ing for the door to be opened Harry found the cause of the 
 change. Every blind was drawn. 
 
 Into a plain room, not at all like the Aladdin’s audience- 
 chamber of the gossips, Wagner came hurrying. Instantly 
 Harry lost all sense of the scanty furnishings; because the 
 great man seemed to fill the room with his presence and with 
 his vehement insistent speech. A frightful thing had hap- 
 pened. Schnorr was dead. Schnorr had died suddenly, the 
 night before. There was no more Schnorr. And therefore 
 there would be no more Tristan und Isolde . 
 
 Herr Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld was the tenor who had 
 filled the role of Sir Tristan at the Hauptprobe and at all the 
 four public performances. Harry was stunned by the tragic 
 news. Years before, when his father’s broken body was 
 brought home by the light of lanterns after the Demehaven 
 railway accident, the shock had been terrible enough, but not 
 so stupefying as this: because the lad’s earliest memories did 
 not include a time when poor William Coggin would let a 
 week pass without predicting total disablement or sudden 
 death for himself and the workhouse for his family. Schnorr 
 von Carolsfeld, however, had seemed to have been gifted by 
 the gods with immortality. Tristan and Kurwenal, Mark and 
 
28 ■* 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Melot, Isolde and Brangane were men and women of fifteen 
 hundred years ago : yet Schnorr gave, his audience the feeling 
 of being not a tenor star but Sir Tristan himself, still living 
 and loving and fighting. No. It was absurd to say that 
 Schnorr was dead like the dead people lying in graves. Harry 
 had seen him five times on the stage, tearing the bandage from 
 his mortal wound and falling dead at the sandaled feet of his 
 white ladye Isolda: but after every one of these five deaths 
 Schnorr had not failed to eat an excellent supper at a restaur- 
 ant in the Maximiliansplatz and to make room for an impres- 
 sive quantity of dark Munich beer. 
 
 Wagner appeared to read his young visitor’s thoughts: for 
 he startled Harry by exclaiming bitterly: “Yes, Schnorr is 
 dead this time, as dead as a nail. Now some people will be 
 satisfied. They grumbled at him because he took an hour to 
 die in the last act of Tristan: so last night he proved to them 
 his versatility by dying as quickly as Melot. My best, my 
 best ! Thou art gone ! I shall not see thy like again.” 
 
 Henry Coggin had carefully rehearsed some sentences not 
 unsuitable to a first meeting with a Master. Bravely discard- 
 ing them he tried to frame some phrases of condolence. Wag- 
 ner cut him short. 
 
 “Nineteen tenors out of twenty are conceited blockheads,” 
 he said, with rising scorn. “As for the twentieth . . . well, 
 he won’t bother to learn my music. Why should he when the 
 people prefer Auber ? No, no. For years to come my Tristan 
 is as dead as my poor Schnorr himself. Schnorr was like a 
 block of granite for me to build upon. Now I must cement 
 together a dozen clay bricks in his place. But you wanted to 
 see me? My old friend has written to me from Ulm about 
 you.” 
 
 Coggin has been assured that he would find this precious 
 Meister a loquacious egoist, determined to do al 1 ^he talking 
 and none of the listening and with no interest in anybody’s 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 285 
 
 work and career save his own. Wagner, on the contrary, drew 
 forth, by rapid questions, a sufficient account of Harry’s musi- 
 cal attainments and aspirations. At last he burst out : 
 
 ‘ ‘ Thank your God that you have forsworn the theater. The 
 beginning of my cursed bad luck . . . Schnorr is dead . . . 
 was my being bred and born and brought up among actors and 
 actresses and singers and scene-painters and fiddlers. You 
 want to compose church music. So do I. Until my old friend, 
 now at Ulm, convinced me that the editions they publish at 
 Regensburg and Mechlin and Gratz are misleading, I studied 
 the plain-chant. Life is too short to examine the question 
 for myself. But you may be aware that I have edited and 
 conducted works by Palestrina. My dear young sir, you 
 have health and leisure and money. Soak yourself in the 
 sacred music of three hundred years ago. I know of no other 
 compositions which can stir the heart so deeply. Get them by 
 heart but don’t imitate them. The world, moves. Ponder 
 deeply those ancient works and strive to develop them as they 
 could have developed them if secular music had not ousted 
 true church-music for nearly two hundred years. I speak of 
 Palestrina; but even in his own sphere and his own genera- 
 tion Palestrina was not everybody. 
 
 “As for myself,” Wagner continued, “I shall never write 
 church-music out-and-out. Nevertheless, I can call myself a 
 religious composer, Lohengrin and Tannhauser are Christian 
 operas. I have written religiously for the theaters, just as 
 our modern church composers have written operatically for the 
 churches. My Nibelung’s Ring , which I ’m going to finish 
 now that Schnorr and Tristan are dead, seems to be about 
 heathen gods and people but it is a Christian drama. So is 
 Tristan und Isolde . Whenever I mention in that poem Frau 
 Minne, the goddess of love, I mean the dear God. And when 
 The Ring is finished I shall complete another music-drama, 
 intensely religious, about Christ. I don’t mean my Jesus of 
 
286 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Nazareth which I laid aside nearly twenty years ago. Yes. 
 Go back to England where they malign me; and tell them 
 that though I don’t believe in the Church I believe in Christ.” 
 
 The great man paused. Feeling obliged to speak but not 
 daring to discuss high or deep things, Coggin said politely: 
 “I was sorry to hear one day that you were not well treated 
 in England.” 
 
 “ Critics were paid to attack me in the London papers,” 
 said Wagner, speaking without heat or bitterness, “and they 
 earned every pfennig of the money. Sometimes I think I 
 disliked London because of the old noodle who led me round, 
 like a bear. Perhaps I didn’t see the real English. But I 
 was not treated worse in England than in France and not so 
 badly as in Germany. In Paris we had one hundred and sixty- 
 four rehearsals of Tannhduser and then the work was shouted 
 down on the first night, for political reasons quite outside 
 art. In Vienna we had fifty-two rehearsals of Tristan. The 
 tenor And,er couldn’t and wouldn ’t sing the music. I could 
 have got them Schnorr ; but they wanted a failure. So Tristan 
 was n’t performed in Vienna after all. In Germany they lam- 
 poon me and swindle me. Take Dresden. Lohengrin and 
 Tannhduser are kassenstiieke there — ” 
 
 “Kassenstiieke?” echoed Coggin, scenting a new word for 
 his dictionary. 
 
 “Yes, Money-earning operas. Box-office successes. But 
 the Dresden Hoftheater happens to have a humbugging legal 
 advantage of me. They take it and never pay me a penny. 
 Here in Munich I should starve if I had not found a more than 
 Maecenas in His Majesty the King. And so unscrupulous are 
 the intrigues against me that I mean to leave Munich, now 
 Schnorr is dead, and to bury myself in my work, at Lucerne. 
 Yes. My young friend, I say again, thank your God that 
 you are not in bondage to the theater. In short, as our good 
 Hofkapellmeister has asked me to give you advice, here it is. 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 287 
 
 Live within your means so that you can always pursue Art 
 without a thought of paymasters. When I was writing the 
 second act of Tristan I pawned my watch so that I should not 
 have to accept money from persons who would have deflected 
 me a few hair-breadths from my pure inspiration/ ’ 
 
 ‘ 4 1 don ’t recall that Schumann was in need of money when 
 he wrote his opera Genoveva ventured Harry, “but it is not 
 very good. ’ ’ 
 
 “You do not flatter me by comparisons with Schumann/ ’ 
 retorted the Master. “Besides, Genoveva could have been 
 much better if Schumann had taken my advice. I offered to 
 help him with the libretto : but you see Schumann was a book- 
 seller’s son, so he concluded he must be an expert in literature. 
 As an actor ’s son, I could claim to be an expert in the drama. 
 But your Schumann didn’t think so. His precious opera is 
 pitiable. Now, you must excuse me.” 
 
 In the garden a cat and a dog, bumping one another com- 
 ically, came rushing to meet the Master, who gave the hound 
 a fond poke in the ribs which- sent him rolling over in the 
 grass and then hoisted the cat upon his shoulder. With puss’s 
 tail lashing him softly in the face, the creator of Lohengrin 
 was answering loud purrs with murmured baby-talk when a 
 showy carriage drew up outside. 
 
 Instantly all was excitement. Somebody sprang out of 
 nowhere and hustled Coggin back into the house. Two fas- 
 tidiously dressed personages descended upon Herr Wagner and 
 began to bewail loudly the death of Schnorr von Carolsfeld. 
 Still talking, the three disappeared into an arbor. Harry sat 
 alone in the house for more than half an hour, feeling sure that 
 he had been pushed back by mistake and forgotten, but not 
 knowing what to do. Suddenly the door opened and his host 
 reappeared, with one only of the visitors. 
 
 Although Harry recognized the new-comer’s pensive and 
 anxious face, he could not recall when and where he had seen 
 
288 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 it. It was soon evident that Herr Wagner had given some 
 account of Harry’s nationality and tastes: because the 
 stranger, in an authoritative tone, demanded: 
 
 “Please tell me about this great festival in London, in 
 honor of Handel, in your Glaspalast. You know we have a 
 Glaspalast in Munich also, copied from your own. I hear that 
 there were hundreds of players at your Glaspalast and thou- 
 sands of singers. Give me your opinion.’’ 
 
 Harry reflected before answering. His first impulse was 
 to confess that he had never been in London and had never 
 seen the Crystal Palace. It happened, however, that the tri- 
 ennial Handel festival, which was just over, interested him 
 enormously and that he was well informed concerning it. So 
 he said: 
 
 “Gracious Sir ( gnadiger Herr), I think this great festival 
 does some good, because it makes many thousands of people 
 sing Handel or listen to Handel who would otherwise know 
 little about him. But it cannot be acceptable to musicians- 
 who revere their art. I do not see what is to prevent the 
 managers from increasing the number of choralists to fifty 
 thousand: but the solos must sound feebler and feebler as 
 you make the choruses stronger and stronger. I think no 
 performance of Handel is good which makes the recitatives 
 thin and weak. The recitatives should determine all the rest. 
 Furthermore, if I am not mistaken, the band was intended by 
 Handel to be as numerous as the chorus.” 
 
 Coggin was saved from displaying his ignorance of English 
 musical life by Herr Wagner, who launched out into a scheme 
 for the Glaspalast which had nothing to do with Handel. 
 When the pensive stranger rose to leave, Coggin moved for- 
 ward to shake hands with him, but this ordinary and natural 
 action seemed to cause something like consternation and before 
 he could realize what was happening Harry was again alone. 
 
 He heard the carriage drive away. Herr Wagner returned 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 289 
 
 and once more escorted the young Englishman through the 
 garden. At the gate he tried to be off-hand ; but there was a 
 strange emotion in his voice as he said : 
 
 “That Gracious Sir as you called him is a poet, a philoso- 
 pher, an artist. That Gracious Sir is destined to play a great 
 part in the unification of our divided Germany. That Gra- 
 cious Sir lives misunderstood and undervalued amidst a world 
 of self-seeking fops and traitors. For that Gracious Sir I 
 may feel bound in conscience to sacrifice all my art-plans, all 
 my new ease of mind, so as to save him for Germany, so as to 
 lay by his hand a firm foundation for German art in the fu- 
 ture. That Gracious Sir is His Majesty the King of Ba- 
 varia.’ ’ 
 
 A cat may not only look at a king but may also close with 
 his tail the mouth of a courtier. Leaping up from the grass, 
 the fluffy animal swarmed up Herr Wagner’s fine coat as 
 quick as lightning and cut short the discourse. As for Harry 
 Coggin he mumbled some meaningless syllables and fled. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 O UT of respect for the Ulm Hofkapellmeister, Harry 
 had installed himself in one of the Schiitzenstrasse 
 hotels, rather than in a small gasthaus or pension. 
 Although this choice cost him three pounds a week as compared 
 with thirty shillings it gave him a better address from which 
 to use his letters of introduction and it enabled him to hear a 
 good deal of Hanoverian German and travelers’ French as 
 well as the strange German of Bavaria. Further, it afforded 
 him frequent peeps at English papers, such as The Illustrated 
 London News f and at stray journals and magazines left by 
 passing tourists. It was from these sources that he had drawn 
 the facts about the ’65 Handel Festival on which was based his 
 answer to King Ludwig’s question. 
 
 Into this most respectable hostelry as Harry sat eating the 
 rather pretentious evening meal, which was neither French 
 dinner nor German supper, a young Englishman entered. 
 Striding along the room with a masterful but most genial 
 air, he halted at Harry’s table and exclaimed : 
 
 “The identical, inoubliable, inimitable, inestimable unver- 
 getzlich same! Mr. Coggin, I am delighted, ravished, en- 
 chanted, transported, to renew our too brief acquaintance- 
 ship.” 
 
 Harry quailed. Even before the new-comer spoke he had 
 recognized the wandering young gentleman who had shown 
 him pictures and had tried to show him certain other sights in 
 Amsterdam over thirteen months before. He managed to 
 
 answer : 
 
 290 
 
THE WANDERER 291 
 
 ‘ ‘ Good-evening, Mr. Huntly-Martin. I am pleased to meet 
 you again.’ ’ 
 
 “ Can’t say you look it,” chuckled the other. “But don't 
 be afraid. I ’m not going to drag you this time into dens 
 or haunts or lairs of vice and iniquity and infamy. Truth is, 
 my dear Mr. Coggin, I ’ve often tried to kick myself over that 
 affair. Went to your hotel to say so. Did n’t even know your 
 name till the landlord told me. But you ’d absconded. I 
 don’t mind admitting you did me good. Believe me or not, as 
 you like, but I was so much upset that I didn’t stay in Aunt 
 Tiddens’ wicked old hole two minutes. Cleared out almost 
 as soon as you did. Sat in a cafe as dull and respectable as a 
 church and wrote good-boy letters home, all about my doings 
 — or nearly all. Hadn’t written for weeks, except asking the 
 guv ’nor for more money. Not sure that I did n’t even try to 
 say my prayers that night. No, Mr. Coggin, don’t be offended. 
 I mean this seriously. I was never dirty-minded and you 
 made me see certain matters in a new light. You forgive me?” 
 
 “Of course I do, Mr. Huntly-Martin.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Then we ’ll both forget. But the way, you seem to find out 
 where to dine and wine. I still remember that bottle of Brane 
 Cantenac ’48 at your inn in Amsterdam; and, by Jove, I ’m 
 inquisitive about what you ’re eating and drinking now.” 
 
 “They call this an ink-fish. It comes from the Adriatic. 
 The white wine is Hungarian Nessmiihler. Allow me to ask 
 the waiter to bring you some of the ink-fisli and a glass,” 
 said Harry cordially. After his shock at Herr Wagner’s 
 house that morning, there was something fortifying in the 
 sight of a fellow-countryman. 
 
 “As you are the body, soul and spirit of hospitality,” an- 
 swered Mr. Huntly-Martin, “I will not only eat ink-fish with 
 you, but also the rest of the dinner, even if you give me blot- 
 ting-paper steaks with boiled lead-pencils and fried pen- 
 wipers for the next dish. Moreover, I will drink my full half 
 
292 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 of your Nessfuddler, or whatever you call it. Fact is, my 
 dear fellow-Briton, I am here on business. We can settle it 
 while we dine.” 
 
 Harry’s acute anxiety did not prevent him from giving 
 punctilious instructions for his guest ’s comfort. To follow the 
 Nessmiihler, he ordered a bottle of old Pralatenwein from the 
 Stiftskeller of the Augustine monastery at Klostemeuburg in 
 Austria. They ate almost in silence some fried breasts of 
 chickens with mushrooms. Then Mr. Huntly -Martin said: 
 
 ^To a certain or uncertain extent I represent to-night the 
 potest as Britannica , the might of Britain. In my ugly face 
 you are to behold the fair lineaments of our most gracious 
 Sovereign Lady Queen Victoria, whom Heaven save. Hear 
 and obey, as a loyal liege. ’ ’ 
 
 Harry was mystified until he remembered Mr. Huntly- 
 Martin’s allusion, at their first meeting, to “our Minister at 
 the Hague.” Seizing upon this clue he asked: “Do you mean 
 that you are now attached to the diplomatic service ? ’ ’ 
 
 “That’s it,” answered the vicegerent of Majesty. “Per- 
 haps 1 semi-attached’ were a more precise phrase. Never 
 mind. The point is that I have come direct from the British 
 Minister here in Munich. In a word* the Minister has been 
 requested to give information as to the social position and 
 character of Mr. Henry Coggin and to explain why he stays 
 so long in Bavaria. Now look here, Mr. Henry Coggin. I ’m 
 expected to be tremendously diplomatic about it : but when I 
 heard the name ‘ Coggin’ I simply said to myself ‘ Well, I ’m 
 damned! Blowed if it ain’t Saint Coggin of Amsterdam.’ 
 So here I am. Now then. Thy secret dark declare. What is 
 your real name and rank? It’s going to make a difference 
 here whether you are of noble birth, as I believe you are. Out 
 with your name or title.” 
 
 “I am Henry Coggin,” said the examinee, with a sinking 
 heart. 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 293 
 
 “ Henry Fiddlesticks. Come, come. When I was in Darm- 
 stadt — beastly hole, Darmstadt — I met an Englishman, Sir 
 Richard Brasher. Told me about your races on the Moselle. 
 Wanted to know if I ’d bumped against you anywhere. Said 
 I had, of course. Then he told me his discovery — Coggin and 
 Incog, you know. He said you cheeked it out and would n ’t 
 admit it and that you swore your father was a rag-and-bone 
 man. But this time, Mr. Incog — or Lord Incog, or whatever 
 you are — it won’t do, my boy. We can’t send you to Nurem- 
 berg and put you to the torture of the Iron Maiden, though 
 she ’s only a hundred miles away ; but you must please oblige 
 us by coming out of this incognito.” 
 
 “I am truly Henry Coggin and nobody else,” protested 
 Harry, thoroughly alarmed, “It is a pure coincidence that 
 the syllables of my name also make ‘ incog. ’ When I told Sir 
 Richard Brasher and his friend that I am a marine-store- 
 dealer’s son, it was the simple truth and nothing can alter it.” 
 
 “Look here, hang it all,” said Mr. Huntly-Martin, “of 
 course there ’s some catch in it, a catch I ’m too stupid to guess 
 at. But, confound it, I can’t go back to my chief and say I ’ve 
 failed. Besides, Germany isn’t England. You can’t play 
 pranks with passports and stick down a false name in the 
 hotel registers. The Bavarian police won’t have it. Remem- 
 ber, things are very ticklish here. Unless I ’m badly misin- 
 formed, there ’ll be trouble soon between Prussia and Bavaria 
 — probably a war before the year’s out. The fat old Johnnies 
 who govern this damned country dare n’t risk sheltering mys- 
 terious strangers. But listen, I ’ll tell you in confidence, 
 although I ought n’t to do it, why I ’m here. We find you ’re 
 a musician. The Lord’s Anointed, the new King Ludwig, has 
 taken a fancy to you. He ’s as mad as a hatter. The King 
 met you, didn’t he, at Richard Wagner’s house? Wagner’s 
 as mad as His Majesty, or worse. The King means to take 
 you up and make no end of a fuss over you : so the Highover- 
 
294 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 all Chamberlain wants to know if you ’re respectable. He 
 does n’t mean moral. Nothing to do with that Amsterdam af- 
 fair. Are yon what corresponds with a 4 von,’ or not? For 
 the last time, out with it.” 
 
 “ There’s nothing to out with,” answered Coggin solemnly. 
 “I am truly Henry Coggin and truly a rag-and-bone man’s 
 son. ’ ’ 
 
 “Tut,” snapped the diplomat impatiently. “You are a 
 classical scholar, a composer, a critic of the arts, a hunter of 
 the best meats and the choicest wines, and you tell me you are 
 a rag-and-bone man’s son. What’s Pa doing all this time? 
 Just swopping old pokers for new rabbit-skins and sending you 
 tin, I suppose? No, Mr. Coggin. Damned if I ’m not begin- 
 ning to think you ’re a Prussian spy. Would you swear on 
 your maiden aunt’s Bible that your tale is true?” 
 
 “On my sacred word of honor, I swear it now,” Harry an- 
 swered. He spoke eagerly and emphatically. And yet, when 
 a silence ensued, he felt humiliated and unhappy. A year 
 before, on the green back af the soft Moselle, he had made 
 this self-same confession to Sir Richard Brasher almost 
 boastfully. During the long and wonderful months of his 
 wander-year he had not become one whit less simple and there 
 was still no trace in him of the upstart. All the same he 
 began to wish fiercely that the dead past might be left to 
 molder into decent dust without these frequent and boisterous 
 exhumations. As for Mr. Huntly-Martin ’s tale about King 
 Ludwig, Harry’s mind simply did not receive it and it passed 
 him by. 
 
 After gulping down the last glass of Klostemeuberger in- 
 attentively and irritably, the attache began to speak again. 
 His tone, though rougher and distinctly condescending, was 
 not unkind. He said: 
 
 “I must believe you. If your father were here, I should 
 congratulate him on the way he has had you educated. Not 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 295 
 
 much Eton and Christ Church about you, but you ’re a damned 
 sight more interesting. I admit I thought the same as Brasher 
 — that you were a vagabond young peer, disgusted with the 
 convenances of stick-in-the-mud society and doing just what 
 you jolly well pleased, like some of the sprigs of nobility in 
 Disraeli’s novels. By the way, excuse me saying so, but 
 Disraeli’s novels, now I think of it, are like a splendid marine- 
 store. Anyhow, I agreed with Brasher. And now it turns 
 out that we were wrong. I must tell my chief, and my chief 
 must tell the chamberlain and the chamberlain will tell the 
 King. Now, Mr. Coggin, wake up and pay attention. As 
 soon as His Majesty learns that you are a genius of humble 
 birth he will rush to take you under his patronage and per- 
 haps you ’ll never break loose. If you ’re caught, it will be 
 a living death. ’ ’ 
 
 He paused. When Coggin failed to speak, Mr. Huntly- 
 Martin continued: “Let me be old-fashioned. Let me quote 
 Shakespeare. My estimate of your future, Mr. Coggin, is like 
 I-f orget-his-name ’s estimate of Bottom the Weaver’s: ‘I don’t 
 see how you can escape sixpence a day for life from the Duke. ’ 
 Y’ know there ’s something in Shakespeare for everything. 
 The Kings of Bavaria were no more than Dukes in Shake- 
 speare’s time, so he hit your case exactly. I see you are 
 alarmed. So I should be myself, in your place. Now, tell me. 
 Can you go back to England? Have you any business that 
 keeps you in Bavaria?” 
 
 “No,” answered Coggin quickly. “None at all. As for 
 England, I v . . I am expected back in September. ’ 9 
 
 “Well, clear out of Bavaria. That ’s my advice. Con- 
 found it, you don’t want to be turned into a damned Ger- 
 man, now do you?” 
 
 Although Mr. Huntly-Martin ’s manner had become conde- 
 scending from the moment when Harry solemnly affirmed his 
 lowly origin, there was at the same time such a glow of good- 
 
296 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 will in liis cheerful face that Harry longed to pour out his 
 life-story and to seek the shrewd young man’s opinion on the 
 scheme of Edward Redding. 4 ‘To be turned into a damned 
 German — ” was not this the very business on which he had 
 come to Germany? For a moment he was dazzled by the 
 prospect of escaping not only from the terrifying benevolence 
 of King Ludwig but also from the whole complication into 
 which Edward Redding was driving him. He tried to speak : 
 but the old invincible reticence choked his utterance save some 
 jumbled thanks. > 
 
 “That ’s all right,” said Mr. Huntly-Martin gratefully. 
 “Now my old man will say I ’m a good child. Fact is that he 
 was worried. If you ’d squatted down in Munich as one of 
 this Wagner clique it might have meant a lot of bother for 
 us. The Bavarians can’t see a foreigner near the King, even 
 if he ’s only an Italian tenor or a French cook, without think- 
 ing that His Majesty’s foreign policy is being tampered with. 
 There ’s a bad time coming. I loathe the Prussians, but the 
 brutes have got a real army and, by Jove, they ’ll give the 
 Bavarians and the Austrians a thrashing when it suits them. 
 So skedaddle, my young friend, and keep out of a mess. But 
 I must flit. Capital dinner, stunning wine. A thousand 
 thanks. Good-night and good luck.” 
 
 Before he turned into bed, Harry wrote and posted the fol- 
 lowing letter : 
 
 Dear Mr. Edward. 
 
 1 hope you received the Berlin stove . As you said it was 
 for the house of a particular friend , I chose a very good one 
 and packed it myself . The Magyar bunda was a new one, so 
 you need not fear any contagion . I hope none of the rever- 
 sible wine-glasses were broken. The silver platter from 
 Wurzburg with the name Arbuthnot on it must have belonged 
 
THE WANDERER 297 
 
 to a Scots monk. It seems many of them came to the Main and 
 the Dannie. 
 
 Mr. Edw’ard, 1 have done my best to obey your wishes and 
 to refrain from thinking much about the future. My four- 
 teen months in Germany have restored my health and broad- 
 ened my mind. I can never thank you enough. They say 1 
 speak and write German well . The Dictionary of uncommon 
 phrases fills two thick quarto MS. volumes already. I do not 
 play the organ so well as before , but composition is much easier 
 to me. ^ 
 
 Mr. Edward , if you do not object I will return to England 
 at once instead of waiting till September. It is time to begin 
 working. To-morrow I go to Vienna where my address will 
 be the Zwei Lowen in the Seilergasse. I shall wait there for 
 your esteemed reply. 
 
 I am coming to reconcile myself with the idea of dropping 
 my name of Coggin, for good reasons. But although I ad- 
 mire many things in the life over here , I should find it very 
 hard to be a German. 
 
 Hoping that you are well ; also your honored parents, 
 
 I am, 
 
 Your respectful, obedient 
 
 Henry Coggin. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 S IX days, according to Harry's calculations, would be 
 the shortest time in which he could receive Edward 
 Redding’s reply : so, on reaching Vienna, he shut up his 
 mind against hopes and fears and devoted himself to the 
 sights of the city. Vienna was the most considerable of all 
 the cities he had visited and he expected much. 
 
 He was disappointed. The churches and museums and 
 palaces and avenues accorded with the descriptions in the 
 guide-books; but overpowering heat and some strokes of bad 
 luck spoilt his first two days. He deemed it his duty to 
 begin by a pilgrimage to the graves of the four immortal 
 musicians who had been buried in Vienna — Gluck and Mozart, 
 Beethoven and Schubert. The rumored identification of 
 Mozart’s resting-place turned out to be untrue, and Coggin 
 learned that all hope of tracing the pauper grave in the St. 
 Marx burial-ground had been abandoned. In the Wahring 
 cemetery a still more depressing experience awaited him. The 
 remains of Schubert and Beethoven, after lying for two gener- 
 ations side by side, had been dug up a little while before Cog- 
 gin’s visit, on a pretext of restoring the tombs, by a musical 
 society : and when Harry would fain have bowed his head in 
 homage and in prayer he was suddenly buzzed at and stung 
 by a waspish cicerone who insisted on presenting him to the 
 chief body-snatcher. This greasy ghoul gave lush details of 
 the unburials. The skulls and thighbones of both the com- 
 posers had been carefully measured and the ghoul knew the 
 figures to a millimeter. He was taking breath for a further 
 bout of grossness when the victim abruptly turned away 
 
 298 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 299 
 
 without giving grave-digger or guide a single kreuzer. It was 
 Harry’s custom to bestow trinkgeld rather liberally: but he 
 would have felt like a man caught red-handed in sacrilege if 
 he had helped to gorge this pair of leeches. 
 
 The opera-house was closed. As for the cafes and beer- 
 gardens they confirmed all Harry had heard about Viennese 
 gaiety and for that very reason their staccato music and 
 laughter struck cold sparks from the heart of a lonely traveler. 
 The main stream of the Danube flowed miles away and he 
 could not feel sure that he would be allowed to swim in it 
 even if he gained its banks. While the galleries delighted 
 his eyes they also choked his lungs. Only the churches re- 
 mained. He was cheered by the high-soaring nave and spire 
 of St. Stephen’s cathedral; but an hour later, under the 
 church in the Neumarkt, a Capuchin friar holding a torch 
 brought the sight-seer back to selemnity by leading him past 
 a hundred metal coffins, the funeral caskets of the imperial 
 family. Coggin gazed calmly enough on the remains of Haps- 
 burg emperors and empresses, archdukes and archduchesses 
 and crown-princes ; because a year of diligent sight-seeing had 
 familiarized him with the tombs of the great. Even the cop- 
 per coffin of the Duke of Reichstadt, the son of Napoleon the 
 Great by Marie Louise, gave him no sharp thrill. At length, 
 however, the Capuchin pointed out a rather plain box in a 
 corner and explained that, unlike the ninety-nine other boxes, 
 it held the bones of a person who was not of royal blood. It 
 was the coffin, he said, of a mere countess, who had been the 
 governess of Maria Teresa. This lowly creature lay amidst the 
 imperial dead through the benevolent condescension of Maria 
 Teresa herself. While the Capuchin was expanding the anec- 
 dote, a shiver suddenly ran up and down Harry’s marrow. 
 He remembered Huntly -Martin’s lightly-spoken warning that 
 the patronage of King Ludwig would be a living death. 
 
 Turning the pages of a time-table in a cafe, Harry found 
 
300 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 that a steamer would leave Vienna for Pest early the next 
 morning. He could pass nearly two days voyaging on the 
 Danube, spend two days in the Hungarian capital and return 
 to the Two Lions in time for Edward Redding’s letter. 
 "Within twenty-four hours of his first glance at the time-table 
 the traveler sat comfortably supping in a riverside hostelry at 
 Pest which had been recommended by his Vienna host. On 
 his plate smoked a savory gulyas, in his glass glowered a full 
 draught of the local wine called Turk ’s Blood, and across the 
 noble Danube towered the rock of Bu(la s its ruinous palace and 
 castle embossing the crags richly in the evening light. 
 
 After supper, as Coggin was standing puzzled before a 
 lordly building not mentioned in his guide-book, an elderly 
 gentleman addressed him very politely in English and ex- 
 plained that this was the Academy, only just completed. He 
 added that Harry had arrived in Pest at a happy moment for 
 artists. Only that very morning, the Hungarian Government 
 had succeeded in buying for their spick-and-span new Acad- 
 emy a most famous collection of works of art — the Esterhazy 
 collection. The gentleman appeared to be even more pleased 
 that these pictures and statues were to be brought out of 
 Vienna than that. they were to be brought into Pest. Indeed 
 it soon became apparent that he detested Hungary’s union 
 with Austria. Having persuaded the young Englishman to 
 sit down with him in a garden-restaurant, where he ordered a 
 bottle of red wine with the engaging name of Szanorodnyi, 
 the Magyar said : 
 
 “Look at that suspension bridge. It was made in England! 
 — designed by the Englishman who built your Hammersmith 
 Bridge. I was connected with the enterprise. That is why 
 I speak English. 
 
 “Never shall I forget the opening of that bridge. A great 
 bridge is usually opened by a royal personage. There are ban- 
 ners, bands of music, speeches, fireworks. The opening of our 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 301 
 
 bridge was different: though I admit there were fireworks. 
 
 “Some people had been saying that the bridge would fall 
 if many carts and people were allowed upon it at the same 
 moment. I will tell you what happened. Nearly eighteen 
 years ago I was a captain in Kossuth’s army. The Austrians 
 were too much for us and we had to flee, with the enemy on 
 our heels. It was the new bridge or nothing. We poured 
 across. So did the enemy. We hadn’t time to blow it up. 
 On those two short January days I believe that a hundred 
 thousand men, with at least two thousand wagons and guns, 
 crossed the Danube by that bridge. It did n’t fall. And four 
 months later, when the tables were turned, I stood near this 
 very spot on the river bank — I had been sent home wounded 
 a month before — and I watched the Austrians riding hell-for- 
 leather in full retreat before our arms.” 
 
 Although Harry Coggin liked the Austrians he had met, 
 and although he had never before had warm feelings towards 
 Hungarians, his blood raced at what he heard. Mr. Edward 
 Redding laughed at patriotism and nationality. Mr. Huntly- 
 Martin spoke of them with a< bored and aloof manner. Here, 
 however, was a man to whom race and racial freedom were a 
 religion, a master-passion, a reason for being alive. 
 
 Abruptly raising his glass, the Hungarian said: “I drink 
 to your free country. ’ ’ 
 
 By the light of a glow-lamp hung among the vines Harry 
 gazed at the fine face of his new friend and knew that he was 
 in the presence of one nobly bred and nobly bom. Yet some- 
 how he did not feel inferior. For once, his humility left him 
 and in its place came a serene pride in his own race. He 
 bowed, as if to the manner born ; and when the other set down 
 his glass he said, with graceful ease : 
 
 “And I drink to your country’s freedom.” 
 
 So completely did Harry’s diffidence forsake him that he not 
 only asked for his host’s opinions on several international 
 
302 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 topics blit even gave his own. At length some brighter gas- 
 lamps were turned up and immediately a strange thing hap- 
 pened. In the stronger light Harry’s elderly companion was 
 recognized by some young men, sitting at a table a few yards 
 away. Like one man they rose to their feet and remained 
 standing until Harry’s host waved them back into their seats. 
 Their action seemed more oriental than Prussian: more like 
 old-world homage to a feudal lord than mere military disci- 
 pline. Perceiving that he was in the presence of a considerable 
 personage, Harry once more again became a circumspect lis- 
 tener and spoke no more. 
 
 “You asked just now about our union with Austria,” said 
 the Hungarian. ‘ 4 1 believe the union will last out the lifetime 
 of our present King-Emperor and no longer. I say King- 
 Emperor ; not Emperor-King. Remember, Hungary is a king- 
 dom, Austria a mere dukedom. Look across the , Danube, to 
 Buda. There, in the palace on the rock, Hungary keeps her 
 sacred regalia: St. Stephen’s mantle and sword and sceptei 
 and the holy crown. You may laugh at the legend that angels 
 were the goldsmiths who wrought King Stephen’s crown: but 
 for us it is true. Two angels shaped it beyond dispute: the 
 angel of faith and the angel of fatherland, the angel of religion 
 and the angel of nationality.” 
 
 Lights began to twinkle in some smaller windows of the 
 palace. The Danube’s hurrying flood reflected them tremu- 
 lously. Hundreds of vine-leaves over Harry’s head rustled 
 in the river breeze. As the Hungarian spoke of the saint- 
 king’s diadem his voice quivered. At that moment all the 
 harp-strings of the night seemed taut and vibrant. Harry 
 bent to listen. The speaker continued: 
 
 “Up to twelve years ago, St. Stephen’s crown was hidden in 
 the ground, at Orsova, far down the Danube. You young 
 Englishmen must not be too sharply blamed for your light- 
 
THE WANDERER 303 
 
 ness. Only your old men remember any great events. But 
 England’s turn will come again. 
 
 “My young friend, your remarks and enquiries convince 
 me that you are serious, unlike most of your traveling com- 
 patriots. Permit me then to speak my mind. Your race is 
 losing the true sense of nationality. You admire the sense of 
 nationality everywhere except at home. When a small and 
 oppressed nation is struggling for freedom, Englishmen are 
 sure to be found fighting against the tyrant, and your govern- 
 ment is the first to champion freedom’s cause. But it seems 
 to be your idea that you yourselves are above nationality. 
 Your Scotch, your Irish, your Welsh are intensely proud of 
 Scotland, Ireland, Wales: but Englishmen are losing the 
 habit of pride in their own England. At first I thought it 
 was the admirable reticence of your race : but I spend three 
 months of every year in England and I observe the growth of 
 a false liberalism, an easy-going, half-cynical cosmopolitan- 
 ism which may be the death of your greatness. You help 
 Greece, help Poland, help Italy: but I repeat that you only 
 revere nationality at a distance. You are like the eclectic who 
 built a temple and filled it with the sacred images and emblems 
 of all religions, but had no religion of his own. I ask you. 
 When the ordeal by fire is once more appointed for your 
 nation, which attitude will best serve you — the attitude of ar- 
 rogant supra-nationality or the attitude of soldierly patriotism, 
 hand on the sword-hilt and eye on the advancing banner?” 
 
 He waited so long, that Harry felt obliged to attempt an 
 answer. The best he could say was: “We are a peaceful 
 nation. If there is a great war, it will not be of England’s 
 making or seeking.” 
 
 The Magyar suddenly lost his temper. “Quite so,” he ex- 
 claimed warmly. “You are sportsmen in your games, in your 
 social intercourse, but not in the grand Weltspiel! You are 
 
304 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 like a boy who, when he has won all the biggest marbles from 
 his playmates, says ‘Now, I don’t intend to play marbles 
 again.’ Partly through the foresight and valor of your ad- 
 venturous race but largely through luck and the follies and 
 misfortunes of others, you have got more than your share. 
 My young friend, whether she likes it or not, Britannia some 
 day will have to recommence that game of marbles.” 
 
 “We have beaten the French before,” said Harry proudly. 
 
 “France is a danger, I admit,” was the swift answer, “but 
 she is most dangerous to herself. She may make a bid for 
 glory. If so, she will reap a terrible punishment. There is 
 a sterner enemy than France.” 
 
 “You cannot mean Austria,” said Harry. “Is it Russia? 
 Or is it Prussia?” 
 
 “Austria will fight Prussia and will be defeated,” said the 
 Hungarian in low, quick tones. ‘ ‘ Then, sooner or later, there 
 will be a united Germany, including Austria, with Prussia 
 at the head. I doubt if the Austrian Empire has ten years to 
 live. You ask what will be the position of Hungary, where 
 will be the hopes of Italy, of Serbia, of Poland? I do not 
 know. But mark my words. And, before I utter them, please 
 understand that I am not accustomed to discuss politics even 
 with my intimate friends, much less with chance foreigners. 
 Some inward force which I cannot explain compels me to speak 
 to you to-night, although cool judgment reminds me that it is 
 an indiscretion. Before you are my age, your country may 
 have to fight Prussia and her tributary states. It will not be 
 a war that you can end with one blow from Britannia’s 
 trident. It will not be a mere resistence to a sudden 
 French-like craving for la gloire. It will be Rome against 
 Carthage. If you lose, you will be sponged off the map. 
 Mere victory will not satisfy Prussia. She will Prussianize 
 the whole world. A big navy of paid sailors and a little 
 army of paid soldiers cannot suffice. I love Hungary but 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 305 
 
 I love mankind still more: and it is for the good of man- 
 kind that England should still be great. I hate Austria 
 and I believe that Prussia is the scourge of God, ap- 
 pointed for Austria’s tyrannical shoulders: but where Austria 
 has chastised with whips Prussia will chastise with scorpions. 
 May God save your free land.” 
 
 Without suggesting another meeting the Magyar rose and 
 wished Harry good-night. As he stood up, the occupants 
 of several other tables did the same and remained standing 
 until the* great man was out of sight. 
 
 In the doorway of the inn the landlord awaited his Eng- 
 lish guest with a telegram. It was from London and it had 
 been transmitted to Pest from Vienna by those attentive beasts 
 the Two Lions. What Harry read was this: 
 
 Meet me September second London not before . — Writing to- 
 day Edward Redding. 
 
 Although the journey down-stream had been easily accom- 
 plished in the long interval between his early breakfast in 
 Vienna and his not very late supper in Pest, Harry knew that 
 the steam-packet would require a day and a half to beat its 
 way back, against the strong current. A boat was appointed 
 to leave the next morning at seven and there would not be an- 
 other for forty-eight hours. He paid his bill of two florins 
 overnight. On the morrow, after hearing Mass at six in a 
 rather mean church, he was aboard with nearly half an hour 
 to spare. 
 
 From a wild sky, the sun brandished scimitars of light above 
 the Danube, till the flashing radiance burnt a beholder’s eyes. 
 But when the steamer had pushed past the old Turkish fort, 
 and the unvisited Academy of Pest was hidden from Harry’s 
 regretful gaze, the sunshine was abruptly quenched as if a 
 
306 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 flood of gas-light had been turned off at the main. The 
 cordage began to moan, the clear swift Danube was convulsed 
 as if with the writhings of a million -green water-snakes- and 
 the planks of the deck shuddered. 
 
 Instantly all the passengers save one, having picked up 
 their wraps and field-glasses and copies of the Pester Lloyd , 
 scurried into the shelter of the saloons. Harry alone remained 
 to face the fast-brewing storm. Hailing the purser he suc- 
 ceeded in borrowing four of the native sheepskins with their 
 wool turned inwards and the leather adorned in gay colors. 
 With these and with some stout thongs of the same material 
 he made himself a suit of armor against the worst the tempest 
 could do. 
 
 The wind shifted and the storm tarried. With a frolic 
 breeze slapping his face, Harry gave himself up to guesses at 
 the meaning of Edward Redding’s telegram. Why was a re- 
 turn to London before September forbidden ? The first theory 
 was merely that Mr. Edward had holiday plans of his own 
 which could not be deranged. Yet, somehow, Harry’s in- 
 stinct rejected this answer. He felt persuaded that his young 
 patron was already intent upon some vast surprise which 
 should be worthy to compare even with his astounding feats at 
 Bulford-on-Deme. Harry winced as this certainty came to 
 full stature. He felt like the poor performing dog who shiv- 
 ers in the wings while his too clever master struts the stage ar- 
 ranging the long line of step-ladders and tissue-paper-hoops 
 and trapezes through which the hapless brute must burst and 
 scramble and leap and tumble when the crack of the whip and 
 the blare of the band give the signal. 
 
 Coggin’s next impulse was to rebel and to assert once for 
 all his freedom. Since the morning of his talk with Herr 
 Wagner and King Ludwig he had become gradually less dis- 
 trustful of his own powers; and his talks with Mr. Huntly- 
 Martin -and with chance acquaintances of travel had strength- 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 307 
 
 ened this new self-confidence. Not that contact with the great 
 had spoilt him. Conceit and Harry Coggin were still wholly 
 strangers to one another and he remained as truly modest as 
 ever. All the same he had found his feet; and there was 
 something stuffy and silly in the thought of being hugged and 
 lugged about like a baby-in-arms, even by Edward Redding. 
 Yes. He would declare his independence. He would meet 
 telegram with telegram and would go back to England at once. 
 
 A flash of lightning gashed the sky. The scowling murk, 
 like a crouching beast sore smitten, roared out in rage and 
 pain. Flash followed roar and roar followed flash with grow- 
 ing violence. Then came the rain, whipping Harry full in 
 the face, like gravel swished from a catapult. The Danube’s 
 gnomes and pixies and water-horses gurgled up from the 
 depths to hail the storm with wild chaunts and neighings. 
 
 In Harry’s heart, as well as in the Danube’s bed, an eager 
 tide swelled high and brimmed over. The ship’s prow was 
 pointing not only to Vienna but to England. He had turned 
 his back upon the East and was hastening home. Further- 
 more, he exulted in the roughness and wildness of the coarse 
 sheepskins and the blinding storm. After fourteen months of 
 being waited upon in his idleness it was pure joy to feel that 
 he was returning to toil and hardship. He knew that the 
 steamer would halt an hour at Gran, the Canterbury of Hun- 
 gary. There would be time not only to peep at the tiny old 
 town and at the huge new cathedral but to hand in a tele- 
 gram as well. He set himself to devise a firm but respectful 
 message to Mr. Edward Redding. 
 
 After ten different sentences had been composed and re- 
 jected Coggin ’s fit of defiance came to an abrupt end. After 
 all, what could be gained by bustling back four weeks earlier? 
 On landing in England what would he do, where would he go ? 
 He suddenly understood his dependence upon Mr. Edward. 
 Without Mr. Edward, he would have been still moiling in 
 
308 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Bulford, fighting a losing battle against the thin-lipped Ram- 
 burys. It was Mr. Edward who had won for him victory and 
 honor, as well as a settled income for life. Surely it would be 
 the most churlish ingratitude if he withdrew his confidence 
 from this good friend and disdained all further tutelage. 
 
 The rain ceased and the growling thunder-brute skulked off 
 muttering behind the hills. Under a still frowning sky, 
 Harry penitently began an examination of conscience in regard 
 to his young benefactor. Had his monthly letter to Mr. Ed- 
 ward been duly long and grateful? And had he, so far as 
 circumstances permitted, obeyed the written advice which had 
 been so thoughtfully put into his hand when he boarded The 
 Queen of the North Sea at Hull? To these questions, after 
 swiftly conning over his mental records of the long trip, Harry 
 could honestly answer yea. He had been as scrupulous in get- 
 ting rid of his three hundred pounds as he would have been 
 in saving a hundred of it if Redding had told him to do so. He 
 had acquired a knowledge of colloquial German which, by rea- 
 son of his wide wandering, was greater than any single Han- 
 overian or Bavarian, Prussian or Wurtemberger, Saxon or 
 Austrian could boast. He had soaked himself in symphony 
 and opera. He had gazed upon Germany’s chief works of 
 art and her beauties of nature. He had eaten and drunken 
 amply and curiously ; and, most important and difficult of all, 
 he had stubbornly held himself back from such decisions and 
 changes as could conflict with the plans which Edward Red- 
 ding might be excogitating for his future. From the Freiherr, 
 from the Benedietine, from Herr Wagner and even from King 
 Ludwig he had run away rather than risk the smallest inability 
 to present himself in due time to Mr. Edward, for shaping as 
 the clay is shaped by the potter. Even in the sheerly personal 
 matter of religion he was returning to England with his status 
 unchanged. 
 
 Pursuing this long self -scrutiny to the end, Henry Coggin 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 309 
 
 fondly believed that he had also fulfilled Mr. Edward’s com- 
 mands to be young and blithe and idle. Amidst the wonder- 
 ful contrasts between his gray years in Bulford and his multi- 
 colored months in Germany he had been so brimmingly happy 
 that he was not aware of his own grown-up seriousness. As 
 for idleness, he honestly felt that it had been unbroken since 
 his hour of glory in Bulford Town Hall. The truth was that 
 he had been busy for many hours every day. His notes on 
 German literature, on harmony and polyphony and orchestra- 
 tion, oh painting and architecture and sculpture, would not 
 have shamed a Leonardo da Vinci. Yet his hands had often 
 been as busy as his brain. He carried a few light tools wher- 
 ever he went ; and often, on wet days, in village inns, he had 
 asked leave to mend the broken castor of a chair or the fit- 
 tings of a bedroom looking-glass or a worn-out Venetian blind 
 or anything else that hurt his tidy eye. In scores of different 
 bedrooms, even in some where he had stayed for one night 
 only, Harry oiled the stiff locks of cupboards, straightened lop- 
 sided cornices, or pared the inequal legs of cane-bottomed 
 chairs. But he had done these things in the spirit of a man 
 receiving rather than bestowing favors, grateful for the chance 
 of keeping his hand in ; and not one of them recurred to his 
 mind as he sat on the steamer deck marveling at the success of 
 his long-drawn exercise in laziness and rejoicing that he would 
 so soon be allowed once more to light fires, peel potatoes, wash 
 dishes, break coals, carry pails of water. 
 
 A dismal fear tripped him up. What if Mr. Edward should 
 condemn him to a polite existence among prim servants, who 
 would regard his cooking and cabinet-making as the depths 
 of indecorum? This dark prospect forced him to resume his 
 guessing. But it was in vain. He lacked nearly all the data. 
 Whether Edward Redding would or would not persist in pre- 
 senting Henry Coggin as “the Hare”; whether England or 
 America was to be the scene of action; whether music did or 
 
310 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 did not furnish the pivot of the plan — to these questions he 
 could give no replies. So he began to settle what he would do 
 if, after all, Mr. Edward should slip the leash and force him 
 to carve out his own career. 
 
 Harry’s uncomplicated mind soon furnished a clear answer. 
 Music would, in any event, be his main concern : but not as a 
 livelihood. He did not wish to teach, even if highly profitable 
 pupils were offered to him. As for the position of an or- 
 ganist, he had seen too much of the choir-loft’s petty feuds 
 and jealousies to covet such thin honors. Rather would he 
 devote himself to the composition of church music — important 
 works for the organ and unaccompanied anthems and services 
 for highly-trained choirs. This, he knew full well, might 
 earn him bread but not butter. Pecuniary gain, however, did 
 not interest him. Once absolved from the abnormal obliga- 
 tion to spend nearly a pound a day, he could live so cheaply 
 that his fixed income would suffice. Indeed he would be able 
 to spend five or six months of every year in some fresh country. 
 He could visit Italy and Greece, Spain and Portugal, France 
 and Belgium and Switzerland, dividing his time between sight- 
 seeing in famous cities and hard work at his music in country 
 inns. This would be such an ideal life that, sooner or later, 
 he would wring out Mr. Edward’s consent to his leading it. 
 As for love and marriage, they did not enter Harry Coggin’s 
 head. 
 
 There was a gurgling, spluttering noise : and instantly the 
 ship ’s bows seemed to have smashed into the heart of a water- 
 spout. Half an hour before, the rain had flung itself at Harry 
 like a swarm of wasps, but this time it was as if buckets of 
 water were being dashed in his face, bucketful after bucketful 
 with hardly half a second’s interval between. In the worst 
 moments it was as though the boat had begun to sink and 
 that the whole flood of the Danube was pouring over Harry’s 
 head. When the most terrible minute was over, he opened his 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 311 
 
 eyes and looked round, believing that he must swim for life : 
 but the vessel was still -afloat. On the near shore he could see 
 the willows bending before the gale, with their foliage like 
 bright water-weeds combed out by a headlong stream. Then 
 the deluge began again, and once more all the waters of the 
 world seemed to engulf him. 
 
 Harry’s suit of sheepskins failed him. But there was no 
 traitor joint in the armor of his soul. The twin flames of his 
 hope and faith burned serenely on. God had led him by won- 
 drous ways ; and God would lead him to the end. 
 
 Teddie Redding’s letter only deepened the mystery. He 
 wrote : 
 
 Dear Hare, 
 
 I heard this morning that my mother is not so well and 
 I start for Arcachon in an hour. So this must be a short 
 note. 
 
 All being well , 1 shall await you at Morley’s Hotel, Traf- 
 algar Square, on the evening of September 2nd. Even if I 
 had time to write, it would be best to hold bach news and 
 plans until we meet. 
 
 As you are in Vienna , 1 suggest your spending these last 
 four weeks in the Austrian Tyrol . I cannot promise that my 
 arrangements for your future will include a waterfall in your 
 backyard and a snow-clad mountain peak opposite your bed- 
 room window: so you had* better enjoy such sights while you 
 have the chance , 
 
 Thanks for the things . Nothing broken save one of the 
 Popish idols arid two of the beer-mugs. 
 
 Always your faithful 
 
 Edward Redding. 
 
 The Two Lions turned out to be on terms of brotherly love 
 
312 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 with a Golden Eagle at Innsbruck and with a Horse, a Bear, 
 and a Fox in certain smaller Tyrolese towns. Fortified with 
 cards of introduction to these hospitable creatures and con- 
 soled by the knowledge that so many claws and paws were at 
 his call, Henry Coggin boarded the steamer for Linz on the 
 first stage of his journey home. What home was going to 
 mean hg resolutely forbore from guessing. 
 
BOOK III 
 
 THE RAVEN 
 
/ 
 
 Tamquam avis , quae transvolat in aere 3 cujus nullum inveni- 
 tur argumentum itineris, sed tantum sonitus alarum verberans 
 levem ventum: el scindens per vim itineris aerem: commotis 
 alls transvolavit et post hos nullum signum invenitur itineris 
 illius . — LIBER SAPIENTIAE V, 11 , 
 
 I 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 N OT knowing when he might see high white mountains 
 and deep blue lakes again, Harry left the manuscript 
 of his precious dictionary in safe hold at Innsbruck 
 and freely gave himself a month’s out-and-out holiday. 
 "With years of work ahead, he felt justified in breaking off 
 study and composition for these few weeks so as to enjoy a 
 true vacation. 
 
 Everything favored him. Nowhere had be met such delight- 
 ful people as the Tyrolese. While they were intensely reli- 
 gious and would have died proudly in defense of their 
 beliefs and practices, they nevertheless enjoyed life and made 
 their guests enjoy it with them. At the inns the warm wel- 
 comes and regretful farewells rang true. Everybody worked 
 hard, ate plenty of good food, drank good beer and wine, wore 
 honest boots and clothes and slept dry. The average of edu- 
 cation in these mountain villages rose far higher than in Bul- 
 ford-on-Deme. 
 
 Harry ’s chief trouble was to get rid of his ten florins a day : 
 because, despite the abundance of eggs and cream and fish 
 and fowl and flesh and fruit and wine, the bills never seemed 
 to exceed about eighteen florins a week. As for the torrents 
 and the glaciers and the green Alps and the ice-peaks, he saw 
 them in their utmost magnificence. Showers and sunshine 
 made this Austrian August like an English April. Clouds 
 went about their high business, giving to every hour of the 
 day and to every feature of the landscape some new mien of 
 beauty and of majesty. For a space the mountains seemed 
 to hulk up, dry and arid; then the veils would drop from the 
 
 315 
 
316 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 sun’s face and every crag showed a glittering filigree of spark- 
 ling water, like quicksands and liquid rock-crystal coursing 
 in the veins of the dark rocks. 
 
 Beyond the fine thrills of perilous mountaineering and the 
 daily delight of big old-world meals with the sharp sauce of 
 ravenous hunger to help them down, nothing marked Harry ’s 
 first fortnight in the Tyrolese highlands. But on Monday, 
 August 14, something happened. 
 
 It was the eve of the Assumption and Harry’s quarters were 
 in a kind of inn adjoining the house of the parish priest. He 
 had stayed in a priestly hostel before and had enjoyed the 
 experience enormously. This one, however, had been enlarged 
 year after year until it had become a considerable establish- 
 ment. The sacristan, a fearless mountaineer, married to a 
 clever cook, managed it with the aid of his hard-working 
 family, charging his cosmopolitan guests about three shillings 
 a day. 
 
 From the nearest railway-station about twenty miles distant, 
 two carriages, on this fruitful Monday, brought two very dif- 
 ferent parties. Out of the first vehicle there stepped an 
 Englishman and his wife — or rather an Englishwoman and her 
 husband. As Harry heard the lady’s hard tones and glanced 
 at the two faces, one vixenish and the other sheepish, he re- 
 membered Edward Redding’s words about the sort of English 
 people you often met in hotels abroad. The lady spoke cor- 
 rect German, but without the smallest concession in respect of 
 cadence. Her mean, sharp manner contrasted painfully with 
 the pleasant open-hearted ways of the Tyrolese whom she w 7 as 
 ordering about. 
 
 The other party, at which the Englishwoman looked with un- 
 concealed disapproval, consisted of a charming Viennese young 
 lady and her elderly maid. One of the servants told Harry 
 that this elegant visitor was a very popular light opera singer 
 and that she came to the inn every year. The servant play- 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 317 
 
 fully added that Harry had better take care of his heart ; that 
 all the gentlemen fell in love with Fraulein Rabe; but that 
 Fraulein Rabe, despite her profession, was as good as gold 
 and was adored by everybody in the parish, from Father 
 Tobel downwards. 
 
 Although he already knew well that the patrons of light 
 opera required pretty faces and willowy forms and that they 
 spoke disrespectfully about the ponderous tragedy-queens of 
 the heavy music-dramas, Harry was not prepared for the love- 
 liness which met his eyes when the young prima-donna tripped 
 out into the ill-kempt garden and clapped her hands in affec- 
 tionate greeting to the rosy mountains. She was a brunette 
 but with such a clear and fine skin and such a healthy color 
 that she could have held her own against any pink-and-white 
 beauty. Harry suspected that Rabe, meaning Raven, was a 
 stage-name : for she had hair as black and eyes as blue as his 
 own. Though not extremely slender she was all life and grace : 
 and her fine, restless wrists and ankles made the beholder think 
 of a beautiful race-horse. 
 
 Later in the day, when nobody was about save Harry and 
 the ostler, a third carriage rumbled into the yard and a dressy 
 young man alighted. Even after hearing him give some dicta- 
 torial orders, Coggin could not feel sure of this person’s nation- 
 ality. He seemed to be a mixture of Swiss and Lombard and 
 Greek and Pole : but, as the supper-bell was about to ring, there 
 was no time to make sure. 
 
 When the meal began, Harry saw that the parish priest had 
 joined the guests. He was a man of peasant birth and with 
 no pretense of scholarship outside the minimum requirements 
 of his old seminary. Although there was veal on the table, 
 Father Tobel ate nothing save a little cabbage-soup, a plain 
 omelette and some creamed spinach. When the meal came to 
 an end, the kindly old man made a little speech welcoming 
 the new-comers and especially Fraulein Rabe. He added : 
 
318 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “As there are some ladies and gentlemen here who are not of 
 our country and of our religion, I ask leave to make an ex- 
 planation and a request. To-morrow is a great feast — the 
 Assumption. For hundreds of years — long before strangers 
 thought of coming here to see our mountains — the fifteenth of 
 August has been a holiday. Everybody goes to church in the 
 morning, and the rest of the day is devoted to good fellowship 
 and dancing and innocent gaiety. I feel sure that our visitors 
 will not complain if my good hard-working servants join in 
 this traditional merrymaking and I hope they will be content 
 with less waiting upon, for this one day. ’ ’ 
 
 The ladies piped approval, the men hawed assent. Most 
 of the guests were Austrian Catholics who were themselves 
 bound to hear Mass on the morrow. They knew there would 
 be abundance of meat and drink, and that the afternoon and 
 evening jollity would more than outweigh any shortcomings 
 in the service. Fraulein Rabe cried out prettily that her 
 maid Anna would make the beds and that she herself would 
 fry a chicken for the Father’s mittagessen. 
 
 An acid voice cut Harry’s ear. He was seated next to 
 the English lady, who turned to her husband and said, with- 
 out any lowering of tone : 
 
 “How tiresome, Robert. If these people keep an inn they 
 should attend to business. It seems we are to eat make-shift 
 meals for a whole day, but I shall be very much surprised if 
 there is any allowance on our bill. If they are so exceedingly 
 religious it would look better of them to treat people justly.” 
 
 Only a month before, Henry Coggin would have listened to 
 such a speech with indignation but in silence. This time, 
 however, he felt bound to speak. He said : 
 
 “Pardon me, madam, I fear you do not understand. These 
 inns at priests’ houses came into existence when there was no 
 other shelter for the traveler. Mountaineers, especially Eng- 
 lish people like ourselves, had recourse to the presbytery. 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 319 
 
 They were hospitably entertained, they left behind them the 
 cost of their meals and an offering for the church or the poor, 
 and when they returned home they advised their friends to 
 go and do likewise. When you have been here a few days you 
 will wonder how so much can be given for the price. Profits 
 are made, no doubt : but nothing goes into the priest ’s own 
 pocket. It is his affair no longer, although he runs in and 
 out.” 
 
 The lady who had eaten with all the heartiness of a skinny 
 person, simply looked Harry up and down. Then she turned 
 to her husband, a blubbery creature with fat hands and a soft 
 beard. Her thin lips framed a little grimace which evidently 
 meant: “ Speak. Show this impertinent fellow, who has 
 spoken to me without an introduction, that I do not travel 
 without a male escort and protector.” Thus challenged, the 
 spouse hastily gulped down a glass of wine, deliberately wiped 
 his mustache with his napkin and uttered the stock phrase in 
 which he had been thoroughly instructed. He said : 
 
 “I thank you, but we do not require information or as- 
 sistance.” 
 
 At that moment the door opened and a late-comer entered. 
 It was the shifty -looking young man who had arrived just 
 before supper. While other people were eating their soup 
 and fish he had been adorning himself ; and he now stood be- 
 fore the company dressed with a fastidiousness ridiculously in- 
 appropriate to such a homely dining-room. Clicking his heels 
 together he bowed profoundly to Fraulein Rabe, ignoring 
 everybody else. Instantly the pretty girl’s bright prattle 
 ceased. It was plain that she was most unpleasantly sur- 
 prised and most grievously annoyed. 
 
 “We have found our way into a funny place, Robert,” said 
 the English lady. ‘ ‘ The chambermaid tells me that that for- 
 ward young person is an opera-singer from Vienna. Who 
 this fop may be, goodness only knows: but there has cer- 
 
320 THE HARE 
 
 tainlv been something between them. I shall leave here in the 
 morning . 7 7 
 
 Knowing that Father Tobel had picked up a smattering 
 of the language from his English visitors in previous years, 
 Harry’s ears burned. But when in an oozing voice, like oil 
 after his wife ’s vinegar, the husband responded, “ It is a good 
 thing I have only half unpacked,” Harry took action. He 
 lifted the salad-bowl from under the nose of the flabby Eng- 
 lishman who had been munching greenstuff like a buck rabbit 
 and pressed it upon a shy little backfisch on his left who did 
 not allow it to return. Then, growing bolder than ever in 
 his life before, Harry started topics of conversation on his own 
 account. His German ran so easily and rapidly that the Eng- 
 lish lady stared at him in astonishment. 
 
 The highland valley wherein the village nestled was four 
 thousand feet above the sea. To the north and south and east, 
 glaciers and mountains shut it in; but the slopes fell away 
 westward, allowing the August sun to shine into the inn till 
 supper was finished. While the servants cleared away, most 
 of the guests dribbled out upon the ragged little lawn to enjoy 
 the sunset. But Harry did not follow them. He had ob- 
 served that the smirking dandy did not take his eyes off 
 Fraulein Rabe and his chivalrous instincts held him at the post 
 of danger. The lady had withdrawn into the forlorn little 
 salon, where there was a writing-table; and Harry remem- 
 bered that the salon could be entered by two doors, one from 
 the dining-room and one from a short corridor. 
 
 Suddenly there was a scream, a crash of breaking glass and 
 then the violent jangling of a bell. Harry plunged into the 
 salon, followed a moment later by the innkeeper’s wife. The 
 room was so full of warm light from the sinking sun that the 
 two figures near the window stood out like the heroine and 
 the villain in a scene of melodrama* The man, with a fine 
 white handkerchief, was staunching a gash in his cheek torn 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 321 
 
 by a pin or by the lady's finger-nail. The lady herself stood 
 flashing fire. She seemed to have grown inches taller and to 
 have been transformed from a Zerlina into an Isolda. At her 
 feet, in a pool of water, lay the fragments of a cheap Munich 
 vase and the scattered petals of some Alpine flowers. 
 
 The man made a dash for the nearer door but Harry leapt 
 across his path and pushed him back towards the window. 
 Meanwhile Fraulein Rabe's speech became more coherent. 
 Panting with shame and wrath she exclaimed: 
 
 ‘ 4 This pig, this cur has followed me here. In Vienna I 
 wouldn't even know him. He has dared to throw his arms 
 round me, to kiss me. Frau Nussbaum, what are you going 
 to do?" 
 
 Speaking with the utmost scorn, the innkeeper 's wife replied 
 that the offender should be turned out that very minute to 
 find such shelter as he could ; and that word should be sent to 
 the innkeeper lower down the valley not to lodge the pig-dog 
 longer than that one night. 
 
 At this threat the pig-dog merely pocketed his reddened 
 hankerchief, shrugged his shoulders and said: “Then I had 
 better go and pack." 
 
 “Wait," snapped Harry, on a note so sharp that everybody 
 jumped. “First of all, you apologize without reserve to this 
 lady: yes, and to Frau Nussbaum also. Second, you pledge 
 your solemn word that you will never follow or in any way 
 trouble this lady again." 
 
 Neither the landlady nor the actress had taken much heed of 
 Coggin’s presence until this moment. They had been only 
 vaguely aware of him, as if he were merely one of those futile 
 spectators who will always tumble in the direction of a scream 
 or a crash or a tocsin but will never do more than stand a-gape 
 in everybody's way. So they stared at him, astonished; and 
 the pig-dog took advantage of their stupefaction to give Harry 
 a rude push and to make another stride towards the door. 
 
322 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “You have heard?’’ Henry Coggin demanded sternly. 
 “You understand what you must do?” 
 
 “Yes,” said the other, “I must pack and clear out of this 
 nest of madmen and shrews and prudes. Let me pass. That’s 
 all I have to say.” 
 
 The big casements stood wide open to the sunset. A single 
 glance showed Harry the fall of the ground outside. Before 
 any one could guess what was in his mind he seized the pig- 
 dog by the collar with his left hand, gripped him in another 
 convenient place with his right, and flung him clear through 
 the window. 
 
 With panic-stricken cries the two women rushed forward, 
 quite expecting to see a broken corpse stretched outside. Cog- 
 gin ran with them. What he saw was a rough clump of weeds 
 and brambles shaking violently. From the midst of this oscil- 
 lation rose a terrified voice, wailing: 
 
 ‘ ‘ He has killed me!” 
 
 Instantly the sauntering guests jumped from their chairs 
 and scampered to the spot. Even the Englishwoman and her 
 husband, who had been sitting apart, joined the buzzing swarm. 
 At length a head pushed itself through the nodding greenery 
 and the crowd slowly recognized the face of their fellow- 
 guest. Even at supper, at the height of its lady-killing, it 
 had not been a pleasant face : but now, scratched all over and 
 contorted with horror, it was a face to make one shudder. 
 
 “No, no,” cried the sharp-witted Frau Nussbaum from the 
 window above. “You ’re not killed yet, my fine gentleman. 
 You ’re still alive, though you don’t deserve to be.” Then, 
 turning to the visitors, she told them in decorous but forcible 
 language of the disgraceful thing that had happened. When 
 the hubbub died down, Anton, the innkeeper’s eldest son, 
 gravely stepped up to the bushes and presented a bill on a 
 white plate. He stood patiently, exaggerating the attitude 
 and expression of a waiter expecting a tip. Using language 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 323 
 
 which sept the ladies flying into the house, the pig-dog strug- 
 gled out of the thorns and barked: 
 
 ‘ ‘ Where are my things ? I sha ’n ’t pay till I see my things. ’ ’ 
 
 Lena, the chambermaid, was ready. With a cry of “Geben 
 Sie Acht!” she deftly dropped an empty valise from a bed- 
 room, just above the saloon. A pair of boots followed: then 
 two suits of clothes and a hat. Afterwards, at her bidding, 
 Anton caught brushes, jars of pomatum, and scent-bottles in 
 quick succession. Some of the village-lads, who usually hung 
 about the inn on fine evenings, acclaimed this rain of effemin- 
 ate apparatus with whoops of good-natured derision. When 
 the valise had been stuffed full, Anton contemptuously tore 
 the bill in two, lugged the raging dandy out of the thorns and 
 hurried him through the garden gate. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 T HE Feast of the Assumption in 1865 fell on a Tues- 
 day. Yet there were as many people at Mass as on 
 any Sunday. Even the scraggy English lady and her 
 podgy husband penetrated as far as the inner door and hon- 
 ored the function with their disapproval. So dense was the 
 throng there that Henry Coggin did not notice Fraulein Rabe 
 kneeling behind him until the congregation was dispersing. 
 
 The lady kept her distance until after breakfast. Then she 
 walked up to Harry in the garden, held out a small hand and 
 said warmly : 4 4 Here are my thanks. I am determined to for- 
 get the insult ; but I shall always remember my champion. ’ ’ 1 
 Her speech was so easy and his answering flush was so deep 
 that a stranger beholding the two faces might have thought 
 she was the man and he the maid. To Harry’s immense relief, 
 other guests came to the rescue. All of them had condolences 
 for Miss Rabe and congratulations for Coggin. 
 
 Early in the evening rustic musicians appeared and open-air 
 dancing began on a wooden floor sheltered by a pine-wood. 
 To see the young men seize their ten-stone sweethearts and 
 swing or spin them high in the air was a sight indeed. But 
 for the sake of the visitors, waltzes figured in the program as 
 well as country dances. The Raven, as he heard her playfully 
 called by people who had met her the year before, was piqued 
 that Harry did not ask her for a dance. He stood, a mere 
 looker-on, under a pine-tree, while the Raven whirled past 
 him again and again, first with one partner and then with 
 another. Harry had the appearance of a deft and delicious 
 dancer, and Fraulein Rabe could not possibly guess that he 
 
 324 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 325 
 
 had never danced in his life. The Baptists of Bulford, who 
 regarded dancing as a quick-march to hell, belonged to a 
 world of which she had never heard and never dreamed; 
 and when she blew out her bedroom candle that night she 
 gave a little angry snort at the strange young Englishman 
 who had behaved like a knight errant only twenty-four hours 
 before and yet would not offer even the common gallantries 
 of the ball-room. 
 
 It rained hard next day. Fraulein Rabe came downstairs 
 intending to treat Coggin with coolness: but events were too 
 strong for her. Frau Nussbaum having proudly announced 
 that the old piano had been tuned, a dozen voices were raised 
 imploring a song. The priest, popping in for a few moments, 
 fell in with the general desire and added jocosely: “We all 
 know that our Raven is really a Nightingale. ” But a dead- 
 lock arose. The Nightingale had brought music with her, it 
 was true: but who was to play it? One lady after another 
 shook her head. 
 
 Not until he was absolutely sure that nobody else would 
 come forward did Harry Coggin modestly rise from his corner 
 seat and approach the piano. The company clapped vigor- 
 ously. This refined young Englishman, who spoke German 
 like a native and could throw bigger men than himself through 
 windows, had already attracted them : and now he was turning 
 out to be a musician too. 
 
 In this almost ecclesiastical atmosphere the Raven eschewed 
 showy examples of the lighter Viennese school and chose 
 songs which suited Harry’s grave style and playing. At the 
 end of the first song she took advantage of the noisy applause 
 to bend down and say: 
 
 “But you play divinely.” 
 
 The proceedings developed, into a song-and-pianoforte re- 
 cital. Having heard most of them in the beer-gardens, Harry 
 
326 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 was able to delight the auditors when they wished for certain 
 pieces of the day. He played, however, some of the more 
 melodious and lucid pages of the great masters also. Gain- 
 ing confidence, and wanting to make a contrast after playing 
 an adagio of Beethoven’s, he dashed into Handel’s “ Harmo- 
 nious Blacksmith” with an additional variation and coda of 
 his own. As he finished it, a gray-haired Austrian approached 
 him and said: “Sir, that is one of my favorite pieces, but I 
 never heard the last part of it before. I know that the great 
 Handel lived in England. I beg you to tell me where I can 
 obtain the complete work. Will you write down the pub- 
 lisher’s name?” 
 
 “It is not published; not the last part,” Harry answered. 
 The Raven was listening to him and he blushed to the roots 
 of his hair. Light flashed into her face and she cried: 
 
 “I have guessed, I have guessed! Herr Fecht, our Meester 
 Englischman composed it himself. I shall sing no more. 
 We are in the presence of a genius.” 
 
 A bell rang, announcing the glad news that the high joys 
 of Art were to make room for the pleasures of the table. 
 On entering the speisesaal Harry perceived that some guests 
 had left and that he had been “moved up” in his proper turn 
 to a seat which happened to be opposite the Raven’s. Hardly 
 was the lady seated before she raked him with questions. 
 Under what professors had he studied? Did he compose 
 songs? Had he written an opera? 
 
 Harry fenced unsuccessfully. He admitted at last that Be 
 had half -finished an opera but made haste to add that he had 
 burnt every page of it after hearing Herr Richard Wagner’s 
 new music-drama two months before. This news excited the 
 Raven and she rattled out some second-hand jests against Wag- 
 ner’s theories which Coggin repelled with spirit. Everybody 
 except the Englishwoman and her husband, who had remained 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 327 
 
 at the inn after all, listened with open pleasure to this unex- 
 pected dialogue which lasted from the frugal bread-soup to the 
 delicious meklspeisen or snow puddings. The elderly Aus- 
 trian, as he rose from the table, bowed to Harry almost rever- 
 ently and said in stiff French: “Pardon, monsieur, but I shall 
 always remember this day when I am told that England is an 
 unmusical country. ’ ’ 
 
 The argument welled up again under the veranda while 
 loud rain still poured straight down. One by one the other 
 visitors decided that they were having too much of a good 
 thing and they slipped upstairs to sleep off their ample mit- 
 tagessen. For some time Harry did not notice that he was 
 sitting alone with a charming young lady. He became con- 
 scious of the tete-a-tete only when he happened to turn his 
 head and glance towards the salon window. Stern and erect, 
 the lean Englishwoman was watching him. Instantly, Harry 
 felt scalding hot all over. He thought, in his innocence, that 
 he had committed an impropriety and he bitterly reproached 
 himself for his thoughtlessness in leading Fraulein Rabe into 
 a censurable position. Blurting out an unskilful apology for 
 presuming so long upon her patience, he hurried away, leaving 
 the Raven not less vexed than puzzled. 
 
 At supper that night candles had to be placed on the table, 
 because of the mists and clouds. In the cheerful light Fraulein 
 Rabe apeared twice as beautiful and ten times as sprightly. 
 Perhaps the candles recalled the footlights. She gave Harry 
 less rather than more of his share in her conversation. Her 
 sallies kept Father Tobel’s end of the table bubbling with de- 
 light, and her gaiety was as innocent as a child’s. Had he 
 been more skilled in women’s ways Harry would have seen a 
 chink or two in her'armor of disdain. In his ignorance he 
 simply concluded that he had exceeded discretion at the 
 earlier meal and that the lady, by mildly snubbing him, was 
 
328 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 putting herself right with the company. lie accepted the 
 light punishment as just, and did not join the others when 
 smoky lamps were lit in the chilly salon. 
 
 Before dawn the sky cleared and Harry strode straight from 
 Father Tobel’s Mass up the steep valley. By noon he had 
 reached a height of nine thousand feet. Looking dqwn, he 
 saw the woods and the church and the inn and the chalets, 
 all sharp and shiny and tiny. Just below him, in the vast 
 bowl of the upper valley, spouting cataracts and bursting tor- 
 rents were challenging one another from every side, roaring 
 like lions and bellowing like bulls. In the depths of the 
 cauldron, great curding waters throbbed and seethed. 
 Around him the highest mountains, blank and silent, exalted 
 their bright horns into the blue sky. Eternity itself seemed 
 to dwell among those white domes and snow-crusted gables. 
 
 Never before had Harry drunk in such wine-like air and 
 listened to such god-like voices. And yet, although this was be- 
 yond doubt the climax of his wander year, a little ache of dis- 
 content dulled his happiness. For once he failed in that all- 
 day-long gratitude to God which was the habit of his soul. He 
 explained this dulling of his spirit’s fine edge by telling him- 
 self that he was hungry : but at the sight of his bread and, cold 
 chicken and cheese and wine set out in the snow he discerned 
 what had gone wrong. His trouble was simply that he could n’t 
 be in two places at once. The solitary mountain-top was glo- 
 rious beyond all imagining; and yet how cheerful it must be 
 down in the inn ! His watch told him that the dinner-bell had 
 just done clanging. Here amidst the eternal snow the thin 
 wind stung cold. Down there it was warm. There would be 
 flowers on the table and warm dishes coming up from the 
 kitchen. There would be jocund faces, eager talk, friendly 
 laughter. Fraulein Rabe would once more be the life of the 
 table, opposite his own empty chair. 
 
 Although it was the Raven ’s -black tresses and violet eyes 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 329 
 
 and dimpling chin that rose up before Harry’s mind he was 
 not conscious of wishing for the lady’s society any more than 
 for Father Tobel’s or for Herr Fecht’s. He considered him- 
 self definitely dismissed from her favor, and would not in any 
 case have presumed to mate himself with her for a single 
 moment in a romantic dream. Yet, when she had once come 
 into his head, she would not go out again. As he painfully 
 descended towards the glacier, Harry remembered again and 
 again, with flushes of pride and pleasure, her raptures about 
 his composition. What if to-morrow should be rainy and she 
 should ask him to play again ? He called to mind his compo- 
 sitions for the piano and all of them, seemed old and dry. 
 Why should he not please her by composing a new albumblatt 
 in her honor? Taking out a sheet of music-paper he headed 
 it The Eaven and jotted down the happy inspiration which 
 instantly possessed him. 
 
 Meanwhile the mid-day meal which Harry’s imagination had 
 pictured in such lively shapes and cheery colors was dragging 
 along like a funeral feast. Fraulein Rabe came downstairs 
 prepared to take the young Englishman gradually back into 
 favor. She had turned over in her clever head some telling 
 sentences about music and the theater so as to hold her own. 
 When the fish was served and Harry’s chair still remained 
 empty, a pain like toothache and hunger and thirst all at 
 once made her turn suddenly white. He had left the inn 
 and gone back to England ! At that moment, the poor Raven 
 knew for the first time in her' short life what it was to be in 
 love. She had sung hundreds of times about her fond heart’s 
 yearning and had regarded the phrase as a mere theatrical 
 property like her gilded tin coronet and the cotton-wool ermine 
 which she wore when taking the role of a princess. Now the 
 strange pangs in her breast, as- if the very fountain of her 
 life was first congealing into a little hard knob of ice and then 
 
330 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 suddenly thawing and gushing forth again like a hot spring 
 from a rock, told her that she had a heart indeed and that it 
 could break and bleed. 
 
 So clever an actress would have found it easy to dissemble 
 her pain and to affect light-hearted gaiety. But it was too 
 late. The thin-lipped, keen-eyed Englishwoman stabbed at 
 the hapless girl’s vitals with a glance more cruel than a vul- 
 ture’s beak and tore out her secret. Fraulein Rabe blushed 
 scarlet. For a moment she hated Harry Coggin — hated him 
 because he had made her love him, hated him because he was 
 not with her, hated him most of all because he was a com- 
 patriot of that utterly hateful woman. 
 
 4 ‘Where is our new Schubert, our young Englishman?” 
 asked the elderly Austrian. And although the Raven helped 
 herself to salad and pretended to ignore the question, her blood 
 raced when she heard that he was climbing an easy mountain 
 and would be back for supper. But her wrath remained. 
 
 At two o’clock the smarting beauty moodily accompanied 
 Anna, her maid, to their favorite spot on the fringe of the 
 pine-wood, where the afternoon sun could cheer but not scorch 
 her. In preceding summers, the Raven had been deliciously 
 happy in this fragrant nest. For an hour or so it was her 
 habit to read a Vienna journal or a novel and then she would 
 stretch herself out on a thick rug and lie basking in the peace 
 of the warm forest and the cool mountains. But, on this 
 Thursday afternoon, peace would not be wooed and won. 
 Twenty times she resolved to keep her gaze fixed on the 
 glittering waters and rich pastures of the lower valley: and 
 twenty times she caught herself glancing hungrily at the 
 eastward track by which Harry must return from the glacier. 
 At last she gave up the struggle and yielded herself softly 
 to a sweet day-dream. 
 
 Fraulein Rabe was not only an actress but boasted an actress 
 for her mother too. At no time had she been forced to strug- 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 331 
 
 gle. With even half her talents and good looks she would have 
 been assured of Vienna’s good-will* by reason of her mother’s 
 popularity. When as an orphan maid of eighteen she came 
 out of a convent school and began her stage career, the older 
 actors and actresses and managers had gathered round her 
 like a bodyguard of foster-fathers and god-mothers. Some of 
 these champions of virtue had been sad dogs in their youth 
 and for that very reason they devoted themselves with zeal 
 to the Raven’s professional and moral welfare. As for the 
 younger players and playgoers, they readily fell in with the 
 rule that Fraulein Rabe was a young lady to be respected. To 
 silence a new-comer or foreigner who might begin to speak or 
 act loosely in her presence was a token of one’s own good 
 standing in Vienna’s theatrical world. Besides all this, the 
 girl’s unaffectedly virginal air, her simplicity, her unfailing 
 generosity to le$s fortunate colleagues, her complete lack of 
 jealousy, her kindness to beginners, her solid though reticent 
 piety and her irresistible sprightliness had made her a woman 
 sacrosanct and apart. 
 
 For the first three years, this bird-like creature loved the 
 stage without reserve. She was a true Viennese, adoring light 
 and laughter and color and melody and rhythm. But a time 
 came when her protectors began to let her see they judged her 
 old enough to take care of herself. Gradually the atmosphere 
 surrounding her grew a little grosser. Adorers, who had been 
 content to send her bouquets in exchange for one radiant and 
 friendly smile, became more insistent, until her faithful Anna 
 restored the situation by soundly boxing the ears of a self- 
 invited visitor. At the theater itself she commanded as much 
 respect and affection as ever: but as she came to know more 
 and more of this naughty world and to learn the manner of 
 life of colleagues whom she had held in high regard, her 
 spirit sickened. To make things worse, she was condemned 
 at that time to sing inane words, set to music which was 
 
332 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 advertised as “all sparkle’ ’ but was in truth all froth. 
 
 Reclining on her rug Fniulein Rabe gazed up through the 
 russet tree-tops at the white and blue sky. The scent of the 
 pines came to her nostrils deliciously, and she was seized with 
 a loathing for the reek of the theater, its cosmetics, its gas- 
 lights, its crowd of over-fed people. In such a world, what 
 was to be her future ? She was making a great deal of money, 
 but owing to the thoughtlessness of her professional sisters 
 who kept on incessantly applying to her for grants-in-aid 
 which they called loans, she had saved only a few thousand 
 florins. When youth and beauty faded where would she be? 
 
 The slender, muscular figure and fine pensive face of Harry 
 Coggin appeared before her soul’s eyes, came close to her, 
 soothed her, refreshed her, heartened her. Harry was not 
 elegant like the exquisites of Vienna. He had no easy flow 
 of banter and gallantry, no airs and graces towards women. 
 For these very reasons he had brought her to a halt before 
 him and now, without the shadow of a doubt, she was in love 
 with him, as wholly and terribly in love as any desperate damsel 
 she had met on the pages of romance. What rapture it would 
 be if, instead of returning from the glacier down the stony 
 path, he should come singing and swinging over these pine- 
 needles, by the long way round ! He would read her secret 
 in her glad eyes. He would say to her gently: “Now I know 
 that you love me as I love you.” He would take her in his 
 arms and lay her head upon his firm shoulders. He would 
 . . . yes, he would press upon her lips a kiss, many kisses. 
 
 She dreamed on. Probably he was not rich, but at least 
 lie had the means of livelihood. She would join her little 
 hoard to his. They would travel together, just they two, in 
 Egypt? i n Italy, i n France, in Spain, and in his own misty 
 England. He would write great music and especially wonder- 
 ful songs for her to sing. She would forsake the stage, but 
 sometimes they would give recitals, just they two. She was 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 333 
 
 Sure he was a good Catholic ; for had she not seen him at Mass? 
 They would visit Rome and the Holy Land and that new shrine 
 in the French Pyrenees of which everybody was talking, 
 just they two. And somewhere they would have a little house, 
 just they two, on an island in an Italian lake, where they could 
 keep the spoils of their travels and where they could grow 
 old together when travel-days were done. 
 
 Her fancy went on blowing a bubble as round as the world 
 and painted with all the colors of the rainbow. Suddenly it 
 broke and she sprang to her feet so abruptly that the dozing 
 Anna woke up in a fright. Fraulein Rabe reassured her and 
 began pacing to and fro. She tried to scold and ridicule her- 
 self as a silly school-girl and even to despise herself as a for- 
 ward hussy, but it was no good. It became as clear as noon- 
 day that she had met the first and only man she could love 
 and that she must either actively assist Providence or re- 
 proach herself for false modesty to her life’s end. 
 
 Harry’s evident shyness did not daunt her. On the con- 
 trary it justified her plans and would give zest to their exe- 
 cution. The principal danger was that he might, after the 
 fashion of those restless young Englishmen, stuff his gear into 
 his rucksack and depart from the inn without even saying 
 good-by. And there were other doubts and fears. Perhaps — 
 and this was probable — his family would sternly forbid his 
 union with an actress and a foreigner. Or perhaps he was be- 
 trothed already to some fair-haired English miss. 
 
 That night the Raven proved that her fame as the loveli- 
 est girl in Vienna owed nothing to powder and paint and 
 limelight. She appeared in a wine-colored dress, with cream 
 roses in her hair and on her breast. Unlike all the other ladies, 
 at the table she wore nor finger rings, nor ear-rings, nor brooch 
 nor bracelet. When Harry met her eyes they flashed a chal- 
 lenge at him which would have set far cooler men on fire:; 
 
334 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 but the burning darts were quenched in the dews of his 
 humility. Perhaps the case would have been altered a little 
 if those clear violet eyes could have had Harry all to them- 
 selves. He was painfully aware, however, of two gray-green 
 eyes as well — the eyes which had stared at him the afternoon 
 before from the salon window. 
 
 Innocently interpreting the Raven’s cream roses as the 
 signals of some festivity upon which he must not intrude, 
 Harry, when supper came to an end, was about to steal out 
 of the speisesaal and to lay his weary limbs in bed. But the 
 lady stopped him in the doorway and, said: 
 
 “Last night, Herr Musician, you played truant. I was 
 very angry with you. I wanted to sing and there was nobody 
 to play.’’ 
 
 The gray-haired Austrian backed her up and Harry was 
 gently borne along into the salon. Fraulein Rabe sang half- 
 a-dozen songs by Schumann, most of them a shade too grave 
 for her trilling, ringing voice. When it came to playing, 
 Harry too chose Schumann until some of the hearers grew 
 restive. X 
 
 “I insist on hearing more of your own,” said the lady. 
 “In reparation for running away last night, you shall do as 
 I bid you. Play me the very latest of your compositions. 
 Have you composed anything since you came here?” 
 
 “Yes,” Harry answered, with another of the quick blushes 
 which she found so adorable. 
 
 “When? Tuesday? Yesterday? To-day? I see it was 
 to-day. How charming. Play. I command you.” 
 
 Harry was not loth to comply. He believed the new album 
 leaf to be the best thing he had written and if the salon had 
 been empty he would have slipped in before supper to strum 
 it. With sun-browned fingers he began to play. Fraulein 
 Rabe quietly sat down behind him. It slipped Harry’s mem-' 
 ory that his guide-book was on the little table beside her and 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 335 
 
 that the penciled manuscript lay folded inside it. He 
 warmed to his work, not without frequent pangs at the short- 
 comings of the piano. When he stopped, everybody applauded 
 and the ladies resumed a spirited discussion on the best sauce 
 for a fish from a lake in Hungary, much loved of the Viennese. 
 Underneath through the din, a clear little voice said softly in 
 Harry ’s ear: 
 
 “Thanks and thanks and thanks. It is most beautiful. 
 And you composed it all for me.” 
 
 Harry started as if he had been shot and swung round so 
 swiftly that his cheek struck a petal from one of her roses. 
 Her hands were locked behind her, hiding something from him. 
 He glanced towards the guide-book and saw that the folded 
 sheet of thick paper no longer bulged between its leaves. 
 
 “Forgive me, clever Meester Englischman,” she pleaded, in 
 tones lower and more delicious than ever. “I did not mean 
 to do it. Whenever I see a book I pick it up ; and before I 
 knew what was happening I saw my name. Say that I am 
 pardoned. Say you are not angry. And promise that when 
 you have made a copy the original shall belong to me.” 
 
 The elderly Austrian crossed the room and sat between them, 
 pouring out compliments. When he pressed for the name of 
 the new work, Harry described it as simply an Allegretto in 
 F Minor; whereupon the black-haired maiden protested, say-* 
 ing: 
 
 “Dear Herr Fecht, I am in disgrace already with our 
 grumpy Englischman, so one more indiscretion will not mat- 
 ter. It is a secret, but this piece is for me and it is called 
 The Raven” 
 
 Herr Fecht paid some more compliments and rounded them 
 off by saying : ‘ ‘ This Raven is far more interesting than Schu- 
 mann ’s Prophet Bird . And he is not at all like an old raven 
 sitting on a skull and croaking. He is a very young raven, 
 perching among spring leaves, trying to be a thrush.” 
 
336 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 One guest after another came up and joined the group until 
 Friiulein Rabe was queening it in the midst of an admiring 
 circle. She took pains, however, to make everybody praise the 
 talent of Coggin; and when breaking-up time came she con- 
 trived to say to him quietly: “You have not told me that I am 
 forgiven, or that I may keep this manuscript.’' 
 
 “You did not know it was in the book and you will do me 
 a great honor by accepting it,” said Coggin. There was a 
 glow of pride and gratitude in his face which she mistook for 
 a very different sentiment and her heart beat fast with joy. 
 As if by accident she brushed her hand against the rose from 
 which Harry had already struck one petal, till three or four 
 more creamy curly leaves fluttered to the floor. 
 
 “Good-night,” she said; and then added “auf wiedersehen. ” 
 
 Harry responded politely and she moved quietly from the 
 room. Through the crack of the door she looked back, fully 
 expecting to catch him stooping and picking up the petals. 
 Instead she saw the young man simply pocket his guide-book 
 and walk towards the other door. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 A WAKING very early, Fraulein Rabe shook her coarse 
 pillow and settled down to hard thinking. The night 
 had not weakened her conviction that life could never 
 be the same again and that in no circumstances would she 
 return to the stage. She pitied herself to the extent of shed- 
 ding a few tears. Having reached the ripe age of twenty- 
 three without an affair of the heart, she knew that her present 
 case was a serious one and that this sudden first love would 
 also be her last. If she should fail to-day, or to-morrow, or on 
 Sunday at latest, then life would be a failure too and there 
 would be no refuge from incurable heart-pains save the old 
 convent. 
 
 Thoughts of the convent brought back to her memory some 
 words of a certain Sister Philomena who had charged her over 
 and over again to hear Mass in every crisis of life and thus 
 give the Holy Spirit a chance of speaking audibly to her soul. 
 Instantly she sprang out of bed. Heaven should decide. 
 Without arousing Anna, the Raven made the simplest toilette 
 and stole downstairs. 
 
 The little church was empty. She was not in the least dis- 
 appointed by the absence of Coggin. His presence in church 
 on the preceding Tuesday was natural; because the Assump- 
 tion was a day of obligation. Many young men in Vienna 
 heard Mass dutifully on Sundays and high festivals but prac- 
 tically never on ordinary week-days. Indeed it would have 
 astonished her to see Harry there. The lonely girl went for- 
 ward to the front chairs so as to kneel as close as possible 
 to the Blessed Sacrament. She heard other worshipers set- 
 
 337 
 
338 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 tling do^ behind her but did not turn her head. The bell 
 rang and the cure entered from the sacristy, with Fritz Hofer 
 the wheelwright as server. Friiulein Rabe opened her book 
 with an almost fierce prayer that light might come before she 
 closed it. The light was given her in that same instance. It 
 shone out from the headline of the page before her. In Ger- 
 man she read simply : 4 £ The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. 7 7 
 
 Sacrifice. The word pierced her like a white-hot blade and 
 she quailed before it. So she was to rouse herself from her 
 fond fancies and set her feet upon that hard road which 
 climbed heavenward between hedges of cold white lilies. She 
 must forget the fragrant dream-path, winding through brakes 
 of roses whose very thorns were sweet because their light 
 scratches proved to lovers that their veins ran indeed with 
 warm red blood. 
 
 Yet . . . were there not many kinds and ways of sacrifice? 
 The Raven had been taught her religion well, and it was her 
 practice to follow Mass in the very words of the missal and not 
 in the platitudinous paraphrases of pious middle-men. She 
 wrenched her mind away from generalities and bent over the 
 book. In a clear voice the celebrant began the psalm which 
 she knew was being said in the self-same Latin at a hundred 
 thousand Catholic altars. 
 
 “ Introibo ad altare Dei: ‘I will go in unto the altar of 
 God , 7 77 said the priest. And the wheelwright in his rough 
 Latin answered : 
 
 “Ad Deum } qui laetificat juventutem meant: ‘To God who 
 maketh my youth glad ! 7 77 
 
 At that moment some butter-fingered believer let slip a 
 brass-clasped book which rapped the floor loudly. Fraulein 
 Rabe turned round ; and among the few faithful she saw Harry 
 Coggin kneeling in an obscure comer and evidently saying 
 his prayers. The sanctity of the place and of the hour could 
 not hinder her soul from rushing to meet his. The other wor- 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 339 
 
 shipers seemed to sink into the ground. She and Harry. 
 Harry and she, just they two were hearing this Mass for 
 heavenly guidance. She buried her face in her hands, trem- 
 bling with gratitude. She needed the book no longer : because 
 the Holy Spirit descended upon her, not only shining like a 
 great light but also burning like a great fire which fused into 
 unworldly unity the two contradictory messages she had just 
 read. God was about to make her youth glad : but the glad- 
 ness was to rise higher than mere pleasure. It was to be the 
 gladness of sacrifice, of holy sacrifice. 
 
 On a gaudy side-altar stood a satin-clad wooden figure of 
 Our Lady of the Seven Dolors. Our Lady’s heart was 
 pierced with seven real swords. Fraulein Rabe gazed at the 
 image and meditated upon it. Yesterday she had dreamed of 
 a life-long honeymoon, with deep draughts every day from 
 the spiced and scented cup of joy: but this morning she knew 
 that a pierced Hand would hold out to her another chalice. 
 Perhaps it had been thus even with the Blessed Virgin her- 
 self. Perhaps the Holy Mary had expected at first that her 
 Son would receive naught save love and honor and obedience 
 from men and that her own life would be all glories and roses. 
 And there, all the time, whetting themselves sharper with 
 every tarrying day, were the seven swords of her seven sor- 
 rows. 
 
 The Raven bowed her head again and began to wonder what 
 swords were a-sharpening for her own soul. She felt sure that 
 she would not have to suffer the wrongs of certain wives she 
 knew in Vienna who were yoked to unfaithful, or drunken, or 
 unbelieving, or gambling husbands. Of Harry’s ingrained 
 and ineradicable goodness there could be no doubt. But once 
 married to this earnest young genius, might not his primness 
 chafe her wild young spirit? Was it not almost certain that 
 in such serious company she would grow old before her time 
 and that she would bitterly lament her lost gaiety and liberty? 
 
340 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 The unheeded petals had proved him to be the phlegmatic 
 Englishman so often depicted by the satirists. Yet, if these 
 were the only sacrifices, she would make them proudly. Yes- 
 terday she had thought of herself and of her own happiness* 
 Now she thought of her beloved and she was ready to creep 
 along the ground in chains if thus he might soar more freely. 
 
 The server rang the bell for the Elevation. The celebrant 
 held up the sacred Body and the precious Blood. And, with- 
 out a moment’s warning, black darkness swallowed her up. 
 This was Calvary. An earthquake seemed to shake the world 
 she had known from under her feet. A sword, seven swords, 
 seventy times seven swords crept and turned in her flesh. 
 And when the darkness lifted and she could gaze once more 
 at the sorrowful Mother she understood that God was going 
 to require of her a sacrifice indeed: a sacrifice as big as the 
 mountains: a sacrifice such as would make the little troubles 
 and misunderstandings of the home seem no more than grains 
 of dust: a sacrifice in darkness and in desolation that should 
 break her body and shed her blood. Yet, out of this fearful 
 cloud, there burst a heavenly light. She crouched like a poor 
 lamb beside the sacrificial stone: but while she shrank she 
 was glad. 
 
 With the departure of the priest from the altar and with 
 the clattering of fifty feet on the floor, her mystical vision 
 and exaltation left her. All that remained was the noon-day 
 clearness of her belief that God Himself had brought the Eng- 
 lishman into her life and that it was her bounden duty to 
 further some vast design, whatever it might cost. She waited 
 for Harry at the church door and walked quietly back with 
 him to the inn. 
 
 As it was still very early and the speisezimmer was not yet 
 swept and dusted, the faithful Anna had taken it upon her- 
 self to set a table in a sunny comer of the garden and to order 
 for her hungry young mistress a pitcher of hot chocolate 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 341 
 
 with milk just milked, eggs just laid, country bread, butter 
 churned the day before, and a pot of heather honey. Harry 
 could not help envying his pretty companion. He was on the 
 point of entering the house when she demanded : 
 
 “Why go in? Breakfast inside won’t be ready for half 
 an hour at least. Anna thinks I have the appetite of a 
 giantess. There ’s quite enough for two. ’ 9 
 
 Harry sat down, uttering warm thanks. The Raven filled 
 two thick cups with chocolate ; and while Anna was away boil- 
 ing the eggs, she burst out : 
 
 “But how shocking of us, Meester Englischman! What 
 would your mama say and your sisters if they knew you were 
 having breakfast all alone with an actress, not very old and not 
 very ugly?” 
 
 “That is easily answered,” said Coggin. “I have no mama 
 and no sisters. So far as I know I have n’t a near relation in 
 the world. ’ ’ 
 
 “Poor Englischman. You are like the poor Raven. She 
 has many friends but no relations. But come. If your bride 
 knew that her bridegroom was drinking chocolate with me, she 
 would be angry, now would n ’t she ? ’ ’ 
 
 Harry was well aware that bride and bridegroom, in the 
 German language, did not mean a newly-married couple. 
 Bride and bridegroom meant a betrothed pair. He replied : 
 
 “That is answered just as easily. You will believe that I 
 have no bride when I tell you that I have neither written a 
 letter to nor received a letter from any lady since I left 
 England nearly fifteen months ago.” 
 
 “I am glad,” she said. “I don’t like making people angry. 
 The English lady and her husband up there in the house are 
 angry with me all day long. You ran away from England to 
 escape such people? And now they have followed you here, 
 up into the mountains. I suppose you will run away from 
 them again?” 
 
342 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “Not exactly,’ ’ said Harry. “I shall not leave here till 
 Sunday afternoon. At the beginning of September I must 
 be in London.” 
 
 Anna returned with the eggs, so Fraulein Rabe was able 
 to conceal the turmoil which Harry’s announcement had set 
 going with her. His matter-of-fact tone hurt her even more 
 than his indifference to her rose-petals the night before. The 
 girl’s pride rose up. She ate and drank as if his movements 
 did not interest her any further : and she assured herself that 
 she was most certainly not going to be so undignified as to 
 run after this ungallant and cold-blooded young man. But 
 when she threw a furtive glance across the table and saw once 
 again his fine face and high forehead, his honest eyes and 
 resolute mouth, his clear skin and splendidly-knit frame, her 
 anger went out like a candle-flame in a wind. Here was a 
 man indeed: but not a man of the world. Wedded to the 
 right wife he would never knowingly give her pain ; but wed- 
 ded to the wrong woman his own sensitive spirit would dwell 
 ever afterwards in a torture-chamber. 
 
 Over the honey she prattled a good deal about her years in 
 the convent. She showed him her prayer-book which the 
 nuns had given her and also the book-markers consisting of 
 tiny engravings of saints and scenes from the passion. On 
 some of them was written “For Christina Maria.” 
 
 “That is my name,” she explained. “Christina Maria. 
 Do you think it is a pretty name ? ’ ’ 
 
 Coggin remained silent awhile. Then he said with rever- 
 ence: “Surely Christina Maria is the greatest of names.” 
 
 For a moment or two she was puzzled. At last his meaning 
 burst over her: and with it came back a full memory of her 
 experience in church an hour earlier. Until this moment there 
 had been no significance for her soul in the name of Christina 
 Maria. What he had said, and his way of saying it, frightened 
 
THE RAVEN 343 
 
 her and made her feel how completely she was passing into 
 his power. 
 
 Anna, who had a duenna’s terror of scandal, bustled up to 
 get all signs of the feast removed. Christina knew that the 
 moment for action had come. She was going to ask this bash- 
 ful knight to be her escort in a forest adventure. She was 
 going to make the request boldly, naturally, with unreddening 
 cheeks. If he should excuse himself by pleading other plans, 
 she would have the consciousness of duty done and would leave 
 Providence to carry out its own designs. But if he should 
 abandon some project — and she was sure that, in his methodi- 
 cal way, he had made one — this would be a sign that he did 
 indeed find delight in her society ; and during three hours of 
 close companionship it would be her feminine task to make 
 him feel that he could never again do without her. 
 
 “My Anna is splendid,” she said as the plump maid went 
 off with the tray, 4 ‘ but she Will only walk on roads and easy 
 footpaths. I want so much to see the Wasserblase. Please 
 take me to the Wasserblase.” 
 
 Harry Coggin had sentenced himself to an easy and lazy 
 day, in preparation for an exceptionally arduous climb with 
 a guide on the morrow. A visit to the famous Wasserblase, 
 less than two miles distant, already figured in his morning 
 program; so he did not delay to answer: 
 
 ‘ ‘ I shall esteem it a great honor. Allow me to look at this 
 map.” 
 
 If his eyes had not been intent on the fluttering sheet, he 
 would have seen the color suddenly forsake her face, and then 
 rush back again with two-fold radiance. She believed that 
 he had broken his other plans for her and that henceforth 
 all his comings and goings would be her comings and goings 
 too. But what made the sunbeams dance most brightly in her 
 blue eyes was the prospect of wandering off with him this very 
 
344 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 moment through pensive woods and beside rejoicing waters. 
 
 As soon as their feet began to tread the soft carpet of pine- 
 needles she said gaily: “You must never be shocked with me. 
 Remember I am an actress. I say just what comes into my 
 mind, without stopping to think, like the correct young ladies. 
 You are not shocked that I asked you to show me the water- 
 fall?” 
 
 “It is a great honor,” said Harry again. 
 
 “No, no. Don’t talk like that, please, Herr Englischman. 
 See, I have spoken to you naturally and, you answer me like a 
 book. Why will you not be natural too ? You let me talk all 
 the time. You tell me nothing about England, about your- 
 self. I told you my name. What is your name, Herr Eng- 
 lischman? I have heard every Englischman is named John 
 — our Hans, our Johannes. — You are John?” 
 
 Harry shyly replied that he was named Henry and added 
 that for hundreds of years the English, in a rough-and- 
 ready attempt to imitate the French pronunciation of the 
 name Henri, had been accustomed to turn Henry into Harry. 
 
 “Ah,” she murmured. “How terrible. I have heard, of 
 an English Heinrich, an English Henry. He had six wives 
 and he robbed the church. You must try to be very good, 
 Meester Harri, to make up for that bad one.” 
 
 She gave him several openings for conversation, but he 
 failed her every time. At last, when he received silently her 
 comments upon certain famous Italian singers who were at 
 that time the idols of London opera-goers, Christina realized 
 how terribly shy the young man was in her company and she 
 cheerfully took up the whole burden of the talking. It oc- 
 curred to her that he might have misunderstood her remark 
 about the freedom of actresses; and therefore she chose her 
 remarks and reminiscences in such a manner as to leave him 
 in no doubt concerning the soundness of her moral principles 
 and the exceptional immunities of her position in Vienna. 
 
THE RAVEN 345 
 
 She even went so far as to tell him that she had decided in 
 church, only that very morning, to leave the stage. 
 
 “But if you leave the stage — ” Harry began. He could 
 not finish. 
 
 “You mean, I shall starve. Well, not exactly. My parents 
 did not leave me quite a beggar. ’ ’ 
 
 Fraulein Rabe felt that she was doing her whole duty by the 
 Englishman. In the correct circles which she had known, a 
 maiden was expected to bring her husband an unblemished 
 reputation and a suitable sum of money. As there was nobody 
 else to put his mind at ease on these two points, she was deli- 
 cately reassuring him herself. She had never heard that 
 in England penniless maidens, by the thousand every year, 
 made love-matches with which every one was satisfied. At 
 that moment the Raven’s fixed idea was to sweep all artificial 
 obstacles away from the man whom she believed to be her sud- 
 denly-revealed destiny. She was sure that Harry’s bashful- 
 ness was accompanied by swiftness of perception; and she 
 flattered herself that she had given herself the necessary tes- 
 timonials without losing any of her dignity and modesty. Yet, 
 when the silence lengthened, she did not like to think that 
 her last words had been about money : so she added proudly : 
 
 “Besides, when I do what He tells me in church, it is for 
 the good God to look after me.” 
 
 The low hum of hidden waters which had boomed in their 
 ears all the way, became more full and loud. The path de^- 
 scended in steep zig-zags. Soon the deep undersong began 
 to be embroidered with a descant of tinklings and lappings 
 and splashings. A shaft of sunlight drove through the tree- 
 tops and the cascade shone straight in front of them like a 
 living diamond. 
 
 After rain the Wasserblase, or Bubble, deserved its renown. 
 It was a great rounded apron of crystal waters falling in front 
 of a cavern. The floor of the cavern was filled by a deep cold 
 
346 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 pool of sucking eddies, but there was a flat boulder where two 
 persons could stand, with the moist walls and roof over and 
 behind them and with the curtain of water, as thin as window- 
 glass and almost as transparent, renewing itself endlessly in 
 front. As Christina and Harry approached it, the wonder 
 was made more wondrous by a little rainbow, shapely and 
 lovely, glittering and quivering in a spray as fine as dust. 
 
 Fifteen months of sight-seeing had not cloyed Harry’s ap- 
 petite for beauty. As for Christina, moving water was her 
 chief delight. Pounding surf, dancing waves, racing brooks, 
 tumbling cataracts all fascinated her. Having agreed upon 
 the best view-point the two young people stood silently for a 
 long time gazing at the bubble which would not burst and lis- 
 tening to the deep voice of the torrent. 
 
 This summer morning was the most glorious she had ever 
 known. For some moments her happiness was perfect. Then 
 she began to yearn for Harry’s voice and for the knowledge 
 that he too was happy, because they were together, just they 
 two, under an unclouded sky and on the brink of shining 
 waters. A desperate plan occurred to her. She was almost 
 irresistibly tempted to turn upon him and say : 
 
 1 ‘ I know you are shy ; but why do you not tell me that you 
 love me? Sooner or later you will be saying those words, T 
 love you, I love you.’ Why do you not say them now? 
 Life is so short. It may be that never again shall we stand 
 side by side on such a perfect day in such a perfect place. 
 Some time in the future we may come back here and find the 
 stream dry or the path drowned in rain. Why should we 
 lose one day, one moment of our love? Say the words now. 
 I shall want to hear them thousands of times. You are cruel 
 to cheat me of them, even for an hour.” 
 
 She closed her eyes and pictured him listening to such 
 words. She pictured his emotion, his maid-like shyness which 
 was so delicious to her, his dear stammering of “I love you.” 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 34T 
 
 That he did love her, even if he did not yet know it, she was 
 sure. At her challenge, the knowledge would come to his 
 mind, the fire to his heart, the words to his lips. He would 
 grow bold in love. He would adventure a strong arm around 
 her waist, she would lean her head against his broad shoulder, 
 he would ... No ... Yes .. . Perhaps his young shyness 
 would vanish utterly and he would crown that divine minute 
 with kisses. 
 
 But Christina did not speak. With an angry little blush at 
 having briefly forgotten the decorum which Harry would ex- 
 pect of a young lady, she said abruptly : 
 
 “Let us go inside the Bubble. I have nerves of steel. They 
 say it is only dangerous to careless or clumsy people. ’ ’ 
 
 She led the way. A mossy path ran into one side of the 
 cavern. Where the path ended, a plank with a handrail 
 bridged six feet of gurgling water and gave access to some 
 stepping-stones. The furthest and largest of these stones rose 
 from the very center of the pool and in the loftiest part of 
 the cavern. It was just large enough to hold two persons 
 standing closely together. 
 
 The Raven had to be so intent on her movements that when 
 she found herself clinging tightly to Harry’s arm she could 
 not remember whether she had involuntarily claimed this sup- 
 port or whether he had offered it. All she felt sure of was the 
 wonderful peace and comfort which his nearness gave her. 
 There was something rock-like in the frame of this gentle 
 youth. Many women had impulsively embraced her and she 
 had been paternally caressed by more than one of her respect- 
 ful old foster-fathers : but never had she suspected that there 
 could be in the world such a tower for her ivy-like spirit to 
 cling to. Before going to church, Harry had plunged that 
 morning into an icy pool. He was as sweet as a flower, as 
 sturdy as an oak. Anxiety for her safety so overcame his 
 bashfulness that he not only lent his arm for her two hands 
 
348 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 to grip, but even held her firmly against his shoulders. 
 
 In front of them hung the Bubble. They were in a stone 
 box with a glass lid. The projecting eaves of the cave threw 
 out the water in a clear curve — the curve of a glass shade over 
 a gilded French clock. They stood so far behind the crystal 
 curtain that not a drop of water touched them. 
 
 “If it began to rain,” said (Christina, “we could not get 
 wet. How strange to think that we should be shielded by an 
 umbrella made of water.” 
 
 “It is,” Coggin agreed. At the same moment such ani- 
 mation came into his face that she demanded : 
 
 ‘ 4 What are you thinking about ? ’ ’ 
 
 “No doubt you have read the works of Jean Paul Richter,” 
 he answered modestly. “Do you remember the simile of the 
 waterfall? He imagines a man sheltering from the rain be- 
 hind a cataract like this ; and he goes on to say that one great 
 sorrow protects us from many little ones. Little, troubles, 
 which would be enough at other times to rob us of our peace, 
 cannot strike through a great sorrow. ’ ’ 
 
 Harry spoke quietly, with no parade of book-learning. 
 His fine musical sensitiveness made him unconsciously pitch 
 his voice in unison with the noble diapason of the cataract, so 
 that it was richer and more moving than before. His tones 
 and his meaning thrilled Christina all over. Without knowing 
 it, she shrank more trustfully against his side. But once more 
 that mystical knowledge of her future, which had been vouch- 
 safed to her at Mass, surged up in her mind. She breasted it 
 bravely. An immeasurable sorrow was to fling a chill veil 
 between her weeping eyes and all human joy — a veil as chill 
 as this Bubble, wdiich only the sunset beams of Death should 
 rend asunder. Yet she was not afraid, not rebellious, not 
 even unhappy. She had seen so many women growing sordid 
 and fretful under the constant drizzling and pattering of mean 
 little cares — cares of money, cares of meat and drink, cares 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 349 
 
 of tittle-tattle, cares of small aches and pains. But God most 
 merciful had appointed for her some majestical grief, which 
 should arch like a crystal dome over her soul. 
 
 When she could speak, she said: “No, I have never read 
 Jean Paul. Did he say anything else as beautiful as that?” 
 
 Harry considered for a while. Then he replied: “Yes. 
 Jean Paul said that when we die perhaps we shall find that we 
 have not lost our dreams but that we have only lost our 
 sleep.” 
 
 Once again he had tuned his voice to the music of the waters. 
 When he ceased, the cataract sang on, as if Harry w^as still 
 uttering his inmost soul in cadences too sacred for mere words. 
 Christina opened her eyes and tried to behold the outer world 
 through the swaying Bubble. She could discern a pinnacle 
 of rock, an overhanging tree, a wrack of foam upon a boulder. 
 But the world of every day seemed infinitely withdrawn, as 
 if never again would she move and breathe in it. God had 
 claimed her already: and she knew in that strange moment 
 that His will would be done in her soon, very soon. 
 
 Harry’s tongue was loosened on the way home. A remark 
 of Christina’s about Jean Paul worked the miracle. Not 
 that he ever let himself go to the extent of a long speech. 
 Again and again he stopped, feeling ashamed of talking so 
 much and listening so little ; but by some well-timed question 
 the Raven always contrived to set him going once more. The 
 girl had expected a great deal, but his fine sense and vast 
 knowledge overwhelmed her. He carried his learning not like 
 a poor ass staggering under a swaying, ill-piled burden but 
 like a richly-caparisoned horse bearing a knight in silver mail. 
 His facts came forth like bright swords from their scabbards, 
 not like old iron from a museum, and his judgments were as 
 honest and life-giving as the sun in the sky. Christina’s 
 breast swelled with pride. In the German phrase this was 
 
350 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 “her man,” and was a man indeed; an athlete, a saint, a gen- 
 tleman, a scholar, a genius, a poet. It salved her pride to 
 know that she had not fallen senselessly in love with merely 
 a well-knit frame and a handsome, pensive face. Her man 
 was everything, except a gallant lover; and that would come. 
 
 When her scanty store of literary erudition ran out, Chris- 
 tina started a new phase of conversation by asking Harry for 
 some impressions of Prussia and the Rhineland, Bavaria and 
 Austria. When he showed signs of lagging, she interrogated 
 him about Cologne cathedral and especially about its resem- 
 blance to the votive church which was being built in Vienna, 
 in thanksgiving for the Emperor Francis Joseph’s escape from 
 the dagger of an assassin. 
 
 “Tour votive church,” Harry began, “might have been bet- 
 ter if — ” 
 
 Anna rose up like the Witch of Endor, full in their path. 
 She had been squatting impatiently on a tree-stump. With- 
 out wasting breath on any formula of respect she turned her 
 mistress slowly round expecting to find her stained with mud 
 of the path and drenched with the spray of the Wasserblase. 
 A grunt expressed her surprise ; but she was not entirely stulti- 
 fied. A little rust from the wall of the cave could be seen on 
 Fraulein Rabe’s left sleeve and a bramble had torn a hat 
 ribbon. Anna unfolded a flowered wrap, as thin as gossamer, 
 shook it twice, and then draped it prettily over the young 
 lady’s shoulders. Finally she produced a garden hat to match 
 the wrap. 
 
 When the tom hat had been removed,, Christina stood de- 
 murely with the noonday sun flashing about her wonderful 
 black hair. Coggin had beheld, within twenty-four hours, 
 the blaze of the sun on the eternal snow and on a headlong 
 cataract: but the sun’s dalliance with these blue-black tresses 
 was the most wonderful sight of all. He could not entirely 
 repress a rush of admiration. Anna saw it and grunted 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 351 
 
 again. Christina saw it too : but she gave no sign of triumph. 
 She simply waited, like a very good and artless little girl, 
 for Anna to put on the other hat and to tie the ribbon under 
 the dutifully-uplifted little chin. 
 
 Without uttering a word to anybody, Anna made the young 
 Englishman understand that she did not approve of his further 
 escort at that moment and that her mistress must appear at the 
 door of the inn in no company save her maid’s. Christina, 
 who suddenly felt a shyness of a kind quite new to her, 
 tacitly conveyed the same hint; and Harry, with perceptions 
 quickened by his morning in feminine society, saw what was 
 meant and asked leave to turn aside for a purchase in the one 
 shop of the village. 
 
 Anna’s precautions were vain. Down a side-path came his 
 fellow-guests and fellow-Englishry, the thin lady and the 
 plump gentleman from the inn. They emerged from the trees 
 just in time to witness Harry’s rather awkward leave-taking 
 and to see Christina turn to give a farewell wave of her tiny 
 hand. Like Harry, they were on their way to the shop and 
 they overtook him there. To his astonishment and vexation, 
 when he left the shop after buying a ridiculously small ice-ax 
 for Edward Redding, the lady hastened her step and joined 
 him. She had evidently become as anxious to talk with him 
 as she had been to avoid him. After some stiff -jointed com- 
 pliments on his piano-playing and his command of the Ger- 
 man language, the lady began to expatiate on the short-com- 
 ings of the inn. Why had they not once had chamois to eat 
 in four days ? Was it becoming that a clergyman should allow 
 the guides to smoke pipes in the lower room until you could n’t 
 see a yard in front of you? She added that they were leav- 
 ing the next day, Saturday, so as to be within reach of an 
 English church service. 4 ‘ Of course that does n ’t affect 
 you,” she concluded, in her most acid tones, “seeing that you 
 are a Roman Catholic.” 
 
352 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 * ‘ I am not a Roman Catholic, ’ ’ said Harry. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Not a Roman Catholic ? But on Tuesday morning I could 
 not help seeing you bowing down in the church just like the 
 Catholics. Why, the chambermaid is always singing your 
 praises. She says what a saint you are, going every day to 
 their Mass.” 
 
 ‘‘I can only repeat, ma’am, that I am not a Roman Cath- 
 olic.” 
 
 ‘‘Then you must excuse me if I speak my mind,” retorted 
 the lady sharply. ‘‘Some matters are of such importance, 
 such infinite and everlasting consequence, that we must not be 
 deterred from speaking about them merely through fear of 
 being thought ill-bred or through reluctance to give offense. 
 There are too many English people abroad who bow down in 
 the house of Rimmon. When the poor ignorant peasantry 
 grovel before a piece of bread and a glass of wine, I do not 
 condemn them. God will judge them according to their 
 lights, or rather according to their darkness. It is the priests 
 I blame : not the wretched dupes whom they keep enslaved in 
 degrading superstition. But when a young gentleman like 
 yourself, bred and nurtured on Protestant truth, kneels down 
 as you did last Tuesday, you must excuse my saying that he is 
 an idolater, a sinful idolater. What is more, he is a traitor. 
 If you became a Roman Catholic out-and-out I should pity 
 you but I might respect you. I dare say you are mortally 
 offended : but I have done my duty. ’ ’ 
 
 Much as he disliked the censorious shrewishness of her 
 manner Harry could not altogether resent the matter of the 
 lady’s tirade. He was painfully aware of his false position 
 in religion. Indeed the desire to settle it one way or another 
 was one of the chief elements in his longing to return to 
 England. He had resolved, nearly a year before, to keep his 
 ecclesiastical opinions fluid until he was back in his own coun- 
 try. For the present he would accept rebuke without arguing 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 353 
 
 back : but next month, on the second of September, only fifteen 
 days from now . . . 
 
 Harry's heart suddenly shrank within him. Only fifteen 
 days! A fortnight; and then Germany would be a finished 
 chapter in his book of life. Only a month before, he had been 
 counting the days of his exile and he had pleaded with Edward 
 Redding to shorten them. Now he felt an ache, a sickening, 
 almost a terror. No doubt, he reflected, this was the spell of 
 the mountains, which he had read about so often. And yet, if 
 he had demanded of himself at that moment how the spell was 
 working, he would have known that it was not a white sharp 
 mountain-peak that had impaled his heart. He would have 
 known that his fancy lingered under the cool branches of a 
 pine-wood, with never a mountain to be seen, gazing at the 
 sunshine playing hide-and seek in the glossy wings of a blue- 
 black raven. 
 
 The thin Englishwoman interpreted Harry's evident trouble 
 and his long speechlessness as proofs that the first part of her 
 sermon had gone home : so she turned to Secondly. 
 
 “Although advice in the matter of the affections is almost 
 invariably disregarded," she said, “I am not thereby released 
 from the obligation to offer it. I have discharged one unpleas- 
 ant duty. Permit me to discharge another ; and pray acquit 
 me of intrusiveness. I am thinking not only of yourself, but 
 of your mother, your family. Nobody hates gossip more than 
 I do and nobody has a greater detestation of becoming involved 
 in the affairs of others. But what is going on around me is 
 so glaring that even my slow eyes and preoccupied mind can 
 no longer ignore it. It grieves my husband and myself to see 
 you drifting into an entanglement which can bring you noth- 
 ing but bitterness and regret. Heed this earnest and friendly 
 warning while there is time. I know what I am talking about. 
 I am older than you are." 
 
 As to the lady 's seniority there could be no dispute : but as 
 
354 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 to the meaning of her long and stilted speech Harry Coggin 
 could not frame a guess. Did it refer to some further and un- 
 suspected ecclesiastical impropriety on his part? Having no 
 clear notion of the business in hand he simply prolonged his 
 dumbness. 
 
 “Perhaps you are not fully acquainted with the identity 
 and antecedents of ... of this young person,” the lady con- 
 tinued. “We have ascertained that she is an actress. Not an 
 exponent of the legitimate drama, but an employee in one of 
 those less reputable places of so-called amusement which pan- 
 der to the frivolity and levity of the giddy and the thoughtless. 
 I grant that she is not entirely without attraction of person 
 and manner of the kinds which appeal to certain people : and 
 this attractiveness only makes her the more dangerous. To 
 every eye except your own it is indisputable that this young 
 woman is determined to entrap you. That is the reason why 
 we urge you to leave this inn and to complete your vacation in 
 some less unsatisfactory establishment. ’ ’ 
 
 Harry came to a halt. At first the lady’s full meaning did 
 not clarify itself from her turgid polysyllables. He looked 
 the pair up and down ; and into his mind came a sentence from 
 his “Murray’s Handbook” in which the writer lamented that 
 he had “almost invariably met with the kindest reception in 
 those places where his countrymen were least known.” He 
 remembered Edward Redding’s warning also. The lady was 
 like a skeleton in a parchment bag while the husband, whose 
 climb had over-exerted him, seemed to have been poured into 
 his clothes in a liquid state, like a pudding tied tightly in a 
 cloth for boiling. 
 
 “I endorse every word my wife has uttered,” said the 
 husband, stepping forward. * ‘ I am a man of the world. Take 
 our advice. Why, my wife’s own second cousin, the younger 
 son of Sir William Lee, became entangled with a designing 
 young female of this very class and — ’’ 
 
I 
 
 THE RAVEN 355 
 
 Harry swept the puffing moralist out of his path. The look 
 on his face was so terrible that the man of the world dodged 
 frantically to the shelter of skirts. It suddenly occurred to 
 the fat Robert that this was the stalwart mountaineer who 
 had already pitched one insulter of Fraulein Rabe out of the 
 window. Henry Coggin, however, controlled himself by a 
 mighty effort. He recalled his first encounter with these 
 people, at the supper table, and the exact words of their 
 frigid snub. Sharpening and hardening his voice till it could 
 have struck sparks out of the lady’s own, he said with cut- 
 ting scorn : 
 
 “My answer shall be the answer you gave me when I tried 
 to help you on the night of your arrival here. Sir, I do not 
 need any information or assistance. ’ ’ 
 
 Pushing past the still panic-stricken man of the world, 
 Harry sped down the narrow path with long strides. In five 
 minutes the beauty of the earth had been turned to ashes, the 
 glorious sunshine to a torrid glare, the sweet breeze to a dusty 
 wind. Ought he not to go away this very afternoon and thus 
 protect Christina from new slanders? No. Flight would be 
 taken to mean that he had accepted the thin lady ’s advice, and 
 the shrew was even capable of telling the chambermaid that he 
 had run away from the attentions of Fraulein Rabe. The 
 English couple were leaving themselves in twenty-four hours. 
 They had said so. Till they were gone, he must stay, as 
 Christina’s champion. More than once as he hurried along he 
 swung the little ax angrily in the air. 
 
 The Raven fluttered through the garden gate to meet him. 
 Anna was upstairs. 
 
 “What have you in your hand?” Christina demanded. 
 “You came down through the rocks like a young god with 
 blinding lights shining round your head.” 
 
 “It must have been the new blade of this ax flashing back 
 the sunlight, ’ ’ said Harry, blushing in the manner she adored. 
 
356 THE HARE 
 
 He was like Samson’s riddle; as strong as a lion, as sweet as 
 honey. 
 
 She took the ax from him. When he explained that it was far 
 too small to use, and that he had bought it only as a souvenir 
 she exclaimed eagerly : ‘ ‘ Then give it to me ! Dear little bright 
 ax, poor little ax. Please, please Herr Harri, give it to me.” 
 
 He gave it to her instantly, though not without a spasm of 
 regret that he had missed his chance of frightening the man 
 of the world almost out of his life with it. Never for a 
 moment had he doubted this merry, clear-eyed, open-hearted 
 girl’s innocence; but as she played with the little ax like a 
 child with a new toy, his heart grew hot with wrath against the 
 man of the world and his bitter consort. 
 
 All through dinner, Christina nursed the ax in her lap. 
 When Anna sought to take it away, she clutched it as a little 
 girl clutches her doll at bed-time and would not be parted from 
 it. Owing to further departures of guests, she no longer sat 
 opposite to Harry who was now faced by a heavy hausfrau 
 from Augsburg. As for the man and the woman of the world, 
 they said nothing and thus gained some precious moments for 
 consuming even more than usual of the good fare set before 
 them. 
 
 The meal came to an end, but Christina was not allowed 
 to abandon the role of a little girl. Anna dragged her off, 
 still fondling the toy ax, to her room and to bed. It was the 
 first time in Anna’s memory that her mistress had got up at 
 five in the morning and she saw signs of fatigue which called 
 for treatment. Within half an hour the poor Raven, tired 
 and happy, fell asleep. 
 
 When she came downstairs again, the house was already 
 odorous with preparations for supper. To regain her appetite 
 Christina walked out into the road. There she ran against 
 Harry, in deep consultation with a towering peasant whom 
 she recognized as the most famous guide in the valley. The 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 357 
 
 giant *s voice was loud and she could not help hearing him say : 
 
 * i Then six o’clock to-morrow, mein Herr, after the Mass.” 
 
 Indignation flamed up in her heart. The next day was Sat- 
 urday and Harry had said that he was leaving the village on 
 Sunday afternoon. So she had fooled herself after all. He 
 cared so little for her that his last day was to be spent miles 
 away from her. What she had believed to be the firm begin- 
 ning of a divine romance was to him only just one more of 
 the chance meetings and passing acquaintanceships of tourist 
 life. Her high and solemn visions in the church and at the 
 waterfall were silly hallucinations, born of the intoxicating 
 mountain air. In the sharp reaction from her mystic rapture 
 she could almost have cried out to him that he was a booby and 
 a churl. 
 
 The Angelus began to sound from the belfry close at hand. 
 Instantly the guide, who had unfolded a map, stopped talking 
 and uncovered his head. Harry did the same. For a second 
 or two, Christina was on the verge of revolt against Heaven and 
 all things heavenly : but grace was given to her and she bowed 
 her head like the others. Before the bell ceased ringing she 
 knew that her visions were not delusions. Harry ’s conduct 
 might still be a mystery and an anguish : but all the same he 
 was the only man she would ever love. 
 
 It occurred to her that he had probably arranged this big 
 climb some days before and that, as he was not due in London 
 for another fortnight, he would almost certainly postpone his 
 departure from the inn. The burden rolled from her soul, she 
 darted back into the house, leapt upstairs and panted to 
 Anna: 
 
 “Last night I wore my wine-colored dress with cream roses. 
 To-night I shall wear crimson roses and my pale yellow muslin. 
 There are crimson roses in this bouquet which Herr Fecht has 
 brought me. Quick, Anna, quick. ” 
 
 Although they were yards apart at the supper-table, Chris- 
 
I 
 
 358 THE HARE 
 
 tina’s clever eyes cauglit peeps of Harry now and then. She 
 knew that he looked at her again and again and she was sat- 
 isfied. The persuasion that the crisis in her life had come, 
 and that she would never tread the stage again, had become 
 absolute. Moreover, as she nursed the ax, his gift, in her lap 
 she suddenly formed a plan — a daring plan which should turn 
 his unfaithfulness on the morrow to good account. 
 
 When Herr Fecht desired to conduct her to the salon after 
 supper, for another recital of music, the beauty surprised him 
 by a refusal. “In Vienna / 9 she said merrily, “I am a raven, 
 a night-bird. Here, on my holiday, I am a lark. This morn- 
 ing I rose with the sun and I want to do it again to-morrow. 
 Dear Herr Doctor, excuse me. You shall have plenty of music 
 from our genius, our Englischman. ’ ’ 
 
 Harry was waiting near. She cried out gaily, “Good- 
 night, Herr Harri,” and ran upstairs. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 C HRISTINA’S instinct, next morning, was to hear Mass 
 from the darkest corner of the church, unseen by 
 Harry. Her new plan, however, required that she 
 should renounce conventional coyness: so she went forward 
 once more to a front prie-dieu. Kneeling there, her revela- 
 tions were renewed, with a solemn addition. She became sure 
 that her mysterious union with Harry was near, very near at 
 hand, and that she would not see even one more of the old, 
 light-hearted, careless days. At first this certainty chilled 
 and shadowed her : but forebodings vanished as she stood up 
 for the last Gospel and calm happiness came in their stead. 
 The instant Mass was finished she hastened back to the inn. 
 
 This morning there was to be no leisurely breakfast in the 
 garden. Anna had forbidden it, and it was unlikely that 
 Harry would have time for it. Perhaps to-morrow morn- 
 ing — But no, she could not picture to-morrow. To-day rose 
 up before her like a mountain rampart, shutting away all the 
 tracts beyond. 
 
 Harry Coggin had not lost his Bulford habit of eating a good 
 breakfast when it came his way. A looker-on, watching his 
 prowess with the chocolate and milk, the butter and rye-bread, 
 the cold veal and ham, would not have found it easy to re- 
 gard him as the central figure of a romance. Still less would 
 Harry have seen himself in that light. Although the Raven 
 kept perking into his mind, making him feel yet again that it 
 would be pleasant if he could be in two places at once, his 
 thoughts were mainly bent towards the coming climb. He had 
 persuaded the guide to pilot him up an arete which was sel- 
 
 359 
 
360 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 dom attempted, an ascent which only the very tough and the 
 very agile could contemplate. 
 
 He stepped out into the road a few minutes before six. A 
 moment afterwards Christina emerged from the garden gate, 
 a little lower down. Having seen her at church, he was not 
 greatly surprised to encounter her again. Then it flashed 
 upon him that perhaps she was graciously intending to invite 
 him once more to an open-air breakfast. He hurried forward 
 to excuse himself and to explain. 
 
 4 'You are not asked/ ’ she retorted, before his speech was 
 fairly begun. "Do you think I have nothing better to do 
 with my mornings than sit over coffee-cups with English- 
 men? Anna is taking my coffee upstairs. You are conceited, 
 Herr Harri. You imagine nobody can climb mountains ex- 
 cept yourself. ’ ’ 
 
 She rounded off this rejoinder by deftly swinging round 
 her head the ax, which she had been hiding behind her back. 
 The gesture brought all her limbs into play and then Harry 
 noticed the dress she was wearing. From the pout which 
 pursed her lips he saw that she was vexed with him for not 
 having remarked upon it with his first breath of greeting. 
 
 Except with her two marvelous toilettes of the two preceding 
 evenings, the wine-colored and the pale yellow, Fraulein Rabe 
 had not once appeared in the hoops or crinolines which had 
 been so long in fashion. Sensitive to a change of mode which 
 had already begun to show itself in Vienna, she preferred to 
 wear far less voluminous and far more graceful garments. 
 Her skirts were not the least of her sins in the eyes of the thin 
 Englishwoman. This morning, however, she had renounced 
 the fashion entirely and was arrayed like a Tyrolese peasant- 
 girl. Her high-waisted dress and pointed hat and pretty 
 stockings were of finer material than the village-lasses could 
 or would have purchased, but the cut and hang were the 
 same. 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 361 
 
 Henry Coggin ought to have been reminded by this charm- 
 ing sight of the highland maidens he had seen on the pre- 
 ceding Tuesday night at the Assumption dance; but he 
 remembered nothing of the kind. His thoughts leapt back 
 not to a scented pine-wood with two fiddles and a guitar 
 squeaking and thrumming a country dance but to a stuffy 
 opera-house, overfilled with the loud music of an orchestra 
 playing prestissimo and fortissimo. As Christina balanced 
 herself coquettishly on her dainty toes and swung the imprac- 
 ticable ax like a theatrical property, Harry could almost sniff 
 the gas-fumes, he could almost hear the shrill violin and the 
 pounding drums, while canvas mountains and painted trees 
 seemed to rise up a few feet behind Christina’s graceful and 
 unrustic form. Her pirouette was all unconscious, but she was 
 an actress bred and bom. 
 
 “You think I look a fright?” she said. “No, no, poor 
 Englischman, don’t try to pay me compliments. You are not 
 used to it. You would hurt yourself. Besides, what do I 
 care how I look? When one goes climbing high mountains 
 one doesn ’t wear a ball-dress, ’ ’ 
 
 Harry took alarm. To conduct a healthy, hardy, hoopless 
 young lady to the Wasserblase was one thing; to haul her up 
 precipices was another. He glanced at her tiny feet, a 
 dancer ’s feet hardly bigger than two brown mice, and thought 
 of the crampons the guide would bring. He thought of ugly 
 gauze over those violet eyes. Then his mind swung right 
 round and began to work furiously. After all, he was not 
 bound to carry out his ambitious and perhaps selfish plan of 
 driving a guide up the most exhausting and perilous ascent 
 in that part of the Tyrol. It was true, that, after making 
 preparations and announcing their intentions, the guide might 
 feel aggrieved if the expedition were abandoned : but the man 
 would have his hire just the same and could put the blame on 
 Harry’s fickleness or timidity. Yes. It would be best to 
 
362 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 drop heroics and to enjoy himself temperately, like other peo- 
 ple. He could keep the guide for some much nearer and much 
 easier mountain ; a mountain so near and so easy that even a 
 little lady, with little feet and a little ax, would be able to en- 
 dure its little fatigues and little dangers. 
 
 Christina divined the working of his thoughts. And, skilled 
 actress though she was, she could not conceal her own hope 
 and fear. The actress died out of her and only the love- 
 hungry, lonely maid was left. Her eyes pleaded: “Why do 
 you not tell me that you will not go away to-morrow? Why 
 could you think for one moment of leaving me to-day ? When 
 your mind is so fine and your soul is so noble, how can your 
 heart be so hard and your blood so cold ? How can you, a poet, 
 a gentleman, shame me and humble me by making me run 
 after you? You have just prayed, and I have just prayed, 
 to the same God. You know He has made us one for another. 
 You are cruel, you are unfair. If I could spare one moment 
 from loving you, I should use it to hate you.” 
 
 Harry, even Harry, could not fail to see that the violet eyes 
 were brimming with some passionate longing, some desperate 
 entreaty. But he w T as too dull and too humble to have the 
 faintest suspicion that he, the rag-and-bone man's vagrant, 
 inelegant, tongue-tied son, could ever excite in this brilliant 
 and famous young beauty anything more than a slight and 
 passing interest. None the less, those pleading eyes searched 
 his very heart until they brought to memory a small tragedy 
 of his boyhood, long ago enacted and long ago forgotten. 
 
 Nearly twenty years before, when he was a child of six, he 
 toddled with his glum father on some mean hunt for odds-and- 
 ends. In the back-yard of a great house he waited shyly while 
 his father’s querulous tones waged a losing battle against the 
 sharp scorn of the cook. As he hung about near a high black 
 door which hid from him the glories of the flower-garden he 
 heard a light scrambling and scuffling and a scratching of the 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 363 
 
 wood, followed by a soft and pretty cry. Glancing up he 
 saw that a magnificent young cat, grandly marked like a tiger, 
 was balancing herself on the top of the door, with her splendid 
 tail aloft in the air. Little Harry, who had never fondled dog 
 or cat or bird, never known brother or sister or playmate, 
 became all eyes. He watched the queenly creature's ivory 
 claws working in and out of her wooden perch. The animal 
 gave another low cry, and jumped down into the yard. With 
 her tail still aloft she pressed against the child ’s legs, humped 
 herself small, arched her back, purred like a singing kettle 
 and then looked up at him with great round eyes, demanding 
 a caress. Giving way to an affectionate instinct which had not, 
 at that time, been quite cuffed and scolded out of him, little 
 Harry stooped and took the soft, proud, happy creature into 
 his gentle arms. Instantly there was a scream from the back- 
 kitchen door. The yard seemed to fill with a flood of print 
 dresses and white aprons. He felt his father's heavy palm 
 fall angrily on his ear and he heard himself called a dirty 
 brat and an impudent little varmint. He was hustled and 
 flung forth, while hands not so clean as his own tore the pol- 
 luted cat from his disgusting clasp and bore it back to its 
 mistress. 
 
 Face to face with Christina, it was only the first part of this 
 childish experience that Harry remembered. The blows and 
 the abuse hardly figured in his recollection, because they had 
 been so large a part of his boyhood that they were not note- 
 worthy events. What came back to him, with the utmost viv- 
 idness, was the impulse he had obeyed to take up the helpless, 
 pleading, lovely, bright-eyed, velvet creature and to comfort it 
 against his heart. Christina unconsciously kept moving her 
 restless feet, so that she was all alive from head to toe with 
 nervous feline grace. Not as to a beautiful woman excit- 
 ing his passions, but as to a poor little child, with a toy in her 
 hand, who moved his love and pity, Harry could have held 
 
364 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 out both arms to this sad raven. He could have nestled the 
 twittering bird in his warm shoulder saying “What is it that 
 she wants, what is it I can do?” 
 
 Footsteps on the hard road made him turn round. The 
 guide had just stepped out of the pine-wood, bringing a heavy 
 burden for himself and a lighter one for Harry. At the sight 
 of a short-skirted young lady with an ax, he frowned and 
 said pointedly; 
 
 “If the worthy Fraulein permits it, we must start at once. 
 Josef and Andreas, my two nephews, will meet us at the foot of 
 the glaciers. They have gone on with the ropes and irons. 
 There is no time to lose. ’ ’ 
 
 Harry was troubled. Glancing again at Christina he saw 
 that her eyes were pleading more ardently than ever. He 
 still believed that she was intent on mountaineering and not on 
 a mountaineer. He took it that, having shown the day before 
 at the Bubble that she had a sure foot, a strong nerve and a 
 cool head, she was determined to prove that she could do all 
 a man could do, even to the extent of hacking hard ice and 
 dragging herself up jagged chimneys. What was he to do? 
 To take her with him would be unthinkable madness. Yet to 
 turn his back upon her and leave her to spend a long day nurs- 
 ing her chagrin and disappointment would be unmannerly 
 ingratitude after all her graciousness. It would be selfish 
 and unkind. He was on the point of turning to the guide and 
 of requesting an entirely new program suited to the physical 
 powers of a lady, when the hand of fate struck home and struck 
 hard. 
 
 In this particular instance the hand of fate was not a 
 pretty hand. It was a skinny hand, a sinister hand, a hand 
 which opened and closed up again like a pale and huge and 
 dreadful spider. To be exact, it was the hand of the scraggy 
 Englishwoman. Her bedroom window commanded the road, 
 and she had heard Christina’s voice. Although she showed 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 365 
 
 a hand and nothing more as she softly opened the window, 
 Harry’s quick eye caught the danger. In disgust and anger he 
 watched the hand fumbling the blind to make a peephole. 
 
 Christina’s desperate gaze followed Harry’s until she too 
 saw the hand. She flushed scarlet. To run after her beloved 
 and humble herself before him had been an experience fraught 
 with bitter-sweet excitement. In elaborating her plan she had 
 silenced prudish qualms by imagining the hour of shy pride 
 in which she would some day confess it. The Raven was re- 
 solved that when she and Harry were all in all to one an- 
 other she would tease him, she would tell him how nearly 
 he had lost her by his thick-headedness, she would archly 
 brand herself a brazen hussy ; and this match of wits outside 
 the inn door on a chilly morning would live in their fond 
 memories among the warmest of their lovers’ secrets. But 
 to find that another woman was looking on, that another 
 woman was exulting in her difficulties and preparing to wither 
 her with scorn for making herself so cheap with a man . . . 
 it was too much. 
 
 The church clock began to strike six and the guide said 
 again: “ There ’s no time to lose.” 
 
 “Then stop losing it,” cried Christina. She spoke loudly 
 so that her words should fly full into the upper window. 
 “Shoulder arms. Quick march. Not that I believe you ever 
 do really climb those high mountains. I believe you just sit 
 down and eat and drink and smoke and talk when you ’re 
 half way up. Who ’s to contradict you when you come home 
 and say you ’ve been to the top? I don’t pretend I ’m go- 
 ing to climb Mont Blanc myself; but there are more moun- 
 taineers than one in the world.” 
 
 With the unseen but undeniable Englishwoman skulking be- 
 hind the blind, Christina felt that she had an audience and 
 all her skill as an actress came into play. The poor little 
 heart was an inferno of shame and bewilderment and despair. 
 
366 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 but the bright voice caroled like a black-bird’s. She seemed 
 to be careless of everything and everybody, a happy child 
 bursting with high spirits. Once more she swung the ax 
 round her head. 
 
 “If you hre the other mountaineer, Fraulein, you mustn’t 
 go climbing without a guide, ’ ’ said Coggin anxiously. ‘ ‘ They 
 say that a good guide for beginners is Franz Steinmann, the 
 carpenter, near the bridge.” 
 
 “Thank you,” retorted the Raven with glittering disdain. 
 “But you forget that you never saw this valley till a week 
 ago and that I have been coming here for my Sommerfrisch 
 year after year. I know where to find guides. But at this 
 moment I am more intent on finding my coffee. It is waiting 
 for me and getting cold upstairs. You think ladies are a 
 nuisance, so I will go. You see, you ’ve no time to lose.” 
 
 She hurried away. The moment her back was turned on 
 Harry she could dissemble no longer. Scalding tears filled 
 her eyes and her bursting heart seemed to rise in her throat 
 and stifle her. Harry’s impulse was to leap after her and 
 to say: “No, no. Have your coffee and then we will spend 
 a long wonderful day together.” But he was still under the 
 malign spell of the skinny hand. He knew that the salon 
 and the speisensaal were in such disorder that if he followed 
 Christina into the house for a thorough understanding he 
 would have to mount the stairs. He stood stock still watch- 
 ing the Raven enter the doorway. While he watched he was 
 aware, like a numb-witted prisoner submitting to the shackles, 
 of the guide attaching a load to his shoulders. 
 
 Anna asked no questions and made no remarks. She poured 
 out the coffee, which Christina drank eagerly, and buttered 
 a slice of bread which remained uneaten. Thinking her 
 thoughts she descended the stairs for her own breakfast. 
 
 Christina sat gazing steadily at the little ax on her lap. 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 367 
 
 Harri would come back. He bad run away not from her, 
 from Christina, from his bride, but from the hateful old 
 Englishwoman. In a little while he would return and they 
 would set forth on a glorious mountain ramble, with no fishy 
 eye or skinny hand or sneering lip to vex them. But when 
 the clock struck seven she awoke from her dream. 
 
 At the end of the corridor there was a window looking up 
 the valley. Christina hurried to it and peered out. Against 
 the dead white of the lower snowfield she could see four mov- 
 ing objects, like black ants, pushing and wriggling up- 
 wards . . . 
 
 Throughout that long August day Henry Coggin’s mind was 
 kept fixed, nearly all the time, on the tough business of the 
 climb. In boyhood he had often been told to use his head to 
 save his heels : but never before had he taken the proverb so 
 seriously. Every step, every halt for breath, brought his 
 brains as well as his muscles into play. The feat he was at- 
 tempting involved climbing almost all the time, with hardly 
 any interludes of walking. Wistful thoughts of the Raven 
 were not to be expected of a man with precipices yawning 
 under his feet. 
 
 If it had been suddenly revealed to the mountaineer that 
 one of Europe’s famous beauties was madly and hopelessly 
 in love with him and that this beauty was none other than 
 Vienna’s adored Raven, all Harry’s coolness would not have 
 saved him from missing his step and tumbling headlong into 
 an abyss. But no suspicion of Christina’s longing and misery 
 blinked into his innocent soul. Twice or thrice, when the 
 guide found places where they could rest and eat, his mind 
 rushed back to the inn. What was she doing? Was she hav- 
 ing a dull day? Would the Englishwoman dare to scorn her? 
 
 Harry decided that he would not leave the inn on the mor- 
 row. He had a clear fortnight and surely he could spend 
 a week of it in these mountains to better profit than in Brus- 
 
368 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 sels and Antwerp and Ghent and Bruges which he had in- 
 tended to see on the way home. Belgium was so near Eng- 
 land that he could visit it any time, but it might be years 
 before he could again fare so far afield as the Tyrol. 
 
 Despite his humility and innocence, Harry could not wholly 
 conceal from himself the fact that it was a lady who was work- 
 ing these changes in his plans. Nothing, however, was further 
 from his consciousness than an affair of the heart. At Am- 
 sterdam, in the person of young Huntly-Martin ; on the 
 Moselle, where the Freiherr had made him manage the races ; 
 at Laach and in Cologne, in the Black Forest, at Jena, at 
 Ulm, at Munich, at Pest, where monks, students, professors, 
 musicians, statesmen and even a king had discoursed with 
 him: in these and other places Henry Coggin’s wanderings 
 had thrown him against a multitude of interesting acquaint- 
 ances, All of them had been men save Fraulein Rabe, and 
 Harry was grateful to Providence for reserving the pleasant- 
 est meeting of all to the last. 
 
 A recollection of the hand in the blind made Harry smart 
 a little as he sat munching his bread and cheese. Had he 
 done right to talk with a young lady so early in the morn- 
 ing, seeing he already knew that unfriendly eyes had been 
 cast upon her? After brief consideration he decided that 
 he had not done wrong. The Englishwoman’s interference 
 was pure malice and jealousy. This passing but charming 
 acquaintanceship had not been of his forcing. It had come 
 about naturally, and when it was over he would remember 
 it as the crown of his experiences. Indeed, it was all to the 
 good. His was to be a musical career: and it would seem 
 strange if, after more than a year in Germany, he should re- 
 turn to England without having made friends with a single 
 operatic artist. To-morrow the Englishwoman and her hus- 
 band would be gone. Perhaps he could sit with Christina in 
 
THE RAVEN 369 
 
 church. Afterwards, she and he would sing and play. On 
 Monday they . . . 
 
 The guide sounded the advance once more and an hour 
 later they were breathing the thin air of the summit. With 
 blinding peaks all around him, Harry listened to the long 
 catalogue of spits and bergs and horns : but he could not help 
 chuckling to himself all the time at the thought of meeting 
 Christina at supper and of answering her airy gibe about 
 climbers who said they had scaled heights when they had n ’t. 
 By the way, would she wear a third wonderful dress? He 
 thought he liked that wine-colored taffeta better than the 
 yellow muslin. Perhaps to-night she would wear blue. She 
 would look lovely in blue, with blue mountain-flowers, the 
 color of her eyes. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 A FTER thirteen hours of crawling and humping and 
 tugging and jumping and clutching and striding and 
 dropping, Harry limped back into the inn. His feet 
 seemed to belong to some other person, so uncertain was his 
 control over them. Not only his clothes but his hands as 
 well were stained and torn. His thigh-bones seemed to be 
 no longer surrounded by flesh and blood but to be scraping 
 in two masses of some strange substance, like a toothache made 
 big and solid. The last mile down the well-made road tried 
 him far more than any mile of his climb up the mountain. 
 His mind ceased to work and he merely stumbled forward on 
 those two sore and hobbling feet which some cripple had given 
 him in exchange for his own. 
 
 The odors of a stewed chamois greeted him in the door- 
 way. Having caught sight of Lena disappearing with a large 
 dish into the speisezimmer he knew that supper had begun. 
 The place seemed strangely quiet but he explained this im- 
 pression by his own utter fatigue. Forcing himself upstairs 
 he was about to fling himself on the bed: but his inextinguish- 
 able conscience and his iron will came to the rescue. His wits 
 were working just enough to remind him of the early morn- 
 ing encounter with Christina. He knew that if he rested 
 for a single minute he would sleep until the morrow’s dawn. 
 With a tremendous effort he tore off his clothes, splashed him- 
 self in iey water, rubbed down his aching body with a rough 
 towel, and vested himself in a presentable suit. Then he 
 clumped downstairs. He decided that, immediately after 
 supper, he would politely ask Fraulein Rabe for the story of 
 
 370 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 371 
 
 her day’s doings and that he would then make known his 
 intention of staying longer in the village. If he could screw 
 up courage he would very respectfully offer himself as her 
 escort and guide for the remaining days of his sojourn among 
 the mountains. 
 
 Harry turned the door-handle and entered the dining-room. 
 He expected to be greeted with the usual jovial sforzando of 
 welcome and congratulation and chaff, with Christina’s silver 
 laugh rippling like a dulcimer amidst the heavier outcries. 
 But the room was almost silent ; and as soon as the company 
 realized his presence the silence became complete. 
 
 Startled into full consciousness, Harry glanced anxiously 
 along the table. Two new guests had arrived. The scraggy 
 Englishwoman and her spouse had departed and Christina’s 
 place was empty. 
 
 Harry sank into his chair with a feeling of utter desola- 
 tion. She was gone. Perhaps back to Vienna. Perhaps to 
 the sea which he had heard her say she longed for. Perhaps 
 to some other mountain village. He knew not whither: but 
 the Raven was flown. Never would he be able to repair her 
 disappointment of the early morning ; never to hear her chirp 
 out the story of her day’s doings; never to discover whether 
 she had forgiven him : never to unbosom himself of the thou- 
 sand things he needed still to tell her or ask her: never to 
 see her again. Not once since his good horse Bay Rum had 
 been sold from under him for money had he known such pangs 
 of bereavement and remorse. 
 
 He had eaten only one morsel of the food placed before him 
 when he became aware that everybody was looking at him. 
 Harry blushed hotly. Then a frightful thought hit him 
 hard. That lean, mean Englishwoman was gone; but no 
 doubt she had let fly a Parthian arrow, empoisoned with some 
 scandalous insinuation against himself and Christina Maria 
 Rabe, which had caused the young lady to pack up in disgust 
 
372 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 and amazement and to shake the dust of the village off her 
 dainty feet without a moment ’s delay. This theory of her de- 
 parture struck him so forcibly that Harry laid down his 
 knife and fork with a bang and stared defiantly at the com- 
 pany, as if challenging each and all to breathe one word 
 against his outraged friend. 
 
 The taut silence was snapped by Frau Helm, the buxom 
 Augsburg lady, who suddenly made a gurgling sound and then 
 burst into hysterical weeping. Her two nieces drew her out 
 of her chair and supported her to the door. When Frau 
 Helm was gone, Herr Fecht bent towards Coggin and said, 
 very stiffly: 
 
 “We expected, mein Herr, that you would ask the where- 
 abouts of Fraulein Rabe.” 
 
 Whenever a fight began, Harry Coggin ’s humility and shy- 
 ness left him. With equal stiffness he replied: 
 
 “I am not entitled to discuss the lady’s movements: but I 
 assume Fraulein Rabe has concluded her holiday and gone 
 back to Vienna.” 
 
 ‘ * Fraulein Rabe ’s luggage is in her room upstairs, ’ ’ retorted 
 the Austrian sternly. “Fraulein Rabe’s maid Anna is in the 
 church, weeping and praying. Fraulein Rabe herself . . . 
 well, the good God alone knows where she is. Fraulein Rabe 
 is lost in the mountains.” 
 
 Harry jumped clear of his chair and stood facing Kerr 
 Fecht across the table. ‘ ‘ What is being done ? ” he demanded 
 in tones like the notes of a bugle. “You are here eating and 
 drinking. What is being done?” 
 
 Herr Fecht winced. He knew full well that although the 
 catastrophe had overshadowed the meal with gloom it had 
 not caused him to eat less than usual. The pleasures of the 
 table were always too strong for him. In a chastened spirit 
 he answered: 
 
 “Guides have searched all afternoon in vain. They have 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 373 
 
 tried the dogs, with no result whatever. Search parties are 
 out in all directions and will work till nightfall. But let 
 me hasten to give you a message. Father Tobel wants to 
 see you.” 
 
 Three strides took Harry out of the long room. In the 
 corridor he collided with Lena and asked almost roughly which 
 was Father Tobel ’s door. Forthwith the narrow space be- 
 came filled with women, all weeping. Harry had no inkling 
 that these good elemental creatures had guessed Fraulein 
 Rabe’s secret, the secret which everybody knew by this time, 
 save himself. 
 
 The parish priest motioned Harry into a horse-hair chair 
 and disappeared into the dark passage which connected the 
 presbytery with the church. He returned accompanied by 
 Anna. The maid sought to transfix the young Englishman 
 with a gaze of scorn and reproach, but the dart glanced off 
 the armor of his innocence. Harry observed nothing beyond 
 her hopeless anguish. 
 
 “You may be able to help us, mein Herr,” said Father 
 Tobel. Only a few months before he had renounced the 
 habit of snuff-taking, after indulging in it for nearly forty 
 years, and he still made involuntary motions towards a snuff- 
 box which was no longer there. “Nobody appears to have 
 spoken to Fraulein Rabe to-day except yourself and this good 
 girl here, this poor Anna. I understand that the young lady 
 conversed with you in the road, just after my Mass. She 
 returned to her room, apparently troubled. About half- 
 past seven she again entered the church, and stayed there 
 until eight. Anna says that her mistress seemed by that time 
 to have forgotten her trouble, whatever it may have been, 
 and to have become even more happy and cheerful than usual. 
 Lena, who watched her through the kitchen window, confirms 
 this. The young lady then set out, very sensibly attired, 
 declaring that she was going for a long walk and that she 
 
374 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 might be late for mittagessen. She has not come back. Can 
 you give me any information?” 
 
 Although this recital smashed to pieces his faint hope that 
 Herr Feclit was exaggerating and pushed him down into still 
 deeper anguish, Harry did not fail to perceive that the Raven’s 
 honor was to some extent in his care. Straightening his 
 aching back, he looked the old priest full in the face, cere- 
 moniously addressed him as Hochwiirden, and said slowly : 
 
 ‘‘Yesterday Fraulein Rabe honored me with her company 
 as far as the Wasserblase. To stand inside the cataract re- 
 quires coolness and agility. Encouraged by her achievement, 
 Fraulein Rabe possibly thought that even the roughest climb 
 was within her powers. I fear she may have made some rash 
 attempt. That is all I know.” 
 
 Father Tobel fumbled again for the departed snuff-box. 
 Recollecting himself, he gazed fixedly at Harry and then said 
 gloomily, ‘‘H ’m.” He had been hoping against hope that 
 a lovers’ tiff was at the bottom of the mystery and that 
 Christina was merely hiding until dusk to give her young 
 milord a fright and a lesson. This faint hope was gone. 
 Again he muttered ‘ ‘ H ’m, ” and began despising the English- 
 man for his heartlessness. At that moment, however, Harry’s 
 despair broke out like a wild sea through the suddenly shat- 
 tered wall of his self-control. 
 
 ‘ ‘ That is all I know, ’ ’ cried Harry, springing up and almost 
 shouting. ‘‘Now let me go. In there, they are feasting. In 
 here, we are talking. I am off. She must be found. She 
 shall be found to-night, I swear it.” 
 
 The priest moved quickly to the door and stood with his 
 broad shoulders against it. The powerful frame of this 
 peasant-bred old man, as well as his silver hairs and his sacred 
 office, made Harry fall back. ‘‘Swear nothing, my son,” he 
 said. ‘‘We are in the hands of God. At any moment she 
 may be brought back. She may have sprained an ankle 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 375 
 
 and she may be lying in some distant farm. Remember, 
 most of the men-folk are away with the cattle, in the high 
 pastures, and there would be few messengers to send. If no 
 trace of her is found to-night . . . well, in the morning you 
 shall help. ’ ’ 
 
 “The morning?” echoed Harry, stupefied. “But to-night, 
 to-night? You cannot mean ...” 
 
 “Yes, I mean that, my poor friend,” answered the priest, 
 deeply moved. “To be lost in the mountains is not a little 
 thing. I mean that she may have to endure a night in the 
 darkness, the cold, the solitude with nothing to help her save 
 her prayers. I learn she always carries her beads. Let us 
 hope she is saying them now, in misery perhaps, but in safety. ’ ’ 
 
 “It is outrageous, impossible,” cried Harry, storming. 
 “I will call back Josef and Andreas. Let me pass.” 
 
 “My son,” answered the old man sadly. “To-night I am 
 in command. This is not your village. And it is not the 
 first time, alas, that our glaciers and precipices have claimed 
 forever some happy and careless traveler who had come to 
 them for a few days of pleasure. "We men of the mountains 
 will not fail in our duty. Nobody has ever accused us of 
 lacking bravery and humanity. If I should permit you to 
 rush about in the dark we should have two tragedies instead 
 of one. At the best, you would exhaust yourself and do no 
 good: at the worst you would break your neck. Besides, I 
 can see plainly that you are worn out already. Retire at once 
 to rest, first praying your most earnest prayer for that frail 
 sweet creature who is so dear to us all. I command you. 
 Good-night, my son, and may God give you all the help you 
 need.” 
 
 Harry bowed his head. During the old man’s exhortation 
 his physical weariness had stolen back upon him, dragging 
 down his eyelids, relaxing his muscles and causing drifts of 
 hot mist to float across his perceptions so that he had to hurt 
 
376 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 his eyes and brains in sorry efforts to make sure of the solid 
 world once more. Through a haze he saw the cure light a 
 bedroom candle. With somebody firmly holding and gently 
 pushing him, he gained his room. 
 
 Had Tom remembered to rub down Bay Rum? What was 
 the matter with St. Michael’s clock? Why did it strike the 
 hour in that thin, quick, poor way, without first chiming the 
 four quarters? Where was the book he had been reading — 
 the book about a mountain village and about a black-haired 
 violet-eyed girl who swung a little ax? He must find the 
 book somehow; because he hadn’t finished the story. If any- 
 body had borrowed it or stolen it, how could he ever learn 
 the end? 
 
 Harry awoke to find his candle still burning. It was down, 
 however, to its last flickerings. He had just time to see that 
 he had fallen upon the bed only half -undressed when the light 
 went out. 
 
 It was a moonless night without wind, without stars. No- 
 body was stirring in the house. He might have been lying 
 at the bottom of an abandoned coal-mine, so black was the 
 darkness, so deep the silence. 
 
 For a few moments, memory still drowsed. Then it began 
 to stir. A sense of some horror, near and dire and deathly, 
 weighed on Harry’s quickening consciousness. It was as if 
 the impalpable darkness was gathering somehow into a hard 
 and solid core, like a frightful idol of ebony in the heart 
 of the night ’s blackness. He knew vaguely that he was pinned 
 under a dank landslip of sorrow. Suddenly Memory opened 
 her eyes wide and shrieked out her woe and fear. He re- 
 membered everything. 
 
 As if to fling the evil from him, he lurched clear of the bed- 
 clothes and sprang to the floor. With all his wits about him 
 he breasted the dreadful brunt of the truth. Somewhere on 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 377 
 
 the mountains, at that very moment, Christina was huddling 
 and moaning, half-starved, half-frozen, perhaps wounded, 
 without help, without hope. For hours and hours she must 
 have cried out his name ; and the fall of dumb and cold and 
 black night, like a stealthy drift of sable snow, was the only 
 answer. 
 
 He could do nothing. In darkness so profound that he 
 failed to put his groping hand upon his box of matches, what 
 could he even attempt? Despair seared him with her white- 
 hot irons, mocked him in his ear, tore him with her scourge 
 of thorns. He owned his defeat at last and crept back into 
 bed. The aches in his thighs were worse than ever. And 
 he was wildly hungry. Father Tobel, in bundling him up to 
 bed, did not know that for supper Harry had eaten only one 
 small disc of carrot from the stew of chamois. Further sleep 
 was impossible. Yet he must lie for hours before dawn would 
 set him on the path of rescue. 
 
 What was Christina doing now ? The answer which rushed 
 into his mind thrilled him with thankfulness. It was as if the 
 full moon had swept night’s velvet curtains aside and had 
 filled every corner of the room with her soft silvern splendors. 
 Christina, he felt sure, was not alone after all. She was pray- 
 ing, full of faith and hope. Had not the priest said that she 
 carried her beads everywhere? Pitiful angels knelt around 
 her, keeping fond watch and strong ward. 
 
 Under Harry’s pillow lay a leather wallet containing his 
 bank-notes and passport, his mother’s silhouette, Edward 
 Redding’s long letter and the rosary which the Benedictine 
 had given him in Cologne. He drew forth the rosary. Al- 
 though the donor had taught him how to tell the beads and 
 say the prayers, this pious exercise had never appealed to 
 Harry, and he had vaguely agreed with those who regretted 
 it as a pope-made excrescence upon true and simple Christian - 1 
 ity. But, lying there in the darkness and crushing the beads 
 
378 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 in his hot palm, he felt as if he had been divinely given a 
 handful of pearls beyond price with which he could ransom 
 Christina from the swart ogres of the mountains. If beads 
 were good enough for Christina they were good enough for 
 him. 
 
 When the fifteen decades were finished the darkness re- 
 mained as black as ever and the ebony idol began once more 
 to cast his foul spell. The idea came to Harry that he would 
 storm Heaven by saying "the whole rosary seven times in honor 
 of the Seven Dolors. By fixing his mind on this holy task 
 he was able to endure the remaining hours of the night. After 
 each round of ardent prayers, he allowed himself to think of 
 what he would do when Christina was found. He would post- 
 pone his return to England until the last possible moment. 
 If she had sustained any injury, he would write to Edward 
 Redding and would stay within reach of her until she could 
 dance and sing and prattle as merrily as ever. He would 
 wait on her, read to her, write music for her. But it still 
 did not occur to him that he, Henry Coggin, son of William 
 Coggin, rag-and-bone man, could ever be more to her than 
 a very dutiful and grateful attendant, a chance acquaint- 
 ance of travel, and perhaps a kindred spirit in music. 
 
 As he finished the last circlet of Aves and opened his eyes, 
 Harry could make out the square of the window. Day was 
 breaking. Although it was too dark to dress, he rose and 
 splashed and then rubbed himself smartly with strong oils 
 until the aches in his legs gave place to aches in his arms. 
 The light was still faint when he descended the stairs and 
 joined a group of guides and peasants in the vaulted base- 
 ment, where they had been spending the night. The remains 
 of a rough breakfast lay upon the deal table. The coffee-jugs 
 were empty and Harry got nothing save a chunk of black 
 bread. Almost immediately the searchers repaired to the 
 church, where Father Tobel celebrated Mass. Then they 
 
THE RAVEN 379 
 
 broke into parties of four and set out, scattering in all direc- 
 tions according to some agreed plan. 
 
 Coggin’s three companions were kind-hearted and high- 
 minded men ; but they had often ranged the country-side be- 
 fore in search of missing beasts or human beings, and it was 
 not to be expected that their grief and anxiety should equal 
 Harry’s own. The conversation soon grated upon him. It 
 turned mainly upon the fame of a certain cow who had fought 
 a bull and beaten him. It appeared that this Amazonian 
 creature was just then at grass in the upper pastures and was 
 to be given a public welcome on her return to the village at 
 Michaelmas. When Harry brought the talk round to the 
 chances of finding Fraulein Rabe quickly, he soon regretted 
 his interference : because the oldest of the three men proceeded 
 to enlarge upon the vastness and wildness of the mountains 
 and to describe all the worst accidents to mountaineers since 
 his boyhood. He did not narrate a single instance of a miss- 
 ing person escaping without loss of life or limb. 
 
 When the sun was high Harry could stand the leisurely gait 
 and the grisly chatter no longer. He asked to be told plainly 
 whether his assistance was likely to be of much value; and, 
 on receiving a very courteous intimation that it was not, he 
 bade his companions farewell and picked his way towards 
 a road which they pointed out to him. His nerves were giving 
 way. 
 
 A tiny white building confronted him where the track and 
 the road met. It was a wayside shrine. In honor of the As- 
 sumption pious hands had adorned a rude image of the Blessed 
 Virgin with greenery and flowers. As he stood on the stone 
 platform, leaning against the chapel and gazing down the 
 sunlit valley, a sweet sound of bells drifted up to him from 
 the village. For the first time, Harry realized that it was 
 Sunday. A thousand miles away, in stuffy Bulford, St. 
 Michael’s grand bells were ringing too. In the gaunt Baptist 
 
380 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 chapel, Pastor Clupp was stiffly giving out the first long 
 hymn. Did God hearken to bells and hymns? Harry was 
 on the point of revolt. But he rebuked himself sternly and 
 went down upon his knees. Gazing through the grille at the 
 poor cast-iron crucifix he repeated, almost mechanically, a 
 little rhyme of his childhood, “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.” 
 He added “Our Father,” the prayer of Pastor Clupp and 
 of St. Michael’s rector and of the Pope of Rome alike. Then, 
 growing bold again with God and with His Saints, he 
 abandoned set forms of petition and poured out his whole soul 
 in fervent entreaties of his own. He challenged high 
 Heaven to work swift miracles and to lead him to Chris- 
 tina’s side. Surely it could not be Heaven’s will that she 
 should be rescued by men who thought her less wonderful than 
 a fighting cow. 
 
 In answer to his abundant prayers throughout the long 
 night God had vouchsafed no assurance that the Raven would 
 be found: but, as he rose from the warm stone sill of the 
 chapel, he was given a supernatural confidence that before 
 many hours had passed he would come upon her. This con- 
 fidence restored his courage but not his happiness. He did 
 not require illumination from heaven in order to know that, 
 after such a day and such a night, Christina would not be 
 the buoyant, bird-like creature who had tripped beside him 
 from the Wasserblase. Perhaps he would find her lamed for 
 life, or, worse still, bereft of reason. Harry strove to put 
 away these thoughts. His business was to press on and to 
 find her. 
 
 To the right of the road, about half a mile away, he identi- 
 fied the torrent which fed the Wasserblase, much further down 
 the valley. Higher up rose a showy little summit known as 
 the Cat’s Head, by reason of two ear -shaped peaks with a 
 grassy flat between them. As the Cat’s Head looked near and 
 easy to climb the guides had made a thorough examination 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 381 
 
 of it the evening before, believing that it was by far the most 
 likely goal for Christina’s rash adventure. Harry propped 
 himself against a rock and tried to picture her movements. 
 Although the guides had abandoned the Cat’s Head theory, he 
 felt sure it was the true one. Moreover the road on which he 
 was standing was the Cat’s Head road. He had reached a 
 point about three miles above the village. 
 
 Harry imagined the lonely girl plodding up this rough and 
 dusty road. On recalling to mind the view from the inn he 
 perceived that the Cat ’s Head looked much more distant from 
 this point than from the village, although it was really three 
 miles nearer. Straining his ear he caught plainly the song 
 of the torrent in its rock-strewn channel. He became per- 
 suaded that if Christina had indeed chosen this road she must 
 soon have grown weary of it and that the sound of tumbling 
 waters would certainly have lured her aside. He decided 
 to hurry on and to keep a sharp eye open for a path leading 
 off to the right. 
 
 Ten minutes later he found what he wanted. A faint but 
 undeniable track struck off towards the straggling line of 
 ragged trees which marked the course of the stream. With- 
 out hesitating a moment he followed this track. The con- 
 viction that he was on the right way became stronger than 
 ever. 
 
 Half way to the torrent, the track skirted a mass of rock 
 on the left. On the right the ground fell away as steeply 
 as a wall into a long green hollow. This pretty precipice 
 was less than fifteen feet deep, but the rock crowded the path 
 so close to the brink that Harry winced at the thought of 
 Christina balancing herself along it. Still, she was sure-footed. 
 At the Wasserblase — 
 
 He came to a sharp halt. For a moment his heart as well 
 as his feet stood still. There, at the bottom of the wall of 
 rock, lay some scattered flowers, only half withered. They 
 
382 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 were beyond all doubt flowers which somebody had gathered 
 within the last twenty-four hours, and they had been either 
 dropped or thrown away. 
 
 Harry sat down on the verge of the precipice and cautiously 
 lowered himself to a projecting ledge from which he thought 
 he could jump down into the gully. But no sooner had his 
 heels struck the stone than it broke under his weight. He 
 sprang clear and landed on soft ground while earth and knobs 
 of loose rock were still slithering into the grass behind him. 
 
 The fading flowers lay a few yards to his left. On ap- 
 proaching them, he found that they too were partly buried 
 under stones and loose earth. He scrutinized the wall of the 
 gully and saw that a continuation of the same ledge had quite 
 recently crumbled under some strain, probably the weight of 
 a person trying to descend. Tingling with excitement he 
 began searching for footprints. He found none: but on a 
 flat stone he discovered a gash in the moss as if some sharp 
 and heavy instrument had fallen upon it from a good height. 
 Had Christina dropped her little ax and climbed down to 
 retrieve it? He did not know. But of one thing he was 
 sure. The person who had jumped or fallen from the path 
 above could not possibly have climbed back again but must 
 have sought egress lower down the gully. He hastened on. 
 The gully wound like a dry watercourse between very steep 
 sides and at the first bend the ground was muddy. He hunted 
 about and came upon a footprint at last. It was a small foot- 
 print. It was hers. 
 
 Henry Coggin raced forward like a hare. But it flashed 
 upon him that it would be indelicate and even dangerous to 
 burst upon her without warning. He pulled up. It would 
 be best to call out her name. Perhaps she would answer. 
 But in any event she would hear him in this noonday still- 
 ness and would be prepared. 
 
 The spot where Harry had come to a stop was a tiny amphi- 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 383 
 
 theater, like the bottom of a funnel, with the vaster amphi- 
 theater of the mountains encircling the enormous space above 
 it. Harry drew in a long breath and was about to call 
 “Fraulein Rabe” when it struck him that these everlasting 
 solitudes were not the place for Frau, or Fraulein, for Herr, 
 or Monsieur or Miss. Taking courage he cried in tones as 
 firm and clear as a trumpet of brass, “Christina: Christina: 
 Christina Maria!” 
 
 He did not know that the most wonderful echo in the Tyrol 
 could be heard from the place where he stood ; and though his 
 was a stout heart he was terror-struck when a Babel of sharp 
 voices took up the chorus, shouting “Christina, Christina 
 Maria.” When they ceased, gruffer voices called gravely 
 “Christina Maria.” It was as if the shrill goddesses and 
 grim gods of eld were bidding a soul to judgment. Then, 
 after a silence, one kinder voice which seemed to speak from 
 far behind the mountains, from the furthest edge of the world, 
 said clearly “Maria”: and once more all was still. 
 
 Perhaps she had heard: but she had not answered. 
 
 Almost on tip-toe Harry stole forward. He resolved, at the 
 first sight of her, to roll some stones, to break some twigs or 
 to hail her very softly. The gully turned sharply to the left : 
 and, before he reached the bend, Harry could see from the 
 dip of the rocks ahead of him, that it ran steeply down as 
 well. He gained the brow of the slope and saw a sight which 
 made him leap for joy. 
 
 Just below him the gully seemed to end in a round pit, 
 walled by perpendicular cliffs and carpeted with short grass, 
 as fine and level as a lawn. On the far side of this rotunda 
 yawned a shallow cave or alcove, niched about five feet deep 
 in the rock. Under this arch, protected from sun and rain, 
 knelt Christina. 
 
 Harry’s loud shout of a few minutes before had not carried 
 far enough to arouse her. Christina was kneeling with her 
 
384 ? 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 forehead pressed against the cool stone. Her arms were out- 
 stretched so that she could support herself by gripping the 
 knobby surface of the rock with both hands. She had un- 
 bound her magnificent black hair and it streamed over her 
 left shoulder until it reached the ground whereon she knelt. 
 From a projection on the innermost wall of the niche hung 
 Christina’s beads — the rosary which Father Tobel had de- 
 clared to be her constant companion. It was arranged so 
 that the five and fifty beads traced the shape of a heart, 
 while the tiny crucifix drooped from the center. As if to 
 form a homely altar, two colored pictures, smaller than 
 ordinary playing-cards, had been placed beneath the crucifix 
 on a narrow ledge, with bits of stone leaning against their 
 edges so that the wind should not puff them away. 
 
 Although he could have shouted and jumped for gladness, 
 Harry made a tremendous effort and controlled himself. 
 Never before had he been in the presence of a lady with 
 loosened tresses, and his super-abundant delicacy bade him 
 find some means of awakening Christina and of letting her 
 know that help was near. Then she would be able to re-bind 
 her hair, to re-glove her hands and to meet him with no hurt 
 to her modesty and pride. 
 
 Harry Coggin could not devise a plan. There were no dry 
 twigs to break, no loose stones to set rolling. Pondering hard, 
 he kept his gaze on the sweet scene before him. As he was 
 standing on a height, the two religious pictures were almost 
 level with his eyes and he recognized them as the little prints 
 with 4 ‘For Christina” written on their backs, which he had 
 seen in the Raven’s prayer-book. 
 
 A sigh of wind, eddying lightly round the narrow hollow, 
 ruffled the kneeling girl’s long hair and made the hanging 
 rosary swing back and forth. Harry could hear the little 
 crucifix tapping against the rock. Suddenly, as if in obedience 
 to that silvery tinkling, the sun lifted his golden shield above 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 385 
 
 the broken rim of the pit and drove home his glittering spear 
 full into the shadow of the alcove. The crucifix shone as if 
 it had been cut out of a single rock-crystal, and the cheap 
 gilt backgrounds of the little pictures glowed like the precious 
 metal in a Russian ikon. Christina’s raven-black hair became 
 more than ever glorious in the sparkling light. 
 
 Then, without a moment’s warning, the glittering spear 
 glanced back and pierced Henry Coggin’s heart. As the 
 jagged, white-hot blade thrust at his very marrow, instantly 
 he knew all the truth. In the harsh light he had seen her 
 right hand, her poor right hand, her dead right hand. 
 
 Two long leaps and a few stumbling strides carried him 
 down the slope and across the grass. He fell on his knees 
 beside her. More than once during his hapless childhood, 
 Harry had been taken by his witless and unimaginative father 
 to help in the frightful task of the undertaker. Harry’s 
 own arms had laid the worn body of his mother in the oaken 
 casket which his own reverent hands had made. There- 
 fore he knew well the awful mien of death. 
 
 Christina’s eyes were raised towards the chiming, shining 
 crucifix and her smile was like the smile of Stephen, in the 
 painted window at St. Michael’s — the smile of Stephen when 
 he “saw the heavens opened and the Lord Jesus.” But the 
 memory of the old window at Bulford and of Blessed 
 Stephen’s ecstasy had hardly arisen in Harry’s mind when 
 it was shattered to pieces, like stained glass shivered by the 
 hand of an angry giant, and through the ruin another memory 
 showed clear. 
 
 As plainly as if it had been hanging on the mossy wall 
 beside him, Harry beheld a picture, a steel engraving, which 
 had adorned his strange dining-room in Bulford. It por- 
 trayed Romeo kneeling beside the supposed corpse of Juliet 
 in the burial vault of the Capulets. For one long breathless 
 moment Harry believed that he had been mistaken and that 
 
386 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Christina still lived. Yes. Christina was alive, just as Juliet 
 was alive, despite the horrors of the charnel-house, despite her 
 lover’s despair. So vivid was his recollection that Harry 
 saw again before his eyes the lines of Shakespeare which 
 had faced him a thousand times, under the engraving, and a 
 voice seemed to be declaiming: 
 
 Death that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath 
 Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty : 
 
 Thou art not conquer’d: beauty’s ensign yet 
 Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, 
 
 And death’s pale flag is not advanced there. 
 
 Romeo believed Juliet dead and he was wrong. Christina 
 was not dead. It could not be that Christina was dead. 
 Juliet was only in a trance. Christina was only in a trance. 
 Fatigue, hunger, thirst, terror had utterly exhausted her. 
 
 Not knowing that he did so, Harry threw a protecting 
 arm around the slender waist. Christina’s shapely arms and 
 white little hands slid slowly down the front of her altar 
 and she sank against Harry’s breast, like a weary, happy 
 bride. A thrill of wind flung her hair about his shoulder. 
 Her cold forehead touched his burning cheek. 
 
 At that soft touch of Death ’s chill hand, something snapped 
 in the soul of Harry Coggin. His iron restraint, forged 
 through long years of sorrow, flicked into nothingness like a 
 shred of cotton flung into a furnace. From his dry lips and 
 from his breaking heart there went up a bitter cry, as of one 
 defeated and sore stricken and forsaken. He cried: 
 
 ‘ ‘ My God, my God. I am too late, too late ! ’ ’ 
 
 Sharply and quickly, as if in their hate-parched hearts 
 they had been longing for this hour, the demons of the moun- 
 tains cried back: 
 
 “Too late, too late!” 
 
 A moment after, the gruffer and baser fiends took up the 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 387 
 
 tale, muttering and chuckling “Too late, too late.” And 
 last of all, one pitiful voice, ever so far away but as clear 
 as a silver trumpet, blew the awful tidings from the dizzy 
 edge of this world, across the gulfs of space to the loving 
 spirits on some more blessed orb, sadly calling ‘ 1 Too late. ’ ’ 
 
 "When Harry came to himself he was still kneeling against 
 the side of the cave with Christina in his arms. The sense 
 of duty once more became supreme within him. Suppressing 
 all emotion, he fixed his mind wholly upon what he ought to 
 do. Surely the proper course was to lay the lifeless body 
 reverently upon the grass, to cover it with his coat, and to 
 speed back to the presbytery for help. 
 
 Very gently he rose to his feet, raising Christina with him. 
 She had been dead only a few hours. There was a sweet 
 spot just behind him, a dry stretch of clean turf where the 
 sun’s rays would not strike again until the morrow. There, 
 in cool shadow, with a giant rock for monument, he decided 
 to deck her bier. 
 
 Yet . . . when he looked up at the blinding mountains and 
 the unpitying sky, at the death-moist crags and the crooning 
 pine-woods, he knew that he could not leave her behind. It 
 was in vain for faith and reason to remind him that Christina’s 
 soul had fled and that the frail burden in his arms was not 
 his sweet, bright, beautiful, brave, rare friend. No. It was 
 unthinkable. He could not leave her behind. Harry slid 
 his right hand under the still pliant knees, and, with his 
 left arm still clasping her waist and her head still resting 
 against his shoulder, he looked about for the way of egress 
 which he knew would be found. But as he took his first step 
 forward he nearly stumbled against something hard, which 
 moved and clattered. 
 
 It was the little ax. Christina had laid it in front of her 
 altar and must have been kneeling almost upon it. Harry 
 
388 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 noticed that the edge of the blade was dinted, and he was 
 filled with loathing for this foolish and fatal toy which he 
 had given her in a most evil hour. With her white neck and 
 beautiful throat just below his eyes, he could not help shud- 
 dering as if he had trodden upon the ax of an executioner. 
 As it was impossible to stoop down and pick up the hateful 
 thing he had an itch to punt it along in front of him with 
 his toes until he could kick it into some crevasse where the 
 blade would rust and the handle would rot, out of sight and 
 out of mind. But he remembered that Christina had loved 
 this little ax ; so he stepped over it and passed on. 
 
 In a fold of the rocks Coggin discovered a narrower but 
 much deeper cave. At a hasty glance it seemed to burrow 
 into hopeless darkness; but he entered it boldly. At the 
 first bend he saw before him daylight and heard a faint 
 rumbling of water. There was barely room for himself and 
 his precious load, and sometimes he had to gather Christina 
 more closely to his breast and bow his head until his cheek 
 touched hers. 
 
 The chill tunnel opened into the higher valley of the Was- 
 serblase. A few paces away, the flashing waters poured them- 
 selves from a high ledge of rock into a deep pool. Trees 
 were gathered together in surprising variety : the juniper and 
 the oak, the beech and the mountain ash, the willow and the 
 rhododendron, with a dense pine-wood on the further bank. 
 The patches of close-cropped grass were gay with Alpine 
 flowers, more gaudy than jewels in the hot sunshine. 
 
 Descending very carefully to the water’s brink, Harry’s 
 quick wits told him that if only he could ford the stream and 
 penetrate the belt of woodland he must certainly reach a good 
 track down to the village, which he had noted some days be- 
 fore. But the pool was too deep, and the climb to the brow 
 of the cascade too steep, while the rapids below were too 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 389 
 
 eager. Wholly baffled, he began descending the ravine. Soon 
 he came to a spot where a lower waterfall splashed into a 
 longer and shallower pool, and he decided that it would be safe 
 to stride from bouldlr to boulder to the other side. 
 
 In mid-stream Harry paused. The next stride would be 
 almost a leap and the channel which divided him from the 
 great stone beyond was so profound that he could not see 
 the bottom. To gather strength and breath it was neces- 
 sary to halt and rest. A welcome cloud hid the sun and 
 shielded him from the blaze. 
 
 He gazed down into the pool. Thereabouts the surface was 
 as smooth as a looking-glass, and the reflections were of life- 
 like solidity and brilliancy. Inverted in the flawless mirror 
 he beheld a wiry, brawny youth carrying and clasping in his 
 arms a milk-white beauty whose raven-black tresses rippled 
 in the light tides of summer air. And the memory of yet 
 another picture captured his over-wrought brain. He re- 
 called an engraving of Paul and Virginia which showed Vir- 
 ginia nestling in Paul’s arms while he bore her from boulder 
 to boulder across a mountain stream like this. 
 
 Just then the sunshine flamed out again and Harry Coggin 
 espied a marvel. Deep down in the water, on Christina’s 
 reflected hand, there shone an intensely bright point of fire, 
 no bigger than a star but brighter than a midsummer sun. 
 Astonished exceedingly, Harry involuntarily strained still 
 more closely to him the sweet body, which seemed to be only 
 sleeping. He glanced at her left hand. On the fourth finger 
 gleamed a ring, an engagement ring, a twist of gold claw- 
 ing one large diamond. 
 
 Hot blood rushed to Harry’s cheeks. Christina was be- 
 trothed. Christina had a lover. He marveled that he had 
 not noticed the ring before. As she knelt in front of her altar, 
 half hidden in her loosened hair, it was hardly surprising 
 
THE HARE 
 
 390 
 
 that he had not seen it. Nor could he have observed it while 
 she walked, neatly gloved, to the Wasserblase. But at dinner, 
 at supper, at their open-air breakfast, at the piano . . . 
 
 Why had she not told him? Was it quite fair that she 
 should have demanded to know whether he was affianced and 
 not have breathed the lightest hint concerning her own 
 betrothal? Harry felt so much resentment at her closeness 
 that he was on the point of waking her and of asking, “Why 
 didn’t you tell me?’’ Then it came home to him, like a 
 sharp and sickening pain beginning again after a brief res- 
 pite, that he could not wake Christina and that she could never 
 hear his voice again. He knew that he was carrying what 
 was hideously called a dead body. 
 
 At that moment Henry Coggin rebelled against God. The 
 heaviest strokes of divine chastisement, falling on his own 
 shoulders and lacerating his own flesh, would not have drawn 
 a murmur from his lips; but how could God, the just God, 
 the loving God, have brought Himself to slay Christina, after 
 a night of anguish, in the flower of her young life and love? 
 He made haste to banish this presumptuous reproach against 
 the All-Wise and All-Merciful; and instantly there broke 
 over his dry heart a cooling, healing wave of hope and con- 
 solation. 
 
 The burden in his clasp might be a dead body ; but 
 Christina Rabe was not dead. Down there in the pool the 
 tiny point of light burned more intensely than ever as the 
 increasing glory of the sun focussed itself more and more 
 greedily in the midst of her diamond, like a golden bee search- 
 ing the heart of a white flower. Harry stared down into the 
 pool. The star-small, sun-bright point of white and sparkling 
 fire shone up at him from the depths. He knew that, while 
 he watched, the swift smooth ice-cold flood distilled from the 
 high mountain snows was pushing over and under and around 
 that tiny white fire. Yet it burned on still. He breathed to 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 391 
 
 himself in deepest reverence the words of Holy Writ: “Many 
 waters cannot quench love nor can the floods drown it.” Like 
 the flame of a fair white candle which falters and slips down 
 from the frail wick into nothingness at the mere breath of the 
 outside air, Christina’s physical life had quailed and flickered 
 out of her slender frame at the mere vastness of midnight on 
 the mountains. Yet Harry knew that her love lived still. 
 Its white radiance burned on serenely, and where the hurry- 
 ing stream of Time chilled and darkened into the river of 
 Death that unquenchable sun of Christina ’s love shone all the 
 more proudly through the cold and gloom. Harry vaguely 
 wondered how there could be any man found to doubt the 
 immortality of the soul. If the Immortal God was Immortal 
 Love, and if Christina, this love-bright Christina, was God’s 
 handiwork and God’s child, how could she be other than 
 immortal too ? 
 
 A rush of pity swirled Harry’s thoughts away from Chris- 
 tina’s love to Christina’s lover. What would he say, what 
 would he do, when he heard the news? On this cloudless 
 Sunday afternoon he did not even know that Christina was 
 lost. Harry pictured the unknown lover as rich and noble, 
 dashing and handsome and gay, like a splendid young cavalry 
 officer whom he had watched careering on a superb white 
 charger outside the Hofburg in Vienna. Perhaps, at this very 
 moment, Christina’s lover was seated at a table writing her 
 a letter. Perhaps he was gazing at her picture. Perhaps he 
 was pressing to his lips, like a lover in a poem or in a picture, 
 a raven lock from these very tresses now crushed against 
 Harry’s cheek. 
 
 The broad mirror of deep water lay still unblurred at 
 Harry’s feet. Once more he took into his mind that Paul- 
 and-Virginia picture of the white beauty nestling against the 
 weather-tanned youth’s shoulder. Suddenly he started and 
 almost fell. Like a blow between the eyes, the knowledge 
 
392 
 
 The hare 
 
 had come to him that he, in the unknown lover’s place, was 
 clasping Christina in his arms, encircling her waist, pressing 
 her cheek against his own. 
 
 As if somebody had surprised him in a base act of treachery, 
 he wrenched his gaze away from the accusing pool, and looked 
 around him. But the waterfall hissed shame upon him and 
 the brooding mountains stared at him with white and awful 
 eyes. Harry Coggin turned to flee. A leaping stride bore 
 him over the mid-most channel and a few moments later he 
 plunged into the decent shade of the kindly pine-wood. 
 
 That Sunday afternoon, as the faithful were chattering out- 
 side the church and the bell was jangling for Vespers, a child 
 shrieked out “Look.” Straightway there broke forth a con- 
 fusion of cries : ‘ ‘ She ’s found ! ” 4 4 It ’s the Englishman. ’ * 
 1 1 Glory be to God. ” “ She ’s saved, she ’s saved ! ’ ’ 
 
 Like a man on stilts, who takes longer and longer and 
 quicker and quicker strides when he is about to fall, Harry 
 came down the steep road at a pace so astonishing that no- 
 body ran forward to help him. The able-bodied men were, 
 without one exception, still beating the mountains, but the 
 children and women and graybeards made a large crowd, be- 
 cause those who could not search had come to pray. "With 
 increasing heartiness of gratitude to the Almighty they multi- 
 plied their pious exclamations. 
 
 What they saw was a sight which might almost have 
 loosened the tongues of the dumb. They saw a youth bearing 
 down upon them with strides of a demi-god. Bare-headed and 
 with eyes which flashed like an archangel’s he came grandly 
 on. In his embrace they saw a pale maiden, swooning per- 
 haps, with wonderful black hair streaming backward in the 
 breeze. By that time all the valley had come to believe that 
 the young English mountaineer and the beautiful Viennese 
 actress were lovers whom some foolish quarrel had briefly 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 393 
 
 estranged; and even the least romantic beholder felt a lump 
 in the throat and a mist in the eyes as the wilful maid was 
 borne home hiding her face against the youth’s strong breast. 
 They did not know that they were looking at a man who had 
 eaten nothing save a thin wafer of carrot and a small knob 
 of bread for twenty-four hours ; at a man who had climbed a 
 dizzy and perilous peak the day before and had endured a 
 night of torture; at a man whose hands were pricking and 
 burning as if he had been stung by giant nettles, whose brow 
 was streaming with sweat, whose arms seemed about to snap 
 like dry sticks, whose feet stumped like uncloven hoofs, whose 
 heart was ready to burst and to drown his down-stumbled 
 carcase in a scalding pool of his own blood. Nor did they 
 know that they were looking also at a sweetly-clinging lady 
 who had died without beholding that golden Sunday’s dawn. 
 
 As Harry broke into their midst the people fell back, leav- 
 ing a clear way right into the porch of the church. They 
 had barely time to pity his long staggering strides, like the gait 
 of a drunken man, when he was lost to sight. With one ac- 
 cord they streamed after him, along the short high nave, just 
 as Father Tobel emerged from the sacristy and approached the 
 high altar. At the same moment the village musicians in 
 their wooden gallery, not knowing that anything strange had 
 happened, began a solemn prelude. These humble Tyrolese 
 who had learned, during the long nights of winter, to play 
 their fiddles, their ’cello, their bassoon and their horn more 
 than well, were assembled to adorn the Sunday within the Oc- 
 tave of the Assumption. As their music gushed forth like 
 cool waters from the moss-grown conches of a Roman fountain 
 Harry’s trance was broken. He stopped and stared around 
 him desperately. Then his iron will and his mighty strength 
 went utterly from him. He lurched forward and was about 
 to fall. But in that full-fraught moment the truth had 
 flamed upon the people. Shoulders, arms, hands were all 
 
394 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 around Henry Coggin: and when he fainted clean away the 
 strong, clever, gentle women had already drawn Christina 
 from his yielding clasp. 
 
 Thus it came to pass that Fraulein Rabe, who had always 
 been denied her darling wish to sing just once in a tragic 
 opera, lay quietly before a marble altar, with the priest of 
 God in vestments of white and gold bending over her, with 
 violin lilting and throbbing in the perfumed air, and with her 
 well-beloved lying at her side. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 N EST morning, when Lena softly opened the Eng- 
 lishman’s door to make sure that he had not died 
 of strain and grief, a swish of cold water smacked 
 her in the face and she retreated in modest confusion with- 
 out Harry knowing that anybody had entered the room. 
 He had slept like a log and was now as hungry as a lion. 
 The aches in his arms and thighs were terrible and his feet 
 still seemed to be most painfully estranged from the rest 
 of his body. But he did not, on awakening and while splash- 
 ing himself with icy water, experience mental or spiritual 
 anguish. Christina was dead, like Isolda and Cleopatra, 
 romantically dead, tragically dead. It seemed, however, that 
 her life and her death belonged to very long ago. 
 
 Harry hobbled downstairs and would have sought the usual 
 bread and coffee in the usual room if Father Tobel had not 
 quietly taken his arm and led him into the presbytery proper. 
 The priest lifted a tin cover and displayed a vast omelette, 
 with many dice of ham embedded in its folds, which Anton 
 had declared to be the famous English breakfast-dish called 
 bacon-and-eggs. Alongside the omelette stood a silver tea- 
 pot, with a straining-basket hung round the spout. Although 
 the inn boasted its own little dairy, the old priest proudly 
 poured out a cup of tea unclouded with milk or cream and 
 Harry did not like to ask for either. The tea was delicate 
 and revivifying, the enormous omelette did not prove too 
 big and the toasted bread recalled Harry’s breakfasts in that 
 other pious house, the old chapel at Bulford. Indeed the 
 
 395 
 
396 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 breakfasts in Bulford seemed much more recent than any of 
 the meals Harry had eaten in the speisesaal of the inn next 
 door. 
 
 While the kindly host was greatly relieved to see his guest 
 eating and drinking so heartily, he could not help feeling that 
 the boasted English coolness went too far. He would have 
 hated a breakdown and a scene: but he had not expected 
 heartlessness. He pushed a jar of honey towards Harry, who 
 helped himself liberally. Suddenly, however, the young man 
 dropped his spoon on his plate and asked very anxiously: 
 
 ‘ ‘ Have I missed Mass ? ’ ’ 
 
 “Of course you have,” the priest answered. “Don’t you 
 see I have been eating some of your English schinken-mit- 
 eier?” Father Tobel spoke sharply; because callousness be- 
 came hateful when it strutted arm-in-arm with piety. Then, 
 remembering that his long life had not yet shown him every 
 type of human nature, he added kindly: “You seem to have a 
 great devotion to Holy Mass, my son. I think you have heard 
 Mass every day since you came among us. Is it your regular 
 practice?” 
 
 “Except in Old Prussia, where I could not always find a 
 Catholic church, I have heard Mass every day for more than 
 a year,” said Harry. He did not speak boastingly but with 
 self-reproach for his indolence in rising from bed that day 
 so late. 
 
 “I promise that to-morrow morning you shall be in time,” 
 said Father Tobel. “I will wake you myself. My son, this 
 is a suitable moment for a suggestion which I want to make — 
 I might say a request, and almost a command. To-morrow 
 morning will you not receive Holy Communion? And will 
 you not offer your Communion for the poor soul of your 
 friend whose mortal remains you bore hither from the moun- 
 tains? I see you are a devout young man. For all I know 
 you frequently approach the Sacraments. But if, from any 
 
THE RAVEN 397 
 
 cause, you have neglected your duty I will hear your con- 
 fession this morning. ’ ’ 
 
 To the old man’s deep grief, Harry failed him with the 
 expected “Yes.” Indeed, the eyes into which the priest was 
 gazing filled with so much perplexity and trouble that Father 
 Tobel felt sure he had crashed through a thin shell of out- 
 ward piety into an inward moral chaos. As a good physician 
 of souls he faced his task and said most earnestly: 
 
 “If, in spite of your daily church-going, there is something 
 in the way, something which keeps you back from the altar- 
 rails, surely this is the time to be rid of it, this is the time 
 to put yourself right with Almighty God. Has it not just 
 been proved to you in the most terrible manner that Death is 
 no respecter of Youth? For your own soul’s sake, break this 
 chain, here and now. But no. I will say rather for her sake. 
 If she were here, asking you for bread to eat or asking for 
 your arm to lean upon, would you refuse her? You can do 
 no more for her body. But you can help her soul, her poor 
 soul. Can you refuse to offer your communion for Christina 
 Babe ’s soul to-morrow ? ’ ’ 
 
 Father Tobel rose and leaned across the narrow table to 
 lay a pleading hand on Harry’s shoulder. He was prepared 
 to see what he had seen more than once in that room before : 
 to see the sinner bow his head, and to watch over him with 
 loving prayer while the devil fought the last round with all 
 his arts and all his might. No such thing happened. At the 
 touch of the priest’s hand, Henry Coggin sprang up and re- 
 coiled as if he had been detected in an imposture : and instead 
 of uttering the expected “I cannot, I cannot” or “God help- 
 ing me, I will, ’ ’ he said simply : 
 
 “I am not a Catholic.” 
 
 Father Tobel’s was a stolid nature, not easily annoyed and 
 not easily surprised : but as soon as he had taken in Harry ’s 
 answer it became plain that he was no less vexed than as- 
 
398 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 tonislied. With a strange little grunt, which he had learned 
 from his peasant mother, he moved to the window and looked 
 out. It displeased him extremely that he should have made 
 such a mistake. Then, all of a sudden he ceased to feel an- 
 gry with himself and began to be angry with Coggin. Turn- 
 ing half round he said rather sharply : 
 
 “I don’t understand. I understand your English Protes- 
 tants whose principles do not allow them to attend Catholic 
 worship because they believe it to be superstitious and idola- 
 trous. I understand your English unbelievers who are inter- 
 ested spectators of our religious services and customs, just as 
 I myself might be interestd to witness the strange rites of 
 some savage tribe in Africa or of some ancient race in Asia. 
 But this case of yours, mein Herr . . . well, I don’t under- 
 stand it.” 
 
 Harry did not answer : so the old man turned again to the 
 window and stood with puckered brows. He subscribed to a 
 theological review but did not often cut the leaves. Indeed 
 he would have known almost nothing of current ecclesiastical 
 controversies if it had not been that the bishop of the diocese 
 was one of those gloomy prelates who love to usher in each 
 succeeding Lent with a pastoral letter bewailing the deadly 
 errors of the time. Father Tobel vaguely remembered that 
 the episcopal cup of sorrow had once been filled fuller with 
 bitterness by certain wilful Englishmen who taught that you 
 could be anti-Protestant and anti-Papist, and truly Catholic 
 at one and the same time. This old priest, however, was a 
 plain man and he was determined not to split theological hairs 
 with anybody. Returning to the table he said: 
 
 “This is not the time to argue about religion. I ask your 
 pardon for my mistake. Seeing you so regularly at Mass I 
 took you for a Catholic. Now, I have another request to 
 make. Will you guide me to the spot where you found . . . 
 the body? At present you are the only human being who 
 
THE RAVEN 399 
 
 knows . . . where she died. You do not need to fear that I 
 shall discuss religion on the road. ’ ’ 
 
 Although Harry’s limbs still ached and his feet were very 
 sore he was glad to have the chance of serving Father Tobel, 
 so he answered that he could start at once. 
 
 Stoutly shod and grasping short ash-poles they were soon 
 on their way up the valley. One more rainless day had nearly 
 silenced the lesser brooks ; but the torrent, fed from the white 
 breasts of the snow-mountains, still crooned in Harry’s ears. 
 As they left the last farm behind, the priest, wishing to be 
 companionable, said: 
 
 “Perhaps you will think it strange, but I have never been so 
 high up the valley before. You see, I am mountain-bred and 
 these deserts do not tempt me. When I go to Vienna I go 
 to see the pictures and statues; but there are thousands of 
 leisured people in Vienna who have never entered a museum 
 or gallery in their lives. What we can see any day we are 
 inclined never to see at all. I suppose it is the same in 
 London. ’ ’ 
 
 “I have never been in London,” said Harry quickly. He 
 spoke the words out of his meticulous honesty and from a dread 
 of being once more misunderstood: but they fell on Father 
 Tobel ’s ears like a rebuff. With a shrug so slight that the 
 Englishman did not notice it the benign old man merely gave 
 up the attempt at conversation and did not speak again until 
 they reached the boulder-strewn pool where Harry had paused 
 the day before with Christina in his arms. Then, wondering 
 greatly, he asked : 
 
 “How did you cross this deep and wide channel, here in 
 the middle of the stream ? ’ ’ 
 
 “I cannot tell,” Harry answered. He made a foot-bridge 
 with the stout ash-poles and helped the priest over. And 
 again they walked on, in silence. 
 
 After threading the dim tunnel above the torrent the two 
 
400 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 climbers came out into the green cirque where Christina had 
 spent her last hours. The crucifix of the rosary was still 
 tapping the rock with each suck and sigh of the warm air, 
 and the colored pictures were still on their ledges. Father 
 Tobel, however, seemed to have eyes for nothing but the 
 little ax. He seized it so eagerly that he seemed almost to 
 have made the long journey for that little ax alone. Only 
 after he had brightened the blade upon his black sleeve and 
 had gazed long upon it did the priest enter the niche and 
 take down the engravings and the beads. 
 
 Harry watched the rough hand plucking these pious objects 
 like flowers from the face of the rock. Instantly he was 
 overwhelmed by a sense of Christina’s life and death. Until 
 this moment his memory of yesterday’s events had been lag- 
 ging far behind his plain consciousness, like a great white 
 ship veiled in the steam of the black tug which hauls it along. 
 But, in the twinkling of an eye, to-day vanished. Only yes- 
 terday was true. All the past, the present and the future, 
 all time and all eternity were summed up in that majestic, 
 dolorous lovely hour. How could this narrow pit contain such 
 a surging, urging tide of grandeur and mystery? Why did 
 not its walls split asunder and crumble down? 
 
 When, holding the ax in his arms like a rescued child, the 
 priest knelt with deepest reverence before Christina’s altar, 
 Harry’s brief ecstasy ended. A dull anguish, as heavy as a 
 mountain rolled and settled in its place. He was about to fall 
 on his knees at Father Tobel’s side, but shame restrained him. 
 He, Henry Coggin, had no part and lot in this rough ora- 
 tory, this blessed place of holy pictures and crucifixes and 
 rosaries. He, Henry Coggin, was only a looker-on at the 
 Catholic Church. The blacksmith’s boy, Caspar, who ran 
 errands for the inn and helped to clean the altar-candlesticks, 
 could receive the Holy Communion to-morrow and offer It 
 
THE RAVEN 401 
 
 for Christina Rabe’s soul: but he, Henry Coggin, must say 
 “I cannot.” 
 
 In agony of mind and spirit, Harry kept step with Father 
 Tobel down through the tunnel and back to the marge of 
 the torrent. That he himself was outside the Church, that he 
 might at any moment die tragically like Christina, that he 
 might be damned for trifling with the most sacred of all 
 things . . . these and the like thoughts did not enter his 
 head. The sole fount of his anguish, a fount more cruel than 
 scalding water and more bitter than gall, was the knowledge 
 that, if only he had been a Catholic, he could still have done 
 something for Christina. 
 
 In the midst of the pool, before facing the ash-pole foot- 
 bridge, Father Tobel asked leave to sit down and rest. Harry 
 too sat down, on the very boulder where he had beheld the 
 reflection of the dead Virginia. And there it pleased the good 
 God to bestow upon Henry Coggin a great grace. 
 
 Gazing a little down-stream Harry saw a place where the 
 smoothly-sliding water was gashed open by some jagged rocks. 
 Light clots of white spume, as big as butterflies, sprang into 
 the air and sank back again into the torrent. Bubbling, 
 creaming wavelets smacked the black rock and merrily played 
 leap-frog with the wavelets that came after. All this they did 
 to a cheerful music, as of hundreds of silver kettles singing on 
 bright hearths. 
 
 Harry remembered the racing and chattering waters of the 
 Skilbourne, near Bulford town — the sweet Skilbourne on whose 
 banks, thirteen years before, he had found courage to demand 
 Holy Baptism. And, as he recalled that sacred moment, a 
 strange idea filled Harry’s mind. He pictured the Skilbourne, 
 on that May afternoon of long ago, splashing under the gray 
 arch of the bridge and flashing through lush meadows to join 
 the broad Deme. He pictured the Deme flowing tranquilly 
 
402 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 onward until its cool, sweet flood mingled with the tumbling 
 sea. He pictured the fierce sun of that wonderful May-time 
 flaming upon the green waves until they yielded up thin veils 
 of vapor to curtain the garish heavens. In his imagination he 
 saw those high clouds brushed along by the west wind until 
 they were caught and torn in the sharp ice-peaks of the glit- 
 tering Alps. He saw them settling silently on the tops of the 
 mountains like soft down from the wings of doves without 
 number. He knew that some Alpine snows remained summer 
 after summer unmelted. But these burning August noons 
 were unchaining many an old snowdrift; and Harry, over- 
 wrought by fatigue and pain and sorrow, did not resist the 
 fancy that the old waters of his baptism, after wide wander- 
 ings and long imprisonment, were at this very moment flow- 
 ing under his eyes once more and filling his ears with a mes- 
 sage which God Himself had whispered to them in the radiant 
 silence of the dazzling heights. Their challenge was so clear 
 and their voice so heavenly that his timidity vanished like a 
 snowflake in a sunbeam. Moved by something mightier than 
 his own will, he sprang to his feet and said loudly to the 
 brooding priest : 
 
 ‘ ‘ I want to be a Catholic. ’ ’ 
 
 For several moments Father Tobel was too much astonished 
 to answer. At last he uttered the one word: 
 
 “Why?” 
 
 * ‘ I want to be . . . what she was, ’ ’ cried Harry desperately. 
 He feared that he was about to be repelled. “I want to be 
 like you and like the others. I want to receive Holy Com- 
 munion to-morrow, for the first time in my life : and to offer 
 It for her. ’ ’ 
 
 The priest bowed his head over the ax which rested on his 
 knees. There was a reason, known to himself alone, why 
 Harry’s words filled him with unspeakable thankfulness to 
 God. But he soon remembered the obligations of his sacred 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 403 
 
 calling. Dwelling amidst an entirely Catholic population, 
 he had only once in his life before received a convert into the 
 Church. This Englishman was evidently a youth of excep- 
 tional temperament and the case was not an easy one. Father 
 Tobel meditated for a long time. At last he said : 
 
 “My young friend, there are learned and holy men who 
 would tell you that the mere desire to help, by offering a 
 communion, some soul which has been dear to you, is not by 
 itself a sufficient motive, a satisfactory disposition for your 
 being reconciled to the Church. In a sense, they would be 
 right. But at this solemn moment I look into your face, I 
 hearken to your eager tones and I lift up my soul to Almighty 
 God for guidance. It is the very essence of our holy faith 
 that our Divine Lord thought not of Himself but of others — of 
 us poor sinners. For a year you have been hearing Mass 
 but you have evaded the great decision until now. In making 
 this tremendous choice you are moved not so much by fear 
 for your own soul but by truly Christlike love for the soul 
 of another. I cannot find it in my heart to correct you. 
 My son, my dear son, I can only bid you welcome and pray 
 God to bless you. Suffer me to be silent while I thank God for 
 a favor which to-morrow you shall understand . . . Let us go.” 
 
 "When the roof of pine-boughs was again over their heads 
 Father Tobel began to instruct Harry in the Catholic religion 
 and was amazed at the extent and depth of the catechumen’s 
 knowledge. Not even on one point was Harry ignorant of 
 sound doctrine. All that the young man lacked was ease of 
 coordination — the Catholic sureness and swiftness in perceiv- 
 ing separate dogmas as living stones in one symmetrical temple 
 of truth. Harry was like a man reading aloud an epic poem, 
 with a complete understanding of the story and of the diction 
 but with only a dim sense of the meter, of the light or heavy 
 accents. The Catholic idiom came stiffly from his Puritan 
 lips. The priest, however, knew that Rome is not learnt in a 
 
404 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 day; and he took care not to clog and belittle Harry’s first 
 moments of faith by fussy corrections of trifles. And when 
 he moved onward from theology to piety he marveled at the 
 young man’s hunger and thirst for the sacraments and for 
 all things holy. 
 
 As they neared the village, Father Tobel asked : “Will your 
 family or friends in England be angry at the step you are 
 taking? Will it involve you in temporal loss?” 
 
 “I have no relations anywhere,” Harry answered, “but I 
 have a benefactor, to whom I owe almost everything. With- 
 out his aid I should, at this moment, be working hard in a 
 small country town, without a friend, without prospects. My 
 benefactor sent me to travel for fifteen months in Germany. 
 He has some plan for my future but I have no idea what it 
 may be. My turning Catholic may or may not upset it.” 
 
 “Almighty God often tests and toughens converts by tem- 
 poral trials, ” said the priest. “At least, so I have heard. If 
 you should be in any sore strait, write to me. What I can do 
 will be very little : but our Master will do the rest. My son, 
 you move me strangely. Let me grasp your hand. I feel 
 that God has some great work for you to do in the world.” 
 
 Father Tobel was looking full into the young man ’s eyes as 
 he spoke: and he suddenly beheld a new wonder. Harry’s 
 pensive and docile face was transfigured into an angel’s. He 
 towered higher and seemed, in a single moment, to have be- 
 come more than mortal, as if the very Spirit of God wholly 
 possessed him. In the presence of this ecstasy the priest stood 
 still and feared. He did not know that far away, in green 
 England, near an old town, there was a quiet spot called Yel- 
 lowhammer Lane, strangely like the sheltered hollow where 
 they were standing. He did not know that, fourteen years 
 before, another clergyman had grasped this angelic youth’s 
 hand and had uttered almost the self-same words : “ I feel that 
 God has some great work for you to do in the world.” 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 O N Tuesday, August 22nd, the day of his reception 
 into the Church, Henry Coggin arose even earlier 
 than usual. It had been arranged that the short 
 ceremony should take place before Mass, in the chapel of Our 
 Lady of the Seven Dolors, and that the convert should make 
 his first Communion immediately afterwards. 
 
 Overnight Harry had packed his valise and completed his 
 simple preparations for departure. Without giving a reason, 
 Father Tobel had commanded that he should leave the inn, 
 on the first stage of his journey back to England, after the 
 mid-day meal. 
 
 Kneeling beside the bed in his tidy room, Harry awaited the 
 promised knock at his door. The coming event filled him with 
 awe. He whose humility had kept him back from claiming 
 even the meanest place in the Church of England could hardly 
 believe it possible that he would soon be admitted to full com- 
 munion with the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church: 
 that he would be of the same faith and the same fold as his 
 patron saint, Mr. Redding : that he would be no longer a mere 
 looker-on at the ineffable mysteries: that he would have as 
 much right as the Pope himself to the holy sacraments. 
 
 Across this vast and overpowering prospect of lofty pillars 
 and soaring roofs, the form of Christina flitted, at first no big- 
 ger than an elf’s. But as Harry recalled the dead maiden’s 
 vigil before her crucifix and her pictures of saints, Mr. Red- 
 ding’s figure weakened and receded. To be one with Chris- 
 tina in faith and in the love and service of God became the 
 
 405 
 
406 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 highest bliss. It was cold in this mountain bed-room, four 
 
 « 
 
 thousand feet above the sea, and Harry shivered as he thought 
 of the loneliness which awaited him in the empty church. 
 How good it would have been to feel that Christina was kneel- 
 ing somewhere near throughout this ordeal. How hearty 
 would have been her joy in his conversion, how warm her hand- 
 clasp, how bright her welcome. And yet, if Christina had not 
 strayed into that chill cave of death amidst the mountains, he, 
 Henry Coggin, would not now be awaiting Father Tobel’s 
 knock. Before he could feel the force of this new thought, 
 the summons came. Harry opened the door and followed 
 the priest down the dark stairs, along the narrow passage, 
 through the sacristy and into the dim church. To reach the 
 chapel of the Seven Dolors it was necessary to cross the nave. 
 To his surprise the convert suddenly felt the priest’s strong 
 hand gripping him by the arm as if to thrust him past some 
 danger or to prevent him from stumbling. Glancing to the 
 left Harry saw that the nave was not empty, as he had pic- 
 tured it. Supported on trestles and covered by a black-and- 
 silver pall, a coffin stood within a fence of tall yellow candles. 
 A few women knelt near it ; and, as Harry stepped near them, 
 one young girl broke into piteous weeping. He turned rever- 
 ently aside from her grief. During his hundreds of early 
 morning visits to Catholic churches, Harry had chanced many 
 times upon a catafalque with its mourners. Obeying Father 
 Tobel’s imperious hand, he continued his journey and soon 
 knelt beneath the image of the sword-pierced Virgin. 
 
 As his meager library boasted only a single copy of the 
 “Forma Receptionis Neo-conversi, ” Father Tobel waived pomp 
 and circumstance, to the extent of telling the Englishman, not 
 in Latin but in the vernacular, to share the book by looking 
 over his shoulder. Harry, indeed, acted as a kind of acolyte 
 at his own conversion. He said the hymn Veni Creator 
 Spiritus alternately with the priest, responded to the versicles 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 407 
 
 and uttered the Amens. Then, with his right hand upon the 
 Holy Gospels, he made his Profession of Faith in a firm voice, 
 with his whole heart and his whole mind. He joined in re- 
 peating the psalm Miserere with the utmost earnestness. But 
 when Father Tobel made ready to administer conditional bap- 
 tism, the neophyte recoiled. First in seemly Latin and then 
 in persuasive German he made it plain that the validity of the 
 sacrament which had been administered to him when he was 
 fully twelve years old by a clergyman who immediately after- 
 wards became a Catholic, did not admit of the faintest doubt. 
 Satisfied though mystified, the priest gave way and solemnly 
 pronounced the Absolution releasing Harry from the bands of 
 excommunication which forsan , ‘ 4 perhaps’ ’ he had incurred. 
 Then, bidding the convert follow him. Father Tobel moved 
 along the nave and entered his confessional, where Harry was 
 to make confessionem, integrant peccatorum praeteritae vitae , 
 a complete confession of the sins of his past life. 
 
 Under this kindly confessor’s wise guidance even a com- 
 plete confession could not take long. Father Tobel simply 
 placed before his penitent the Ten Commandments of the old 
 Law and the New Commandments of the Gospel. And, as the 
 young man answered each question promptly, clearly, humbly, 
 the old man marveled and gave thanks to God. Here was a 
 youth, rich and handsome and clever and strong, who had 
 done God’s will on earth as it is done in heaven, who had 
 forgiven the many who had trespassed against him, who had 
 overcome temptation, who had been delivered from evil. Not 
 once in his life had this man lied; indeed so sheer was his 
 truthfulness that it refused to compound with his humility. 
 Not once had he taken God’s name in vain, or borne false wit- 
 ness or coveted his neighbor’s goods. He had honored his 
 father and mother: but he confessed that sometimes, for a 
 few moments, he had harbored against his father unfilial 
 thoughts. Ever since he could remember he had gone on a 
 
408 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Sunday morning to worship His Maker as best he knew. Not 
 once had the glowing lava of passion welled through the 
 spring flowers of his chastity. He knelt there virgin, in 
 body and in mind. Yet he had no idea that he was other than 
 the chief of sinners: and when the confessor concluded by 
 asking him whether he knew of any other sin, Henry Coggin 
 accused himself sternly of pride and ambition ; of having been 
 too curious and extravagant in eating and drinking ; of having 
 spent time and money on ornamental arts and studies which 
 he might have devoted to the sick and the poor. 
 
 Harry had heard that at the end of a confession the con- 
 fessor immediately proceeded to counsel the penitent and, 
 except in grave cases, to give absolution. But when he closed 
 his recital there was a long silence. So complete was the young 
 man’s humility that he honestly believed he had deeply dis- 
 appointed Father Tobel by his many sins and negligences and 
 offenses: and he meekly bowed his head to receive the coming 
 rebuke. As the silence lengthened he prepared himself to 
 hear that he must not yet receive Holy Communion. He 
 did not know that there was a lump in the confessor’s throat 
 which would not let him speak and that the old man behind 
 the wooden grid was thanking God with his whole heart for the 
 honor of receiving this manly, high-souled, unspotted saint 
 into the Holy Church. At last Father Tobel spoke and said : 
 
 “My son, Almighty God has given you grace to make a 
 good confession. You have spoken of ambition; but ambition 
 can be laudable when our motive is not mere glory and power, 
 and when we do not seek to enrich and enlarge ourselves at 
 the expense of meeker and weaker brethren. You have spoken 
 also of pride. In some fine natures there is a proper pride, 
 no more to be blamed than the high spirit of the thoroughbred 
 horse or the agility of the chamois. And there is, alas, an- 
 other kind of pride, the pride of self-worship, or arrogance, 
 of jealousy, of overweening dignity. Whenever you are 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 409 
 
 tempted to indulge this sinful kind of pride, hold before your 
 eyes a crucifix. Ponder the crown of thorns and remind your- 
 self that every moment of sinful pride adds one more thorn to 
 that crow r n. The crucifix shows you God Himself, mocked, 
 stripped, flogged, wounded, bleeding, thirsting, dying because 
 of man’s pride and self-will. Contemplate it constantly, at- 
 tentively, fervently until you can say like Saint Paul that 
 your old proud self is dead, crucified with Christ and dead. 
 
 “You spoke, my son, of your fondness for the pleasures of 
 the table. Within due bounds there is no sin in this choosing 
 and relishing your dinner. The good God praestat nobis omnia 
 abunde ad fruendum , giveth us richly all things to enjoy. 
 There were those who flung at our Master Himself the taunt 
 that He was a gluttonous man and a wine-bibber. Avoid 
 over-scrupulousness. On the other hand, you have done well 
 to mention this. Take care lest a lawful pleasure should 
 grow into a carnal hindrance. Be temperate in all things. 
 To test yourself, let your Lents and your Advents be truly 
 penitential seasons. You are strong; so fast on the appointed 
 days and do not be satisfied with abstinence alone. As for giv- 
 ing everything to the poor, perhaps you are not called to do 
 anything of the kind. If the unselfish and industrious people 
 all acted in that way, the selfish and thriftless half of man- 
 kind would do no work at all and would become more and 
 more degraded to the deadly peril of their souls. 
 
 “Most Christians do not give enough to the poor: but a few 
 Christians, a very few and I think you are one of them, may 
 give too much. You blamed yourself for spending time on 
 Art. In this mountain village we are simple folk: but even 
 here we know that Art ministers to our spiritual and temporal 
 necessities. Man does not live by bread alone. This building 
 would be just as truly a church if it had no belfry, no statues, 
 no pictures, no painted windows : but the sight of the steeple 
 lifts hearts to God, and the images, the paintings teach religion 
 
410 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 to the children and the simple folk while I am preaching my 
 dull sermons. In traveling about and spending time and 
 money studying the works of other artists you are not wrong- 
 ing the poor : you are fitting yourself to serve them. I know 
 your talent for music and I hope you will employ it ad 
 majorem Dei gloriam. But even if you never write a Mass or 
 an organ-piece, even if you compose nothing but lively dances 
 and tuneful songs to cheer up your fellow-creatures whose 
 days are so often dull and hard you will be spending your 
 strength worthily. None the less I pray that your life-work 
 may be something high and noble. To that end I advise 
 although I cannot command you to recite every day the 
 Divine office and thus to keep the ears of your soul ever open 
 to God’s voice. 
 
 “You confess that more than once you harbored unfilial 
 thoughts against your father. My son, yours is a strange and 
 bewildering character and I almost am surprised to hear that 
 even your nearest kin did not always understand you. I ear- 
 nestly beg you to continue your excellent practice of hearing 
 Mass every day. You must often breathe a prayer for your 
 father’s soul and thus you will more than make amends. 
 And I beg you will sometimes pray for an old priest and for 
 a poor village in the high mountains. 
 
 ‘ ‘ In the midst of heresy and schism, you have been miracu- 
 lously preserved from grosser sins. Now that you are a 
 Catholic, the devil will covet your soul more hungrily, he 
 will bait his traps for it more busily and more cunningly. 
 You will outwit and outfight the devil so long as you distrust 
 your own feeble self and rely on the omnipotence and love of 
 God. Read every week the life of a saint ; and when you have 
 identified those holy men and women whose battles and tasks 
 have been most like your own, ask their intercession. Pray 
 earnestly that you may be given a great love for our Queen 
 and Mother, the Blessed Virgin Mary. It was through her, 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 411 
 
 through a shining gateway, that the Divine Redeemer came 
 to men and it is through her, still through her, that God’s 
 richest blessings are bestowed upon the world. Be high of 
 mind, high of soul: but never put yourself above the rosary 
 or above the artless devotions of simple fellow-Christians. 
 For your penance you will say, while I am vesting for Mass, 
 the hymn Gloria in excelsis Deo.” 
 
 He ceased. Henry Coggin, kneeling in the shadow, had 
 been hardly able to discern the priest’s face through the 
 wooden bars, but the light was growing and he beheld the coun- 
 tenance of an angel. The old man’s gentle words had sunk 
 like a cool and copious dew into his thirsty heart. In the past, 
 Harry had often been scolded, bullied, frightened, puzzled by 
 his mentors: and by Edward Redding he had been chaffed 
 and teased. But from nobody save Edward Redding’s father 
 had he received grave and kindly counsel until this moment. 
 Father Tobel was the Reverend Oswald Redding’s social and 
 intellectual inferior. Yet there was a power in Father Tobel ’s 
 words which surpassed everything Harry had ever known or 
 expected : because the Church was speaking through this 
 her sacred minister — was teaching like her Divine Founder 
 s ‘ as one having authority. ’ ’ 
 
 A low murmur of Latin recalled the penitent’s attention. 
 Straining to listen he caught the holy words of absolution and 
 saw the priestly hand make the sign of the Cross. Then, after 
 the briefest pause, Father Tobel emerged from the box and led 
 Harry back to the Chapel of the Seven Dolors where they 
 recited together, as in the legend of St. Augustine and St. 
 Ambrose, Te Deum laudamus. And thus, before one of the 
 poorest altars in the Hapsburg dominions; in a chapel where 
 the thrill of their voices brought down a flake of plaster from 
 the sham groining of the roof ; with only one tattered book to 
 share between himself and the peasant-born priest in his frayed 
 and shiny cassock : thus was completed the reception into the 
 
412 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 Catholic Church of Henry Coggin, into whose mind it never 
 entered that a sagacious and learned Benedictine had warned 
 him against patronizing Holy Church and against holding back 
 from her his allegiance until high music and stately architec- 
 ture and dignified ecclesiastics should furnish a proud enough 
 setting for his surrender. 
 
 Once more guided by the old man’s hand, Harry knelt to 
 hear Mass in a place to the right of the candle-girt coffin. 
 The girl mourners were kneeling on the left. With the con- 
 centration of mind which he had practised from childhood 
 Harry did not release his gaze from the book until he had pro- 
 nounced, softly and intently, all the clauses of Gloria in ex- 
 celsis Deo. Then, while the priest still lingered in the sac- 
 risty, the convert raised his eyes. 
 
 There was something bright lying on the coffin. From the 
 spot where he knelt this object was too high for him to see 
 clearly but it was certainly of some polished metal because 
 it flashed back the candle-light. At pompous obsequies in 
 Berlin and Munich, Harry had often beheld their swords 
 lying on the biers of generals, and once he had seen a baton 
 on the catafalque of a field-marshal lying in state. He won- 
 dered vaguely how it had come to pass that some eminent 
 personage was about to be interred in the humble churchyard 
 of this mountain parish, and he was somewhat surprised that 
 Father Tobel had said nothing about it. But he swiftly swept 
 these wandering thoughts back into captivity, remembering 
 that he was about to hear his first Mass as a Catholic and that 
 it was not the hour for idle curiosity. 
 
 The celebrant entered the sanctuary and began the Mass. 
 Despite his black vestments and the nearness of a coffin he 
 performed the ineffable rites exultantly as if he could not 
 fix his mind upon death and judgment but only upon the res- 
 urrection of the body and the life everlasting. Not even at 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 413 
 
 iris first Mass, four and forty years before, had Father Tobel 
 offered this Holy Sacrifice for the quick and for the dead with 
 such faith and fervor. 
 
 The people stood up as usual when the server carried the 
 missal from the south to the north corner of the altar for the 
 reading of the Gospel. Harry rose with them. To see the 
 priest he had to look sideways, across the coffin; and imme- 
 diately he beheld the little ax which he had given to Christina. 
 Some loving hand had cleaned and burnished the steel until 
 it shone like silver against the sable pall. 
 
 Harry Coggin recoiled, shrank, started sharply. He could 
 not keep back a little moan-like cry. Though the sound was 
 small the village maidens heard it and one of them, who had 
 been watching him wistfully all the time, again began to 
 sob. Harry pulled himself together and stood straight and 
 calm until the moment came when he could again kneel down. 
 Then he let his thoughts run free. 
 
 It was not through callousness and not even entirely through 
 his preoccupation in the great matter of his conversion that 
 Henry Coggin had failed to recognize this coffin as Christina’s, 
 Father Tobel had offered no information about the funeral, 
 As for the people at the inn, Harry had deliberately kept 
 out of their way, knowing that to them the death of Fraulein 
 Rabe was an exciting nine-days ’-wonder as well as a piteous 
 tragedy, and that genuine laments would be mixed with mor- 
 bid chatter which he could not endure. But the main reason 
 for his dullness was quite a different one. Throughout these 
 three days, which seemed to have been either three short hours 
 or three long years, the vastest happenings and sharpest emo- 
 tions of his life had thronged round him and probed through 
 him while he was exhausted by want of food and sleep, racked 
 with suspense and bodily pain, distracted in mind, upheaved in 
 soul. Christina had alternately overwhelmed him like a 
 bursting wave or receded, smaller than a ripple, to the fur- 
 
414 - 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 thest horizon. Even as a child playing with a telescope looks 
 first through the small end and then through the big, so that 
 the cows in the meadow under his window appear first like 
 mammoths on a wild prairie and then like the smallest wooden 
 animals from the tiniest Noah’s Ark, treading daintily in the 
 finest moss : so by turns Henry Coggin had seen his friendship 
 with Christina, now enormous and near, now speck-like and 
 far. 
 
 The sum of muffled shufflings and breathings behind him 
 told Harry that the church was filled with people. He felt 
 sure that Christina’s rich and fashionable and powerful friends 
 were there. Probably Christina’s betrothed lover was kneel- 
 ing among the chief mourners. When Mass was over, Harry 
 and this desolated man would have to meet. Perhaps there 
 would be questions about the finding of Christina’s body — 
 questions and more questions and painful thanks. But as 
 Harry pictured the scene, Father Tobel at the altar pro- 
 nounced distinctly the words sursum corda and the convert 
 once more lifted up his heart to God. Yet he could not try 
 to put from him the sense of Christina’s presence. It might 
 be true that only her mortal part lay beneath the black and 
 silver pall : but her invisible immortal self was no less certainly 
 in the church, close to his side, worshiping God with him, en- 
 lightening and strengthening him in his new life. 
 
 When Henry Coggin knelt at last against the wooden com- 
 munion-rail and received his Lord and his God, a supreme 
 favor was bestowed upon him from heaven. Without ecstasy, 
 without wonder, almost without feeling, he had an absolute 
 certitude that He Who did not abhor the Virgin’s womb was 
 indeed and in truth entering into Harry’s inmost being; that 
 he was in truth and in deed welcoming the heavenly Guest to 
 the hearthstone of his soul : that the Maker of heaven and earth, 
 of all things, visible and invisible, was united to his, Harry 
 Coggin ’s humanity and that his, Harry Coggin ’s humanity was 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 415 
 
 partaking of his Lord’s Divinity. He was in God and God 
 was in him. The almighty Source of all light and life, Who 
 had given Christina her beautiful eyes, her bird-like voice, her 
 eager spirit: Who had piled high the mountains whereon 
 Christina was lost. Who had carved out her ravine of death : 
 Who had caused the tree to grow from which this her coffin 
 was made: Whose new-risen sun, one of His ten thousand 
 thousand shining messengers, was kindling with a burning 
 spear the steel blade of Christina’s little ax: this unutterable, 
 eternal Love was one with him, Harry Coggin, the meanest of 
 His creatures. Mystery spread around him and above him 
 like the trees of a solemn and boundless forest; but every 
 shadow nursed warm light in its bosom, and nowhere fell the 
 slightest blight of doubt. As if God were resting against 
 him after the work of creation, Harry seemed to see all that 
 God had made, all that God had done in Christina’s life and 
 in his own : ‘ ‘ and, behold, it was very good. ’ ’ 
 
 Henry Coggin returned to his place near the bier. He had 
 been kneeling there about a quarter of an hour, fervently offer- 
 ing his first Communion for Christina’s soul when he heard 
 a rustling sound a few inches in front of his closed eyes. 
 Looking round he saw that Father Tobel had laid an unsealed 
 envelope on the shelf of the prie-dieu and was now choosing 
 a place where he might kneel to make his thanksgiving. 
 
 Harry believed that the envelope contained one of the 
 gilded cards which he had seen little children receive on the 
 day of their first Communion. He felt grateful for this 
 attention and resolved to treasure the souvenir with reverence. 
 But on opening the envelope he found no adoring angels with 
 white wings and blue raiment holding high a golden chalice, 
 no embossed or lace-edged paste-board. What he drew forth 
 was a folded sheet of music-paper jotted thickly with crotchets 
 and quavers by his own hand. Almost instantly he recognized 
 
416 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 it as the manuscript of his album-leaf The Raven which he 
 had given to Christina five days before. 
 
 Greatly bewildered, Harry unfolded the sheet. At last he 
 turned it over and saw that the back was covered with words 
 penciled in irregular lines. At the top of the page the writing 
 was neat and firm but the characters grew large and clumsy 
 as they neared the bottom. These were the sentences which 
 Harry read : 
 
 1 k7iow now that they will not find me alive . Nobody will 
 think of searching for me in this hollow ! . I cannot limp a step 
 further , I cannot cry aloud any more . It is God’s holy will 
 that 1 shall not outlive this night . 
 
 At Mass yesterday morning and again at the Wasserblase , 
 God revealed it to me that Death and I must soon meet. But 
 I thought it was my Karri who was to die and that I was to 
 live long , long, long, happy in faithful sadness. 
 
 Sweet Mary, my dear Mother, how many thousand times with 
 thy rosary in my hands have I said “pray for me now and in 
 the hour of my death.” How far apart, what thousands of 
 ages apart, “now” and “the hour of my death” seemed to be! 
 And at last they meet together, they melt into one. Oh, Mary , 
 my Queen and Mother, pray God for me that if I am to die I 
 may be spared the terrors of the night. After all, though I 
 love like a woman, 1 am only a poor, spoilt, feeble, stupid 
 child, so greedy for food, so peevish for warmth, so afraid of 
 the dark. — Not once in my life have I lacked a meal till now, 
 not once have I faced a night without some one to protect me. 
 
 My God, my God, when I began to write on this paper it 
 seemed easy to obey Thy will. But it is hard to die. Why 
 must 1 die, my God , my God? 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 417 
 
 Tester day Earri frightened me when I asked him if he 
 thought Christina Maria a pretty name. Jesus , Jesus Christ, 
 1 am Christina . I am thy unworthy namesake. Lord Jesus 
 Christ, Thou didst endure three hours of anguish in the dark- 
 ness for me. Must Christina loo have her three hours of 
 agony ? Jesu mercy, Mary help . k 
 
 The bell has rung by now for supper . By now Anna has 
 told them that I am lost . But dusk has fallen. They can do 
 nothing . 
 
 1 tried to pray just now that God would work for me the 
 greatest miracle since the world was made. I tried to pray 
 that my Earri might descend these precipices, coming home 
 this way . But I cannot pray such a prayer . In this world 
 1 am not to see Earri again . 
 
 Maiden most pure, Mary ever a virgin, if I had never come 
 to spend my holidays among these mountains, if I had never 
 met Earri , I might have made sooner or later a worldly mar- 
 riage which would have dulled my soul and soiled my body. 
 Or I might have made shipwreck of faith and of virtue as 
 better women than I have done before me. This I can un- 
 derstand. Better that Death should rob me of my youth than 
 that sin should rob me of my God. But I do not understand 
 why God does not wish me to marry Ea/rri. Eow we could 
 have helped one another to grow ever better and nobler! 
 Yet God alone knows. Perhaps we might have loved one an- 
 other too much and have forgotten God. 
 
 Eow glad I am that I made my will when they said the 
 cholera was coming to Vienna. Anna, poor true soul, is pro- 
 vided for. If I had lived she would never have left me j and 
 
418 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 in spite of infirmity or old age she would have gone on slaving 
 for me. Now she will have ease and rest. 
 
 It is strange to think that I shall never again see my little 
 house in Vienna; no, not even my room at the inn. Until 
 this moment, wherever I might be, I have always had the 
 thought of the next place I am going to. Now there is no next 
 place in this world. This is the end. 
 
 We are taught that Heaven is infinitely more beautiful and 
 rapturous than the most lovely dreams of mortals. So 
 Heaven will indeed be wonderful: because the happiness I 
 have dreamed of with Harri these last few days was too great 
 for my heart to contain. 
 
 I could murmur against God for requiring so much of me. 
 If Harri were to find me here even when my strength is almost 
 spent and it is too late to save my life — if he were to kiss me 
 just once , holding me gently in his arms and saying that he 
 loves me, then I could die gladly. But it is not to be. 
 
 Remember, Oh most loving Virgin, my mother, that I am 
 Maria as well as Christina. 1 am thy namesake too. AvO 
 Maria, gratia plena, help me to say like thee, “Behold the 
 handmaid of the Lord , be it unto me according to Thy word.” 
 
 The sun has set, the night is coming. Since I arranged my 
 little altar in this niche of rock I feel more than resigned. I 
 am happy. My foot does not hurt me so much and I have 
 cooled my parched lips and tongue against the moist stone. 
 
 Ave Maria, Sancta Mater, 1 too am Maria. I too am a 
 mother. I cannot be Harri’s bride , Yet I feel with thank- 
 ful joy that I am in a mysterious way his mother . Holy Mary r 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 419 
 
 you became the Mother of God. Jesus Christy the eternal Son 
 of God, is infinitely greater and more glorious than you, sweet 
 Mother; and yet without you , His mother and mine, He did 
 not fulfil His destiny, He did not come into the world . 1 do 
 not know how it will come to pass: but God tells me that some- 
 now my death is to be Harri’ s gate of life. 
 
 Soon it will be too dark to write. 1 shall put this paper in 
 the little silk bag which hangs beneath my garments, against 
 my heart, the little bag where I have kept this piece of music 
 and my mother’s ring. When they prepare me for burial they 
 will find it. I solemnly charge the person who first reads it to 
 respect the dead and to lock its contents in her breast. This 
 paper is to be given to Father Tobel . He may show it to 
 Harri. Then it is to be burnt . I do not wish the music on 
 the back to be copied. Harri will write many beautiful pieces 
 for those who still live: but this is all mine and none but tne 
 angels shall play it. 
 
 Harri gave me a little ax as well as this music. The ax 
 slipped from my hand . and it was through clambering down 
 to save it that I fell and must now die. I wish this little ax 
 to be laid upon my bier and to be buried in my grave. 
 
 Harri is not to have any souvenir of me. This is my dying 
 wish and command. He is not to have a tress of my hair or a 
 ribbon or my jeweled silver rosary ( which I give to Father 
 Tobel, good priest and true father) or even one of the pictures 
 I showed him in my prayer-book. I forbid him to linger 
 among these mountains for a single day after my funeral or 
 even to revisit this valley. He is young and he had hardly 
 begun to love me. Therefore he must not let his dark Raven 
 shadow the days to come. In his own England he will marry 
 a woman of his own race and speech. 1 hope she will be truly 
 
420 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 English, fair-skinned and golden-haired, so that she will never 
 remind him of me. Oh, how l should have hated her yester- 
 day, this English beauty who will be Harri’s bride! But to- 
 riight she is my sister , my friend. 1 stretch out my hands 
 through the fast-deepening darkness, like a dying mother, and 
 I give Ilarri into her keeping. She cannot love him as I 
 would have loved him , but I will watch over her from Heaven 
 and help her with my prayers. 
 
 1 can hardly see. When 1 opened my silk bag just now to 
 hide this paper away 1 took out my mother’s ring. 1 shall 
 write to the bottom of the page and put the paper back. Then, 
 kneeling before my altar, I shall betroth myself to Harri, 
 speaking formal words and drawing this betrothal ring upon 
 my finger. 
 
 Jesus, Mary, Joseph , I give you my heart and my life. 
 
 When Harry Coggin had perused this holy script three 
 times, Father Tobel approached him quietly and took the 
 manuscript out of his hand. Harry made no resistance. The 
 message was so burned into his brain that he could have recited 
 every sentence word for word and could have imitated every 
 turn of the handwriting. The priest made his way into one 
 of the chapels and returned with a rough iron tray which 
 was used to receive the drippings from a tripod of votive 
 tapers. Bidding Harry hold this tray, Father Tobel thrust 
 the sheets of paper into the flame of one of the great yellow 
 candles which burned round Christina’s coffin. He turned it 
 this way and that until it was well alight and then dropped it, 
 blazing all over, upon the tray. They watched it until it 
 shrank into a scant, coal-black scroll, gashed and pricked all 
 over by Harry’s and Christina’s pencils. 
 
 Father Tobel carefully enclosed the frail cinder in both his 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 421 
 
 hands, as if it had been a wounded bird, a poor young raven. 
 Carrying the treasure with reverence he moved out of the 
 church by the south door. Harry followed, his hands knit 
 together, his gaze bent upon the ground, until they stood in 
 the sunshine beside a newly-dug grave. The white-haired 
 priest murmured some words which could not be heard and 
 slowly unclasped his fingers, letting the black scroll break in 
 the air and flutter down into the depths of the grave like 
 dead leaves. 
 
 The sacristan hurried up anxiously, bearing the priest’s 
 biretta. Father Tobel covered his head and led Harry to 
 the Calvary in the center of the church-yard. Over the rude 
 graves of the mountain folk the arms of the Crucified Re- 
 deemer were extended wide. At length the old man broke hi3 
 long silence and said : 
 
 “My son, you know now why I bade you prepare to depart 
 hence this day. Before the sun sets your feet will be upon 
 the plains, you will have begun the journey home to your own 
 land. Never again will you behold this church or yonder 
 grave. Never again shall we meet in the flesh. 
 
 “I do not dare to give you counsels — to admonish you, my 
 son, who are so much more wise, more holy, more favored of 
 Heaven than I can ever hope to be. But I may humbly ask of 
 you one thing. 
 
 ‘ ‘ To-day is the octave-day of the Assumption. Year by year 
 until you die I beg you to make of these eight days and their 
 vigil a holy season, a nine-days’ prayer. Renew on these 
 solemn anniversaries the vows you have just vowed. Make 
 during these nine days, year by year, a good confession and 
 devoutly receive Holy Communion, remembering your first 
 confession and your first Communion in this humble church 
 to-day. 
 
 “My son, long after I am gone, the good people of this 
 parish will point out the place where the famous and beautiful 
 
422 
 
 THE HARE 
 
 singer fell and the spot where the young English Hercules 
 found her. They will murmur ‘Poor lady,’ they will praise 
 her virtue and bounty, they will breathe charitable prayers 
 for her soul. And then, when I am gone, none in the world 
 but you will know that a saint has lived and died among us, 
 that a saint lies buried among us sinners here. A saint, a great 
 saint. Nor for her the splendors of canonization, the honors 
 of the Church’s altars. But she has her altars in your heart 
 and mine where we shall humble our souls and implore her 
 prayers. 
 
 * ‘ On the Feast of All Saints, only ten weeks from now, I bid 
 you join with me in spirit, wherever you may be, in honoring 
 this saint indeed. Oh, the nameless saints, the unknown saints, 
 how it thrills and warms my heart to think of them at this 
 hour ! So many of the saints in the calendars have been popes, 
 bishops, priests, monks, nuns, hermits, kings, queens, prin- 
 cesses, that sometimes we everyday folk are tempted to fear 
 that our God is after all a respecter of persons and that saint- 
 liness is not for such as you and me. We forget that in the 
 cloister and in the palace the light beats strong. Heroic virtue 
 can hardly be hidden there ; nor are champions wanting to ad- 
 vance the dead saint’s cause. But for every saint who has 
 an altar, an image, a Mass, an office, perhaps there are a 
 thousand whose names are written only in Heaven and a few 
 loving hearts. 0, altitudo divitiarum Dei, 0 the height, the 
 depth of the riches of God ! What legions of hidden saints He 
 has set off against us poor sinners ! Even to His Church God 
 will not tell all His secrets. 
 
 “Harri, I must utter just once the name by which your 
 saint loved to call you. You know that I am a plain old man, 
 a peasant ’s son, with no elegant arts of speech, no poetical im- 
 agination, no graceful fancies. But ever since her body was 
 found, ever since I read the paper which we have burned, a 
 thought has kept coming to me again and again. Unto you, 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 423 
 
 my son, coming hither from your England in the rainy West, 
 surely God has spoken as He spoke to Elias, Vade contra 
 orientem et abscondere in torrente , corvisque praecepi ut 
 pascant te ibi : ‘Go towards the east and hide thyself by the 
 torrent, and I have commanded the ravens to feed thee there. ’ 
 An unseen Hand brought you hither and a raven has fed you 
 with the Bread of Heaven. 
 
 “Last night I turned to the Third Book of Kings to read 
 these words which were haunting me; and a little further 
 on I found that Elias was miraculously fed once more; and 
 then the raven had become an angel. Ah, she has been to you 
 more than a raven, your dear saint, your poor saint ! Like the 
 pelican she had torn open her own breast that you might 
 be nourished with warm blood, the life-blood of faith. Like, 
 a dove she hovered over you this morning when you were 
 reconciled to the Holy Church and when you received your 
 first Communion. And now she is flown, this raven, this 
 pelican, this dove, this bright bird, to flutter round the throne 
 of God, to perch upon His very shoulder and to woo for you 
 from Him by her sweet songs His richest blessings. 
 
 “I will say no more. Here and now let me clasp your hand. 
 We will not have two farewells. This is the end. My son, 
 my dear son, go back to your own country, go back and set 
 your hand to your life’s work. Go in peace. Go forth with 
 God.” 
 
 Father Tobel entered the presbytery and Harry Coggin 
 lingered in the church-yard. Under the Calvary there was not 
 a breath of wind: but high overhead a strong breeze must 
 have been blowing because the mists came streaming wildly 
 towards him from the tops of the mountains. Suddenly a peak 
 in the west caught the full radiance of the sun and the virgin 
 «now above its dark pine-woods burned like a white fire upon 
 an altar. 
 
424 THE HARE 
 
 As height after height broke into flame, like a chain of bea- 
 cons, Harry remembered that beyond them was England, { 
 And the rampart of ice did not daunt him. He had come to 
 the full stature of his manhood. The mountains with their 
 dizzy stairways and their frozen corridors hid no more secrets I 
 from him, held for him no more terrors. He felt that he 1 
 could have stepped over those sharp summits as if they had 
 been no more than ant-hills in his path. 
 
 After six days of drought the lesser streams and waterfalls 
 were dumb : but the torrent resounded always in its ancient 
 bed, like a deep voice calling. 
 

 
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