The Echo of Wees 
 
 Richard Curie
 
 THE ECHO 
 OF VOICES
 
 THE NEWEST BORZOI BOOKS 
 
 ASPHALT 
 
 By Orrick Johns 
 
 BACKWATER 
 
 By Dorothy Richardson 
 
 CENTRAL EUROPE 
 
 By Friedrich Naumann 
 
 CRIMES OF CHARITY 
 By Konrad Bercovici 
 
 RUSSIA'S MESSAGE 
 
 By William English Walling 
 
 THE BOOK OF SELF 
 By James Oppenheim 
 
 THE BOOK OF CAMPING 
 By A. Hyatt Verrill 
 
 MODERN RUSSIAN HISTORY 
 By Alexander Kornilov 
 
 THE RUSSIAN SCHOOL OF PAINTING 
 By Alexandre Benois 
 
 THE JOURNAL OF LEO TOLSTOI (1895- 
 1899) 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SUPER- 
 TRAMP 
 
 By William H. Davies 
 Preface by Bernard Shaic
 
 RICHARD CURLE 
 
 THE ECHO 
 OF VOICES 
 
 The Secret of Hearts, too terrible for 
 the timid eyes of men, shall return, 
 veiled forever, to the Inscrutable 
 Creator of good and evil, to the 
 Matter of doubts and impulses. 
 
 CONRAD 
 
 NEW YORK ALFRED A. KNOPF
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY 
 ALFRED A. KNOPF 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO 
 
 G. L. SARTORIS 
 
 2135017
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 The Two Dependants 11 
 Midnight 79 
 His Kingdom 101 
 The Would-be Friends 128 
 General Service 171 
 Monsieur Clavel 201 
 Deep Down 227 
 Nineteen 257
 
 THE TWO DEPENDANTS
 
 THE TWO DEPENDANTS 
 
 HE had not made a good impression on the 
 Court. There was something altogether 
 too expansive and urbane about him. 
 Moreover, quite apart from the fact that the case 
 against him looked extremely ugly, he was so sur- 
 prisingly like the popular idea of a financial shark 
 that every one had at once made up their minds that 
 he was guilty before a word had been said. His 
 name was Hubert Percival Masham, he was about 
 forty years old, and he was accused of shady trans- 
 actions as a Company Promoter, and Outside Broker, 
 a General Agent, and God only knows what else. 
 He looked healthy, in spite of an inclination to stout- 
 ness which was more or less concealed by the fact 
 that it was that sort of general, firm stoutness which 
 overtakes hearty men of early middle-age who have 
 always led a sedentary life and eaten too well. He 
 perspired freely ( and even when he wasn't perspiring 
 he gave the impression that he was just going to), 
 and when he wiped his forehead a delicate odour of 
 scent was wafted as far as the jury-box. He had 
 large, white hands, the nails of which were beautifully 
 
 11
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 manicured. He would have been very well dressed 
 if only everything had not been slightly overdone. 
 The polish on his boots was too bright, the crease on 
 his trousers too marked, the gloss on his hat too im- 
 maculate. There was a suggestion of pomade on 
 his hair. His face was clean-shaven, florid, and when 
 he opened his mouth to smile (which was frequently) 
 several gold stoppings showed distinctly amongst his 
 even, white teeth. In his tie he wore a pearl pin, 
 quite genuine, but rather too large to be in the best 
 of taste. His shirt, socks, and handkerchief were of 
 a uniform shade of pale mauve and it was evident 
 that he had given the greatest attention to his ap- 
 pearance. He belonged, in fact, to a recognised 
 type, to the type of person who is in the City but not 
 of it, who appears there suddenly with a blaze of 
 trumpets and is as suddenly gone as any thief in the 
 night. He was one of these men who receive you in 
 elegant offices, the unmistakable air of impermanence 
 about which is lost upon you in the affability and 
 conviction of their conversation. On business, in- 
 deed, they are so convincing that clients have been 
 known to declare that they really can't quite believe 
 the world is as perfect as all that. Perhaps they 
 are bewildered by their prospective good fortune. 
 Well, it is an enviable state ! 
 
 They are an amazing product of our time, these 
 financiers de la lime, with their everlasting optimism,
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 their urgent and cryptic conversations on the tele- 
 phone, their power of making you purchase things 
 which no one on earth could have faith in. And they 
 always appear to have more money than they know 
 what to do with, until suddenly they have no money 
 at all. Then it comes out that they have never 
 really had any but no ordinary person can under- 
 stand why some money is money and other money 
 (which buys the same things) isn't. But manipu- 
 lators are optimistic by nature. You should hear 
 the speeches they make before the Official Receiver ! 
 And if, unfortunately, they ever find themselves in 
 the Dock they behave in a dignified and admirable 
 way. Perhaps they really do have a feeling of in- 
 jured innocence. Why not? At any rate they in- 
 variably give prompt, full, and engaging explana- 
 tions of everything. And yet you may be quite 
 sure that however scandalous the things are that 
 come out, there are much more scandalous things that 
 never do come out. But you wouldn't think it from 
 their appearance. They look more like the judge 
 than the judge himself does. No, you would never 
 think it unless their very magnificence made you 
 doubtful. Then observing them more closely it 
 might dawn upon you that there was something 
 wrong. You might begin to distrust that rounded 
 perfection. It might remind you of an over-ripe 
 plum which conceals a wasp. And you might think
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 all at once, " Suppose I had played cards with him, 
 would he have paid? " But your doubts would be 
 wrong. Although he would probably have beaten 
 you (and quite fairly), yet, if you had happened to 
 win, he would have been most punctilious about pay- 
 ing. (They are the sort of men who carry big sums 
 of money in their evening trousers.) On the other 
 hand, if you had played stocks and shares with 
 him. . . . But that's too painful to think of. ... 
 Mr. Masham, sitting in the dock with his head rest- 
 ing gracefully on his white hand, was aware that 
 sentiment was against him. He was listening to a 
 very unpleasant speech from the opposing Counsel 
 and though he was trying to follow it carefully his 
 mind would keep wandering over all sorts of unim- 
 portant subjects. The interval for luncheon was 
 near and a faint, persistent stir began to make itself 
 felt throughout the court. For almost the first 
 time in his life Mr. Masham did not feel hungry. He 
 did not even feel thirsty. What was it the fellow 
 was saying? mumble, mumble, mumble! What an 
 ass ! He took out his handkerchief and dabbed his 
 forehead. Ass! He let his eyes pass slowly over 
 all the faces before him and he read there nothing 
 but hostility, bitter, prying hostility. Suddenly he 
 smiled. Down at the back of the court one pair of 
 eyes was fixed on him with a very different expression. 
 They were the eyes of Mr. Barker, his oldest clerk. 
 
 14
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 Of course, old is a comparative term with men of Mr. 
 Masham's stamp. Their business is founded on the 
 magic word new. It has the same sort of attraction 
 for foolish speculators as new theologies have for 
 foolish Christians. Still, in this light, Mr. Barker 
 was an old servant. He had been with Mr. Masham 
 for nearly six years. And he was invaluable to him 
 because he was so transparently honest. He be- 
 longed to as distinct a type as did Mr. Masham him- 
 self. He was one of these men whose extraordinary 
 simplicity is combined with something utterly un- 
 yielding. His outer appearance exactly represented 
 the man himself. In no society in the world could he 
 have been taken for anything but a clerk. He had 
 originally walked into Mr. Masham's office in answer 
 to an advertisement. Mr. Masham knew nothing 
 about him, but he knew a good deal about character. 
 " That's the man for me," he had thought. Mr. 
 Barker had said very little, but standing in the mid- 
 dle of the room he had looked austerely at the pros- 
 perous Mr. Masham. " Yes, that's my man," 
 thought Mr. Masham again. He knew quite well 
 that the austerity of Mr. Barker was not personal at 
 all but the natural austerity of a simple and upright 
 heart. He was correct. It would never have oc- 
 curred to Mr. Barker to doubt the propriety of an 
 employer's actions. Such liberties didn't enter into 
 his theory of the universe. In his own life he was 
 
 15
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 a man of the most rigid conduct. In Balham he be- 
 longed to a sect which deprecated every sort of 
 amusement as the work of the Devil. Even when he 
 had to pass the National Gallery Mr. Barker averted 
 his head. And yet he had been Mr. Masham's con- 
 fidential clerk for years without suspecting anything. 
 It's no use being astonished at such people they 
 do exist and there's an end of it. They're inex- 
 plicable. In his own voiceless way Mr. Barker wor- 
 shipped Mr. Masham. To begin with he had been 
 nearly a year out of work when Mr. Masham engaged 
 him, and when you have five children all under nine 
 and an ailing wife and have never earned more 
 than 3 a week the state of your affairs does not 
 bear contemplation. But what really won Mr. 
 Barker's heart was something that happened about 
 a year after he had entered Mr. Masham's service. 
 One morning when he had brought in the letters as 
 usual and was waiting silently for Mr. Masham's 
 instructions, the latter suddenly looked up and 
 said, " What's the matter with you to-day, Barker? " 
 It was no wonder he had spoken for Mr. Barker 
 looked terribly white, shaken, and broken-up. 
 " There is nothing the matter with me, sir," said the 
 literal Mr. Barker, gazing with what seemed stern 
 disapproval at his employer, " but I have family 
 trouble at home." " What family trouble ? " asked 
 Mr. Masham. " My wife died at seven o'clock last 
 
 16
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 night," replied Mr. Barker firmly. " Good Lord, 
 man, why did you come to the office then? " ejacu- 
 lated Mr. Masham, quite forgetting in his astonish- 
 ment to make a more fitting rejoinder. Mr. Barker 
 did not reply. He did not think there was any 
 suitable reply. He had come to the office because he 
 always had to come to the office every day. " Get 
 your coat and hat and go home at once," said Mr. 
 Masham. Mr. Barker went out without a word. 
 " Stop, come back ! " shouted Mr. Masham all of a 
 sudden. He was very red in the face. " This is a 
 bad thing for you, Barker, I'm afraid. You have 
 my most sincere condolences. Aren't you left with 
 a lot of small children or something? " " I have five 
 children," answered Mr. Barker, whose sense of 
 decency was instinctively shocked by these personal 
 conversations with an employer. " Five children," 
 echoed Mr. Masham, " and all young, dear me ! And 
 then there'll be the funeral. Really, Barker, I'm 
 very, very sorry for you. And I dare say the illness 
 will cost you a pretty penny. Well, well ! " He had 
 gone over to his desk and unlocked his cash-box. 
 " Now, Barker, don't thank me but take this. No, 
 I won't listen to a word. Take it and go home. 
 You'll find it useful. Go at once, Barker." Mr. 
 Barker trembled, bowed stiffly, and turned on 
 his heel. Mr. Masham had given him four 5 
 notes. 
 
 17
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 A less simple minded man might have resented this 
 charity as an answer to his grief, but Mr. Barker 
 was not complicated in this sort of way. He took 
 things naturally. Far from being offended he was 
 deeply touched. He little knew, luckily, that the 
 money he had taken really belonged to an old lady, 
 a very stupid and greedy old lady, whom Mr. Masham 
 had just relieved of 4,000 in exchange for some 
 worthless certificates. 
 
 It was from this one act, so easily performed, that 
 Mr. Barker had come to venerate Mr. Masham as 
 the best and kindest of men. He hardly ever spoke 
 of it; he was, indeed, scarcely conscious of it for the 
 most part, but when the crash came he showed his 
 devotion in the only way in his power he stuck to 
 Mr. Masham without asking a single question. He 
 was not curious, he was only bewildered. He recog- 
 nised the hand of the Devil (who was a definite per- 
 son to Mr. Barker) and that sufficed him. His brain 
 worked along narrow lines. He was not given to 
 independent thought, he didn't ask himself questions. 
 Not even at the back of his head did he have the 
 slightest doubt of Mr. Masham's innocence. And, 
 strangest thing of all, the evidence of the last three 
 days had made no difference. From the very begin- 
 ning of the trial he had sat in the well of the court, 
 listening with a grave and attentive air and under- 
 standing nothing. It was outside his idea of things 
 
 18
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 that Mr. Masham could have committed fraud, and 
 therefore he did not go into court with the question, 
 " Is he innocent or guilty ? " but merely with the 
 dumb resignation of a Christian who watches the 
 temporary triumph of evil. He heard sums of 
 money mentioned, he saw clients whom he had known 
 for years denouncing Mr. Masham in the most out- 
 rageous terms, and he did not flinch. No whisper of 
 doubt entered his heart. Both defence and prosecu- 
 tion had wished to subpoena him, but both had finally 
 decided that he had better be left alone. . . . 
 
 Mr. Masham and his clerk had lunched together 
 every day of the trial. They were rather dismal 
 lunches. Mr. Barker was not apt at general con- 
 versation and Mr. Masham saw too clearly how 
 things were trending to feel cheerful. Still the pres- 
 ence of Mr. Barker, perhaps the only person in the 
 world who really believed in him, gave him an odd 
 and unexpected comfort. He tried to crack a few 
 jokes, but not a smile appeared upon the morose 
 countenance of the faithful clerk. Mr. Barker 
 pitied Mr. Masham profoundly, but he did not show 
 his pity. When he spoke it was solely of business. 
 They did not discuss the trial. Mr. Masham knew 
 nothing of Mr. Barker's theories about the Devil's 
 complicity in his downfall. In happier days they 
 would have made him roar with laughter, but he 
 would probably not have listened now. He was en- 
 
 19
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 grossed in details for saving the wreck of his busi- 
 ness. He plied Mr. Barker with questions, he 
 sketched plans for the future. It was true that Mr. 
 Barker was no longer his servant, but he still felt 
 a sense of proprietorship in him. His conversation 
 was as peremptory as ever. In Mr. Barker, also, 
 there was not the least change. Thus they would 
 talk over their lunch, while secretly gnawing at them 
 beneath their words was a sense of misery and hope- 
 less disaster. . . . 
 
 It was, then, the face of his ex-clerk that Mr. 
 Masham had discerned in the crowd. " Poor old 
 Barker," he murmured half-contemptuously. Mr. 
 Barker did not put his thought into words. At that 
 instant counsel raised his voice for an unusually elo- 
 quent period. Mr. Masham frowned. " Still at it," 
 he muttered irritably ; " what's he saying now ? " and 
 he tried to concentrate his mind anew. But the 
 bustle in the court was growing louder. All at once 
 the judge rose, the usher called out in a loud voice, 
 and every one jumped up. The Court had adjourned 
 for luncheon. 
 
 Mr. Masham and Mr. Barker met at the appointed 
 place. Both of them knew that it would be their 
 last meeting, for it was obvious that the trial was 
 about to end. Mr. Masham had a great deal to say 
 and he began to talk business at once. Suddenly he 
 remarked : 
 
 20
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 " You know, Barker, it'll finish this afternoon ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Barker. 
 
 " And you know, of course, what the result will 
 be? " 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Barker again, in exactly the same 
 intonation. 
 
 " Well, look here, Barker, as soon as it's over I 
 want you to go at once to my house and tell my wife. 
 You're the only man I can trust to do that properly. 
 I wouldn't let her come here, of course." 
 
 " I'm to go and tell Mrs. Masham? " faltered the 
 clerk. 
 
 " You heard me? " 
 
 " Very good, sir." 
 
 " You are to go to the house and insist on seeing 
 her yourself. And impress upon her that the news- 
 paper reports are sure to be nothing but a pack of 
 lies. Now mind, Barker, you are to tell her that I 
 sent you especially." 
 
 Mr. Barker sighed. It was so deep a sigh that 
 his former master asked him abruptly, " You do be- 
 lieve in me, don't you, Barker? " 
 
 The incorruptible Mr. Barker looked at him as 
 though he had not heard correctly. 
 
 " I don't think about it at all, sir," he said de- 
 liberately ; " I know that you're innocent." 
 
 " Thanks, thanks," responded Mr. Masham. 
 " And don't you ever change your opinion, Barker." 
 
 1
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 It was the kind of remark that Mr. Barker did 
 not understand. He paid no notice to it. But he 
 looked sternly at Mr. Masham as if reprobating his 
 levity. As a matter of fact an abysmal gloom had 
 overspread his soul. As to himself and his five 
 children they were in God's hands, but as to Mr. 
 Masham there could be no doubt that he had been 
 given over to the clutches of the Devil. A conviction 
 had been slowly forming in his brain that perhaps 
 Mr. Masham ( who was addicted to strong language ) 
 was an infidel and that this affliction had come upon 
 him as an awful warning. He was a man of few 
 words, and when he did speak his tongue reflected 
 accurately his conventional and prosaic mind, but 
 all at once he was forced to say in an almost men- 
 acing voice : 
 
 " Do you believe in God, Mr. Masham ? " 
 " Do I believe in God? " echoed the astounded Mr. 
 Masham; " do I believe in Divine Providence? No, 
 Barker, I don't. If there was a God he would not 
 have brought me to this pass. Do you hear that, 
 Barker? That's not the sort of thing God would 
 do. Here am I punished for nothing at all. Noth- 
 ing! Simply for being original. Wouldn't that 
 shake any one's belief in God ? " He spoke with 
 vehemence. He was firmly convinced at that moment 
 that he was the most wronged of men. " Don't talk 
 to me about religion ! I spit it out ! Bah, it gives
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 me a nasty taste in the mouth! No, if you want 
 me to believe in anything I'll I'll believe in the 
 Devil. That's more in my line." 
 
 Mr. Barker shuddered. 
 
 " Assuredly there is a Devil," he murmured. 
 
 But Mr. Masham only laughed unpleasantly. He 
 had suddenly recollected that, after all, his conduct 
 had not been quite so blameless. 
 
 " Get along with you, Barker ! " he said. " God 
 or Devil, it's all one to me. The whole thing's non- 
 sense. At any rate I'm not in the mood for senti- 
 ment. I feel, well, I'll tell what I feel, I feel that 
 Fm cornered. That's the only thing I can think 
 of." 
 
 Mr. Barker regarded him with a look of pain. 
 
 " Put your trust in God, sir," he whispered. 
 " Only believe in Him. There's no other comfort. 
 We are all in His hands, Mr. Masham." 
 
 Mr. Masham made a gesture of impatience but he 
 could not stop Mr. Barker, who continued hoarsely : 
 
 " Only say, * Lord I believe, help Thou my un- 
 belief.' Only say that, sir, and everything will be 
 well with you. 5 * 
 
 " Come, stow it, Barker ! " shouted Mr. Masham 
 angrily. " What on earth's the matter with you 
 to-day? You're talking just like a copy-book! 
 Good God, man, don't you realise how Fm placed? " 
 
 Mr. Barker flushed. 
 
 23
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " Remember that you're an innocent man, sir," 
 he mumbled. 
 
 But this remark did not seem much more to Mr. 
 Masham's liking. 
 
 " Yes, innocent, of course. Of course I'm inno- 
 cent. Every one knows that except those scoundrels. 
 And they know it really. And don't you forget, 
 Barker, that I'm innocent when you hear people 
 talking. I know what people are. They won't 
 leave me alone. They'll go on repeating lies about 
 me till they almost come to believe them. Brutes ! 
 But we'll have the laugh on them one of these days, 
 Barker ! I won't be in there all my life, and when I 
 come out we've got to start afresh. Do you hear 
 that?" 
 
 " I shall be ready, sir," said Mr. Barker quietly. 
 
 " Yes, Barker, I know you will be. You're a faith- 
 ful friend. I can't do much for you now but later 
 yes, I shan't forget. And here, Barker, I want 
 you to take this as a memento." He had suddenly 
 pulled out his gold watch and chain. " Don't be 
 afraid. It doesn't belong to the creditors. It's 
 mine right enough. Or, rather, it's my wife's. 
 Everything I've got on is. Thank goodness she has 
 a little something left. I told her I wanted to give 
 them you. ' I want to present Barker with the 
 watch and chain/ I said ; ' he's the only honest man 
 I know. He's stuck to me through thick and thin.'
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 She agreed at once. She's got a great opinion of 
 you. You remember the wreath she sent when your 
 wife died? Oh, yes, we'll come out on top yet, Bar- 
 ker." 
 
 Mr. Barker was deeply embarrassed. He took the 
 watch and chain mechanically. 
 
 " You you are too good to me, sir," he mut- 
 tered in a broken voice. " I don't like to take it. I 
 don't really, sir. You have always been too good to 
 me. And to think that now Oh, sir, the Devil is 
 frightfully strong ! " 
 
 " That's all right, Barker," said Mr. Masham, 
 waving his remarks aside. " Listen to me. I'm not 
 likely to see you again for a long time, but I want 
 you to keep in touch with me through my wife. 
 You've got a memo, of all these matters we've been 
 discussing the last few days. Above all, follow the 
 markets. Don't let anything escape you. We have 
 to keep the skeleton together, clients and all. That'll 
 be the trouble, the clients. So many of them are 
 hopeless. I know the sort of thing deluge the 
 Official Receiver with abusive letters and think they'll 
 keep me from ever holding my head up again. 
 Charming, isn't it? But they won't succeed. Not 
 they ! And don't you forget, Barker, that it is you 
 who have got charge of my reputation now. I've al- 
 ways regarded you as a sort of partner well, not 
 a partner exactly but you know what I mean. 
 
 25
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 And depend upon it, anything you can do for our 
 future will repay itself a thousandfold." 
 
 He arose from his seat and Mr. Barker, who felt 
 dazed, rose also. 
 
 " Remember I am relying absolutely on you," said 
 Mr. Masham impressively. 
 
 Mr. Barker bent his head. He was deplorably 
 lacking in the appropriate words for such an occa- 
 sion. He could not speak, but if he had spoken it 
 would have been to beg Mr. Masham to fall upon his 
 knees that very night. When he was alone he made 
 his way back slowly to the well of the court. The 
 last stage of the trial was beginning. . . . 
 
 Mr. Barker waited till the very end and then 
 wandered out into the warm sunlight of the May 
 evening. No one noticed him. He was not a per- 
 son who attracted attention. There was nothing 
 remarkable about him. In the whole of his life he 
 had never unburdened himself to any one, not only 
 because it had never occurred to him but because he 
 had nothing to unburden. He knew what love was, 
 and poverty, and grief, but he accepted them with- 
 out a word. He had no obscure yearnings. When 
 he prayed night and morning he did so with fervour, 
 but along recognised lines. He did not ask God to 
 remove his doubts, because he had none. His prayers 
 were long, earnest, but quite impersonal. And yet 
 he used to rise from them as though refreshed by the 
 
 26
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 Water of Life. Never had he felt any qualms and 
 never had he felt superior to any one. He was con- 
 vinced that Christianity, as taught in his chapel, 
 led to salvation and that most people were irre- 
 trievably damned, but he was not arrogant, he was 
 humble or rather, perhaps he was nothing at all. 
 Indeed, he had had no philosophy of conduct other 
 than the natural inclination to do what he knew was 
 right. But as he stood there, blinking in the sun- 
 light, he realised all at once very dimly that the 
 machinery of life was, as it were, imperfect at the 
 core. He recalled Mr. Masham's last look at him 
 from the dock. He had forgotten somehow to ac- 
 count for everything by reference to the Devil. The 
 Devil was a real individual to Mr. Barker, but he 
 was real in a religious sense that is to say he was 
 real in a different plane. Mr. Barker had accepted 
 his poverty, the death of his wife, all the ills of 
 life without losing faith in the propriety of existence. 
 He believed in a glorious resurrection. He took 
 things naturally. But perhaps, just because it was 
 so bizarre, so utterly outside all his experience, he. 
 could not, illogical as it was, see in Mr. Masham's 
 fate anything but a misfortune, which, though due 
 to his own infidelity or the sheer wickedness of the 
 Devil, was yet monstrously inexcusable. He did 
 not, of course, put it clearly to himself. It was not 
 clear, it was vague; so vague, indeed, that he only 
 
 27
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 felt an uneasy, gloomy cloud upon his mind. Stand- 
 ing on the pavement he seemed lost in abstraction. 
 The frown on his forehead gave his face a more than 
 usually stern and uncompromising expression. No 
 one regarded him. He was exactly like thousands of 
 other solitary men. He stood there for several min- 
 utes before he remembered what he had still to 
 do. ... 
 
 Mr. Masham's house was situated in the North of 
 London, in one of those districts full of lanes and 
 enclosed gardens where the early summer nights 
 throw a secret veil of romance over blurred streets 
 and distant cries. It stood back in its own grounds 
 and in the falling dusk the livid colour of its walls 
 seemed to glow within the dark circle of trees. The 
 air had freshened in the warm, sweet gusts of the ap- 
 proaching night and as Mr. Barker trudged heavily 
 up the drive he smelt the grass around him as though 
 knee-deep in dewy fields. Not a light shone upon the 
 sombre face of the house. At the best of times Mr. 
 Barker was not romantic. Romance would have 
 frightened him, it would have smacked of the scarlet 
 woman. But at the present moment he noticed noth- 
 ing at all. He only wanted to get to the house and 
 deliver his message. 
 
 He reached the door at last and ringing the bell 
 he waited patiently. He heard steps coming towards 
 him in the hall, but before the door could be opened 
 
 28
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 a window was thrown up above him and a voice called 
 out, " Is this you, Hubert? " 
 
 " No, ma'am," answered Mr. Barker gravely. 
 
 Down slammed the window with a crash. At the 
 same instant the figure of a servant girl appeared 
 in the open door. 
 
 " I have come to see Mrs. Masham " said Mr. 
 Barker. 
 
 " Tell me first, it's about him, isn't it ? " whispered 
 the girl. 
 
 " Inform Mrs. Masham that a man is waiting to 
 see her," said Mr. Barker, looking straight in front 
 of him. 
 
 " Who is it ? " cried the other woman from the 
 top of the staircase. 
 
 " It's Mr. Barker, ma'am," answered the clerk, 
 raising his voice. 
 
 There was no response but he thought he heard 
 something like a stifled scream. Above him a door 
 shut loudly in the stillness. 
 
 " You had better come in," said the girl, scrutinis- 
 ing him vindictively. 
 
 He entered without saying a word. The door 
 closed behind him and the girl, pointing to a chair, 
 disappeared at once. The lamp had not been lit 
 and the flicker of the dusk filtered in through the two 
 long narrow windows of the hall. Mr. Barker did 
 not sit down, he did not even move from the mat. 
 
 29
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 After a time the girl reappeared and beckoned to 
 him to follow her. She led him upstairs into a big 
 room lit by one shaded lamp upon a table. And 
 there, behind the lamp, sat the lady he had come to 
 see. She was one of these handsome, fast-looking 
 women of about thirty-five who seem to reach that 
 age at a bound and to remain there for twenty years 
 or so, in short the sort of woman who looks at her 
 best in a foreign casino, where, in the Continental 
 style, she can wear with her high-necked evening 
 frock an enormous hat with a green ostrich plume 
 drooping over it. She was dressed expensively and 
 with an eye to her rather flamboyant cast of beauty. 
 But at that moment she was not looking her best; 
 she was looking distraught. Her eyes were fixed 
 tragically upon Mr. Barker. He inclined his head. 
 
 " Well, what is it? " she flung at him. 
 
 " Mr. Masham, ma'am, said I was to come myself 
 to tell you " 
 
 " Tell me what? " 
 
 " That he has been unjustly sentenced to eighteen 
 months' imprisonment." 
 
 " Ach ! " said Mrs. Masham, recoiling in her chair 
 and staring at him like a tigress. 
 
 " It is a miscarriage of justice," muttered Mr. 
 Barker. 
 
 In his baggy trousers, with his worn coat but- 
 toned across his chest, big, broad-shouldered, very 
 
 30
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 strong, with his fanatical eyes and the high cheek- 
 bones of a Scotsman, he stood stiffly before her, 
 like an out of work clerk come to beg for assistance. 
 
 Mrs. Masham signed to him to approach closer. 
 
 " Tell me everything," she gasped. 
 
 Mr. Barker told her everything. His indignation 
 made him eloquent. Mr. Masham seemed like some 
 Christian Saint encompassed by the armies of the 
 Fiend. 
 
 " And to-night they'll take him and put him into 
 that awful dress ! " broke suddenly from his listener. 
 
 " It is only the soul that is of importance, ma'am," 
 answered Mr. Barker ; " they cannot touch his soul." 
 
 " A convict," wailed Mrs. Masham. " Oh, my 
 God, my God!" 
 
 " Use that name in supplication, ma'am," said Mr. 
 Barker solemnly. " He is our one hope. Only this 
 afternoon I begged Mr. Masham, yes, ma'am, I 
 begged him to pray. There is comfort in prayer. I 
 I prayed on the 'bus on my way here and I felt 
 strengthened." 
 
 " You believe in prayer ? " asked Mrs. Masham 
 incredulously. She appeared quite recovered 
 strangely enough. 
 
 " I do, ma'am," responded Mr. Barker, his whole 
 face shining with renewed faith. " Oh, ma'am, I too 
 have known what sorrow is. But God's mercy is as 
 boundless as the ocean. He never forgets his serv- 
 
 31
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 ants. When my wife died He sent your husband to 
 comfort me. It was not what Mr. Masham gave 
 me, it was the knowledge that God had sent him that 
 was balm to my heart. My prayer was answered." 
 
 At these words Mrs. Masham involuntarily started. 
 
 " Yes, I recollect," she said slowly, looking at Mr. 
 Barker. 
 
 " And if you pray, ma'am, your prayer also will 
 be answered," added the clerk. 
 
 " Then you really are convinced of Mr. Masham's 
 innocence? " 
 
 '* I am convinced of it," replied Mr. Barker ear- 
 nestly. " Listen, ma'am. God's ways are not man's 
 ways. It is terrible that an innocent man should 
 suffer. Only be sure that God never does anything 
 unwisely. Yes, we must be sure of that. Oh, ma'am, 
 one must cling on to that." 
 
 Mrs. Masham was still regarding him intently. 
 
 " And so God sent Mr. Masham to you when your 
 wife died," she mused. 
 
 He did, ma'am." 
 
 " And now He has sent Mr. Masham to prison." 
 
 Mr. Barker did not answer at once. Again he 
 felt the awful cloud of doubt upon his heart. 
 
 " Perhaps it was the Evil One," he whispered at 
 length. 
 
 " Yes, perhaps it was," conceded Mrs. Masham. 
 " That's a way out of it. Ah, what a Father ! All
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 the same, when you pray, pray for me too, Mr. 
 Barker." 
 
 Mr. Barker bowed. He felt very uncomfortable. 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. Barker," her voice pursued 
 him relentlessly, " your argument seems to me to 
 amount to this, that every evil is balanced by some 
 sort of a good. God sends Mr. Masham to com- 
 fort you in your grief and then he sends him to prison 
 so that you may comfort me in mine. It's a simple 
 explanation, only isn't it rather jesuistical evil 
 that good may come of it? I've heard that in Russia 
 people commit crimes just to experience the joy of 
 repentance. But where does that sort of reasoning 
 land one? Can you tell me that? Besides, I ask 
 you, is the balance a fair one ? " 
 
 " The Devil is always prowling about, ma'am," 
 muttered Mr. Barker with most unusual irrelevancy. 
 He was bewildered by the turn of the conversation 
 (which seemed to find a vile echo in his own heart) 
 and he stood there helpless before her, feebly rubbing 
 his hands. 
 
 " Yes, he never stops prowling and prowling," he 
 muttered again. 
 
 Mrs. Masham could hardly keep herself from 
 laughing outright he looked so exactly as if he 
 were just going to produce a pen from behind his 
 ear. " So this is Hubert's clerk, is it ? " she thought, 
 staring at him with interest. 
 
 SS
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 The discussion had languished very suddenly. 
 The reflection of the lamp, widening in the dark, 
 seemed to enclose them both, as though they had 
 come there to listen and not to talk. 
 
 " Did my husband give you any messages for me? " 
 she enquired after a pause. 
 
 " He did, ma'am." Mr. Barker delivered them 
 awkwardly. 
 
 " I see. Well, when can you come and talk to 
 me about his affairs, Mr. Barker? Can you come 
 on Saturday? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " About five in the afternoon ? " 
 
 " Yes, about five in the afternoon," repeated Mr. 
 Barker. 
 
 He was turning to go when Mrs. Masham asked 
 quietly, " Did he give you the watch and chain, Mr. 
 Barker? " 
 
 " Indeed, ma'am, indeed he did. Here they are in 
 my pocket. And you, ma'am and that wreath 
 you sent I have not deserved anything like 
 this." 
 
 Mrs. Masham smiled. 
 
 " You forget that you are our friend," she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 After he had left the house, Mrs. Masham re- 
 mained for a long time sitting motionless in her chair 
 by the open window. She felt a delicious fatigue in
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 all her limbs and, slowly stretching herself, her supple 
 body seemed to tingle from end to end. The whis- 
 pers of the night, floating mysteriously into the room, 
 filled her with a vague, happy unrest. From time to 
 time half-formed pleasurable ideas seemed to rise 
 like bubbles to the surface of her brain. She made 
 no attempt to analyse them. A glowing, languorous 
 sensation had possession of her and she yielded her- 
 self completely to it. At midnight her maid ven- 
 tured to come into the room to ask her whether she 
 would not go to bed. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so," said Mrs. Masham in a re- 
 signed voice. 
 
 She allowed her maid to undress her without ut- 
 tering a word. But after she had left the room Mrs. 
 Masham did not immediately get into bed. Sitting 
 before her mirror she continued to gaze pensively at 
 her own image. She had wrapped a sky-blue dress- 
 ing-gown over her white night-dress and with her 
 hair gracefully arranged for the night, the powder 
 lying still upon her cheeks, she looked younger, more 
 blooming, more bewitching than a woman of twenty- 
 five. Her head was poised lightly upon her left- 
 hand, she breathed as easily and softly as a cat 
 dozing upon the hearthrug. A sense of well-being, 
 growing deeper with the advance of sleepiness, made 
 her sigh with content. In the mirror opposite she 
 saw the reflection of her charming features, of her 
 
 85
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 eyes, especially, with the long lashes that had been 
 so much admired and she noticed that the reflection 
 was smiling at her as though in pleasure. Mrs. 
 Masham did not know that she had smiled. " And 
 he is in prison to-night," she thought all at once. 
 Somehow it did not worry her very much. " He 
 must have been at it for a long time," she continued 
 critically. " Well, I wonder if it will change him." 
 She began to think of her married life. It had not 
 been particularly successful. On the other hand it 
 had been exactly what she always thought it would be. 
 It had not disappointed her. As a matter of fact, 
 Mrs. Masham had married " above her." Her origin 
 was obscure. She did not herself know whether she 
 had been born in Liverpool or Sydney. She had 
 had an unfortunate affair in Australia when she 
 was twenty and had come over to England with the 
 idea of cutting herself quite adrift from her family, 
 whose attitude towards their erring daughter struck 
 her as merely absurd. She had not heard from them 
 from that day to this and if she had she would not 
 have answered. She had not gone " on the streets," 
 which had been her first intention, because she had 
 speedily realised that there was no future in that. 
 Instead, she had become a waitress in some fashion- 
 able City tea-rooms. The life suited her. She had 
 quickly developed the arts that appear necessary for 
 this employment, the haughty yet familiar air, the 
 
 36
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 over-exaggerated lady-like voice, the enticing way of 
 showing rather more than the ankle by a mere flick 
 of the skirt. She had had innumerable trips up the 
 River at other people's expense and she was very well 
 acquainted with Brighton. Yes, the life suited her, 
 but it did not satisfy all her ambition. At the age 
 of twenty-six she had determined to marry. She 
 could have done so several times before because, be- 
 sides being very good-looking, she had always re- 
 tained that outward air of reserve and decorum which 
 quite fascinates sensuous young men. But it was 
 not until she met Mr. Masham that she could make 
 up her mind. Like many loose-minded women she 
 had certain curious ideals of a half-formed and 
 dreamy nature. Unknown to any one but herself, 
 one of the chief things that had decided her to be- 
 come a waitress at the tea-rooms was the thought 
 that she could lie in bed every morning, doing noth- 
 ing, hardly thinking indeed, but just letting her 
 thoughts roam at will through the voluptuously 
 romantic fancies of her brain. For some reason or 
 other Mr. Masham had appealed to these fancies. 
 Besides, she had ascertained that he was well-off. 
 He was then at the very beginning of his great 
 career and used to come into the tea-rooms every 
 afternoon breathing success and geniality at every 
 pore. She had set herself to catch him and it had 
 proved easy. Her devices were familiar and Mr. 
 
 37
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 Masham had capitulated at once. In a fortnight he 
 was at her feet. 
 
 " And I will not have to do any house-keeping at 
 all? " she had insisted, looking at him tenderly. 
 
 " Of course not. You can do exactly what you 
 like," had exclaimed the enraptured Mr. Masham, 
 " you can lie in bed the whole time if you like." 
 
 Before his future wife's gaze the real world seemed 
 to be opening at last. She had shut her eyes to con- 
 ceal from him a look of triumph. 
 
 " And let us live somewhere quiet, where we can 
 have a garden," she had begun again, "where we can 
 hear the bees early in the morning." 
 
 " Wherever you want, my darling," had answered 
 Mr. Masham, embracing her. 
 
 And so everything was settled according to her 
 wishes. She had never been near the City since. 
 Mr. Masham's passion for her had lasted fully a 
 year, and because of her discretion, her good-nature, 
 and her fine appearance he still retained an affection 
 for her. She knew beforehand that it would be like 
 this. She knew also that her own feeling would not 
 be permanent. But fortunately they had not got 
 on each other's nerves. She allowed him to go his 
 own way. His infidelities did not worry her in the 
 least. (It is not roues that women are frightened of, 
 but idealists.) She was sure of her position. She 
 was wise enough to make no mistakes. And with- 
 
 38
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 drawing herself, as it were, from the world, she fell 
 back more and more upon the vague, voluptuous 
 fancies of her mind. In her long dreams, lasting 
 from day to day, from year to year, she awaited 
 something something thrilling beyond words. She 
 was not impatient. The whispers were far-off, low, 
 vibrating within her soul. Moreover, she was rich. 
 She had attended to that. She had made him settle 
 money on her. She had always foreseen the possi- 
 bility of catastrophe, and he, too, had always foreseen 
 it and had been only too glad to settle the money. 
 It was a large sum, the outcome of an almost legiti- 
 mate speculation in Arizona copper, and it was in- 
 vested in the surest of four per cents. The very 
 house belonged to her. 
 
 Yes, she was safe. Was it this thought, perhaps, 
 that made her smile as she sat before her mirror, or 
 was it some other thought, unformed, light as the air, 
 strangely alluring? She did not ask herself. She 
 was getting sleepier every second. She felt utterly 
 at peace with the world. The shock of her husband's 
 conviction had, in fact, but ruffled the surface of her 
 life for an instant. As for the social stigma, that 
 did not worry her at all. She had not been reared 
 in those circles and in her heart such things meant 
 nothing to her. Their friends were people like them- 
 selves, men with flashy wives, bridge players and 
 motorists, the hopeless, unmagnanimous drones of
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 the new-rich. She did not care a bit whether she 
 ever saw any of them again " I shall lie in bed all 
 day to-morrow," she thought luxuriously. She rose, 
 divested herself of her dressing-gown, and after 
 standing for a minute looking down at her feet, she 
 climbed into bed and switched off the light. " Yes, 
 all day long," she thought again, smiling in the dark- 
 ness. . . . 
 
 It is a long way from Hampstead to Balham, but 
 after his conversation with Mrs. Masham Mr. Barker 
 had walked home the whole distance. He walked 
 quickly, observing nothing, reflecting gloomily as 
 he went. His interview with Mrs. Masham had only 
 deepened the cloud upon his mind. " Withdraw not 
 the light of Thy countenance," he whispered all at 
 once. A net of irreconcilable questions seemed to 
 open before him. God the Devil Divine Good- 
 ness ! He thought of his late master and of what he 
 was suffering at that moment. It filled him with an- 
 guish. His grief expressed itself in the forbidding 
 and stern expression of his face. He did not think 
 of himself, of his bleak future, he did not even think 
 of his five children, but he prayed that the frown 
 of God might pass away from " Thy servant Hubert 
 Percival Masham." He was single-minded, without 
 guile, and the complex nature of human affairs had 
 never presented itself to him before this day. He 
 had no resource but in prayer (couched in strictly 
 
 40
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 Biblical language) for his sorrows and for his 
 doubts. Of Mrs. Masham he did not think at all. 
 When he reached home he found everything in 
 darkness. The widow of the fishmonger who, for a 
 small weekly sum, had been in daily attendance since 
 the death of his wife had already retired to her 
 lodgings across the way. He was alone in the 
 house, because a few days before his sister had ap- 
 peared and carried off his children to her husband's 
 farm for their annual holiday. Groping his way 
 through the passage Mr. Barker descended the iron 
 steps that led into his little garden. Even there, 
 in the shabby patch surrounded by back-yards and 
 the blank walls of houses, the cool fragrance of the 
 hour had penetrated with its exquisite stillness. The 
 cries of a remote street-market came muffled upon 
 the ear just as night itself had softened all the 
 squalor of the scene into some magic labyrinth or 
 terraced wilderness. And upon Mr. Barker's heart, 
 too, a stillness had begun to fall, sweet and strange 
 out of the past. He stood for a long time looking 
 up at the sky. Tenderly floated the unbidden mem- 
 ories about him like passionate, faint whispers of 
 dead lips. Suddenly he trembled as though he had 
 seen a ghost and, all the spell about him shattering 
 without a sound, he went, very cold, lonely, and 
 despairing, back into the house. Before going to 
 bed he prayed for half an hour. 
 
 4,1
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 By instinct and of necessity Mr. Barker was an 
 industrious man. But with Mr. Masham's convic- 
 tion a great lassitude seemed to have taken hold of 
 him. When he awoke next morning his first thought 
 was this, " I must get hold of some work." But, as 
 a matter of fact, he made no efforts in that direc- 
 tion. He spent all the day digging in the back- 
 garden. And even when the next day came he could 
 decide on nothing. He dreaded his second interview 
 with Mrs. Masham. Without knowing it himself he 
 had become terrified at the idea of religious en- 
 counters. But, as the hour approached, he dressed 
 himself as though he were going to Chapel and 
 started forth. 
 
 He found Mrs. Masham sitting in her favourite 
 window-seat. She was all in black. Her face was 
 composed but the gesture with which she greeted 
 Mr. Barker and beckoned him to a chair was lan- 
 guid as with grief and the exhaustion of sleepless 
 nights. 
 
 " I hare a lot to talk to you about, Mr. Barker, 
 but I am weary," 
 
 Mr. Barker looked at her with solicitude. 
 
 " I can see no light anywhere." 
 
 " Providence is inscrutable, ma'am," replied the 
 calvanistic Mr. Barker. 
 
 " Is that only one way of saying it's blind? Why 
 should the innocent suffer with the guilty? " 
 
 ift
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 This was precisely the question Mr. Barker had 
 been asking himself during the last two days. 
 
 He knit his brows. 
 
 " You forget the Devil, ma'am," he answered 
 severely. 
 
 " No, I remember all you said. But I am not sure 
 that I understand you. Listen, Mr. Barker who 
 rules the world, God or the Devil? " 
 
 " God," responded Mr. Barker. 
 
 " Then God can be the Devil but the Devil can't 
 be God. No, don't stare at me like that, Mr. 
 Barker. I daresay I put it wrongly. Perhaps this 
 is better if there is a Devil it was God who made 
 him, because He is accountable for everything. Do 
 you agree to that? " 
 
 " Go on, ma'am," muttered Mr. Barker desper- 
 ately. 
 
 " Why, what more is there to say ? God has only 
 to speak the word and there would be no more wick- 
 edness, no more suffering, and no more doubt. All 
 would be as it was in the first days of the Garden of 
 Eden, and, made perfect as Angels, we should praise 
 Him unceasingly with loud shouts of Hosanna in 
 the Highest. That is the picture; and yet you 
 you who believe it is all possible try to excuse God 
 for making the world as it really is." 
 
 " I believe also in Original Sin," said Mr. Barker 
 unsteadily. 
 
 43
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " What, something that God has no power over ? " 
 
 " Certainly not, ma'am. God has power over 
 everything." 
 
 "Then how do you account for Original Sin?" 
 
 " It is born in man," said Mr. Barker with con- 
 viction. 
 
 " Yes, but why should it be if God is all power- 
 ful? " 
 
 " Because man is vile." 
 
 "Yes, yes, but who created man vile? God, of 
 course. Therefore it's God who is to blame." 
 
 " No, ma'am, God is not to blame. Man fell and 
 God punished him. Do not take God's name in 
 vain." 
 
 Mrs. Masham did not try to continue the argu- 
 ment but after a pause she remarked, " All the same, 
 it was unjust to punish an innocent man." 
 
 " There is still the life to come," insisted Mr. 
 Barker. " That's where everything will be made 
 plain to us." He looked at Mrs. Masham. " And 
 sighing and sorrow shall be no more," he added 
 gently. 
 
 Mrs. Masham cast down her eyes. " And if all 
 this is true, Mr. Barker," she replied very softly, 
 " do you think it likely that it will comfort Mr. 
 Masham in his cell as completely as it comforts us 
 here? " She did not wait for a response but added 
 immediately, " Don't be angry with me. You know, 
 
 44.
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 I speak to you like this because I trust you. It is a 
 comfort for me to speak, and I need comfort. Make 
 allowances for me, Mr. Barker." 
 
 " My powers of comfort are very poor, ma'am," 
 said the clerk. 
 
 He felt unable to speak, unable to mention the 
 word " prayer." 
 
 " I am thinking of my husband, Mr. Barker. Ah, 
 what suffering! Where is your God of mercy 
 now? " 
 
 " His face is hidden from us, ma'am," rejoined 
 Mr. Barker hopelessly. 
 
 " A God of Mercy hides His face from His own 
 children? No, no, that won't do! It's not a God 
 at all, it's a Devil. There's no such person as God. 
 It's all a delusion, a delusion, Mr. Barker, a 
 myth." 
 
 Mr. Barker reeled. 
 
 " Don't " he murmured. 
 
 Mrs. Masham seemed to be peering into his eyes. 
 
 " Don't, please don't blaspheme, ma'am," he stam- 
 mered, and he put out his hand as though to ward 
 off an evil apparition. 
 
 " Well, I leave you with your just and merciful 
 God," she said contemptuously, and she got up and 
 went out of the door. 
 
 Mr. Barker remained standing in the middle of 
 the room like a man under a spell. Through the 
 
 45
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 open French windows a bar of light streamed across 
 the carpet, enveloped his head in a cloud of dancing 
 motes carrying with it the scent of the bright sum- 
 mer. But he did not move. All his features were 
 contracted as in pain. And alone, very still, like 
 an outworn statue, he seemed to ponder the solution 
 of the Universe. After a long time he sighed, looked 
 round him timorously, and taking up his hat went 
 slowly out of the house. . . . 
 
 In the middle of the week Mr. Barker received a 
 letter from Mrs. Masham asking him to come and see 
 her on the following Saturday. It gave him no 
 emotion of any kind. His despondency had thrown 
 a kind of mechanical film over all his actions and 
 thoughts. He did not even answer the letter. He 
 knew that he would have to go. 
 
 He found Mrs. Masham sitting in the garden. 
 She received him with a smile. 
 
 " I asked you to come, Mr. Barker," she began in 
 a subdued voice, " because I don't wish you to carry 
 away a wrong impression of me. I am easily upset 
 nowadays. I have been through a great deal." 
 She paused a moment and continued in a more 
 natural tone, " And then we never did discuss busi- 
 ness after all, did we? And there's one more thing 
 what about yourself, Mr. Barker ? " 
 
 " About myself ? " echoed the clerk. 
 
 " Yes, about yourself. I have been thinking of 
 46
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 you. You don't look well. And have you got any 
 work yet? " 
 
 Mr. Barker shook his head. 
 
 " Ah, that's what I've been fearing, that's exactly 
 what I've been fearing," came like a pistol-shot from 
 Mrs. Masham. 
 
 Mr. Barker shook his head. 
 
 " Why, ma'am, its nothing," he expostulated. 
 " Clerks are always getting out of work. I've often 
 been out of work before. You don't understand." 
 
 Mrs. Masham leaned confidentially forward. 
 
 " Perhaps I understand better than you do your- 
 self," she murmured. " You are too humble to 
 realise that no one can do more than sacrifice all 
 they have for another. But I realise it. Don't you 
 remember that sentence in the Bible, ' Greater love 
 hath no man than that he lay down his life for his 
 friend *? It was written for the humble, Mr. Barker. 
 They never think it refers to them, but it does. I 
 know all about the Bible. I've had plenty of time 
 for reading. Shall I tell you what Christianity is? 
 it's a religion for the humble. That's why you 
 can appreciate it and I can't, and that's why you 
 can get consolation out of this God of yours." 
 
 " My God, ma'am? He is as much your God as 
 my God." 
 
 " No, Mr. Barker, He is not my God. I don't 
 want a God like that. I don't believe He exists." 
 
 47
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 Mr. Barker was silent. 
 
 " And what makes you believe He exists ? " added 
 Mrs. Masham. 
 
 " Faith," muttered the clerk. 
 
 " Ah, faith ! The faith which makes Hindus be- 
 lieve in their God, and Mohammedans in theirs, and 
 savages in idols is that it, Mr. Barker? Isn't 
 their belief founded on faith? " 
 
 " No, ma'am, on superstition." 
 
 " Really well, you ask a Mohammedan what he 
 thinks your religion is founded on." 
 
 " Mohammedans are no better than infidels, 
 ma'am," retored Mr. Barker severely, " even many 
 so-called Christians " 
 
 He stopped in embarrassment. 
 
 " I agree with you, Mr. Barker. But are you 
 quite certain that you are not also an idolater? " 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, ma'am," said Mr. 
 Barker with an effort. 
 
 " Why, just what I say, of course. But tell me 
 this, Mr. Barker ; even if it is all true, even if every- 
 thing is just as you believe, what do you Christians 
 really know about the Devil? You, yourself, you're 
 always talking about him, but what do you know? 
 That's what I should like to find out." 
 
 " We know this about him, ma'am, that he is the 
 author of evil." 
 
 "Well, but is he? Suppose you have all been 
 48
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 mistaken. Suppose it is actually the Devil who is 
 good and God who is wicked." She laughed out- 
 right at his air of shocked bewilderment. " Perhaps 
 you think I'm just saying this to tease you, but 
 indeed I'm not. No, Mr. Barker. But answer me 
 this, isn't there far more unhappiness in the world 
 than happiness? Of course there is. Every one 
 knows that. Now, if God was really good would He 
 have allowed such a thing? It's a simple question, 
 so please don't put me off with the life to come. 
 I'm tired of the very name. It's utterly uninterest- 
 ing to me. It's just as if you said, ' Let me kill you 
 at once so that you can enjoy all the longer rest in 
 that beautiful oak coffin with brass handles which 
 I saw at the undertaker's.' But seriously, Mr. 
 Barker, don't you think it's very unfair that we never 
 hear what the Devil has to say for himself ? We get 
 nothing but the other side of the case. The Devil 
 simply hasn't a look in. How do we know he's as 
 bad as he's painted ? He may be very well meaning, 
 only stupid like any ordinary bishop. I'm sorry for 
 the Bible Devil, he's such an awful bungler. He's 
 everlastingly making a fool of himself. How God 
 must laugh at him just think, he's probably 
 laughing at him now like anything. As for being 
 powerful, that's got nothing to do with cleverness. 
 It's only an accident, like having six fingers instead 
 of five. Gods don't create themselves, you know, 
 
 49
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 Mr. Barker, otherwise they can't always have existed 
 and if they didn't always exist then what was there 
 before?" 
 
 The perspiration stood on Mr. Barker's forehead. 
 
 " I cannot argue with you, ma'am," he said 
 harshly, " you have not even the faith of a grain of 
 mustard seed." 
 
 Mrs. Marsham laughed. 
 
 " What, more quotations, Mr. Barker? " 
 
 " My brain is bewildered, ma'am, I can't think 
 properly," muttered the other. 
 
 But Mrs. Masham, rising to her feet, seemed to 
 throw from off her the veil of mockery. 
 
 " I accept your rebuke," she said quietly. " It's 
 my abominable selfishness. I'm in an overstrung 
 condition, Mr. Barker. Forget all my stupid non- 
 sense. And now let us talk about yourself." 
 
 " Why, ma'am? There is nothing to say." 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Barker, there is a great deal to 
 say. There is, for instance, the question of your 
 getting employment." 
 
 Mr. Barker was silent. 
 
 " Then there is the question of your helping me 
 with Mr. Masham's affairs. I have a proposal to 
 make to you, Mr. Barker. You admit that you are 
 out of work. Then will you let me be your employer 
 for a few weeks? Will you let me put aside for you 
 a room where you can work every day ? " 
 
 50
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 " Is it really necessary, ma'am? " responded Mr. 
 Barker tonelessly. 
 
 " It is necessary. It's the only way we have of 
 helping Mr. Masham. Remember what you prom- 
 ised us both. And, once more, forgive me for all 
 my foolish words. I have suffered too much. I am 
 in such revolt against Providence. All my heart is 
 torn." 
 
 She had assumed in a moment a tragic and care- 
 worn appearance. 
 
 " All right, I will come," said Mr. Barker. 
 
 She gave him a look of gratitude. 
 
 " I was sure you would. And now we had better 
 say good-bye. We are both upset. I shall expect 
 you, then, on Monday at ten o'clock." 
 
 Mr. Barker bowed to her, turned, and walked 
 with long strides out of the garden. 
 
 " He flounders easily," she mused, watching him, 
 while all through her body there passed a thrill of 
 pleasant excitement. . . . 
 
 Mr. Barker did not sleep well, although he had 
 gone straight up to his room when he reached home. 
 He rose early and after he had made himself a cup 
 of tea he took his Bible and went out into the back- 
 garden. It had been his custom to do this on fine 
 Sunday mornings for many years. But to-day he 
 did not attempt to open the Bible. He just sat 
 there with it on his knees. It did not even occur 
 
 51
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 to him later to get up and make himself ready for 
 Chapel. In the drowsy, warm sunlight his head sud- 
 denly nodded forward upon his chest. He started, 
 opened his eyes very wide, and then let them slowly 
 close. At the same instant he was asleep. 
 
 He was awakened by the sound of steps. Turning, 
 he saw, framed in the doorway, the figure of Mr. 
 Pascoe, chief Deacon of his Balham Chapel. 
 
 "The Service!" thought Mr. Barker in a flash. 
 He had never missed it before. 
 
 Mr. Pascoe was a bearded, venerable man of about 
 sixty-six, dressed all in black, with black gloves, a 
 rusty black frock-coat, and shiny trousers. On his 
 head he wore an old silk-hat surrounded by a mourn- 
 ing band. 
 
 " You were not with us this morning, Brother 
 Barker," he began in a high, quavering voice. " Is 
 there illness in your home? The Lord be with you." 
 
 " There is no illness," muttered Mr. Barker sheep- 
 ishly. 
 
 Mr. Pascoe looked mortified. 
 
 " Then shall we see you to-night? " he asked in an 
 inquisitorial voice. 
 
 " Probably not," said Mr. Barker. 
 
 Mr. Pascoe turned up his eyes as though calling 
 upon Heaven to witness the backsliding of one of the 
 elect, but he made no reply beyond a sort of groan. 
 He sat down beside Mr. Barker and taking out his 
 
 52
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 handkerchief he carefully rubbed the inside of his 
 hat. 
 
 "You have been in sore affliction, my brother?" 
 he ventured. 
 
 " Yes, great affliction." 
 
 " God's will be done," said Mr. Pascoe fervently. 
 " I see that you have His Book in your hand. Ah, 
 what a Book it is ! In my grief, also, it has 
 proved a blessing. Where should I be now without 
 it? " 
 
 " Why, what is the matter ? " enquired Mr. Barker. 
 
 His aged friend looked very uncomfortable. 
 
 " The matter? oh, Brother Barker, I have been 
 through the most terrible trouble. All my sav- 
 ings '* 
 
 He stopped to wipe the rheum from his eyes. 
 
 " Everything has gone," he declared tearfully. 
 
 Mr. Barker was too dumfounded to speak. But 
 after a minute's silence he asked, " Do you find 
 much comfort in prayer, Mr. Pascoe? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, but just think what it means, brother. 
 Every penny I had put by for my old age, every 
 penny. There's nothing left." 
 
 " But does not prayer help you to bear it ? " in- 
 sisted Mr. Barker. 
 
 Mr. Pascoe was weakly offended at this remark. 
 
 " Why do you speak to me like this ? " he said, 
 trembling all over. " You are turning into a godless 
 
 53
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 man. If any one should sympathise with me it is 
 you, you Brother Barker. Isn't it to you I owe all 
 my misfortune? If it hadn't been for you I should 
 still have had my 200." He could not restrain his 
 tears. " You are to blame," he whimpered. 
 
 " I am to blame ! " articulated the astounded Mr. 
 Barker. 
 
 " Yes, it is all true. Didn't I put my trust in you ? 
 How was I to know your Mr. Masham was a swin- 
 dler? " 
 
 Mr. Barker was horrified. 
 
 " You invested your money with Mr. Masham ? " 
 he shouted incredulously. 
 
 " All I had my 200. Didn't you tell me once 
 that he was the best man you knew? " 
 
 " He both was and is," said Mr. Barker sternly. 
 " How was it you came to lose your money ? How 
 was it I knew nothing about it ? " 
 
 Mr. Pascoe clutched his arm. 
 
 " It was like this. I was going to put my 200 
 into an annuity. I'd been thinking of it for years, 
 and the longer you wait the more you get. Hadn't 
 I a right to do it? Hadn't I made it all myself? 
 Oh, my brother, it was the very sweat of my brow! 
 But my nephew you don't know him he's crafty. 
 'And where should I be then?' he thinks. What 
 wickedness there is in man ! He keeps saying to me, 
 ' Look, uncle, look at this prospectus.' How he 
 
 54
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 hinted and hinted ! I got so tired with his talk that 
 I took it from him at last. And there, at the very 
 top, was the name of that Masham of yours, that 
 brand fit for the burning. But what could I do? 
 Hadn't you praised him to me as a very saint? 
 What could I do, I say? " 
 
 He relapsed back into senile tears, which Mr. 
 Barker, who felt physically stunned, made no effort 
 to assuage. 
 
 " And now you speak harshly to me," he blub- 
 bered. " Where is your religion ? Oh, that I should 
 have lived to see this day ! " 
 
 " You ought to have consulted me," muttered Mr. 
 Barker. " I knew nothing of all this. Did you do 
 it in your nephew's name? " 
 
 " Yes, in my nephew's name," whispered Mr. Pas- 
 coe eagerly, as though in this question he perceived 
 a ray of hope, " altogether in his name. Brother 
 Barker, you will help me, won't you? " 
 
 Mr. Barker looked with commiseration at the old 
 man, in whose appearance respectable and secret 
 poverty was marked only too clearly. 
 
 " If I can do anything I will," he said haltingly, 
 without encouragement. 
 
 Frail and shaky, Mr. Pascoe got to his feet. 
 " God will reward you," he mumbled in his beard. 
 
 Mr. Barker did not reply. He had no hope of 
 divine rewards. He accompanied Mr. Pascoe to the 
 
 55
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 street without a word. But when he returned to the 
 garden he began to walk to and fro in frantic dis- 
 tress. The whole world seemed to be falling to pieces 
 in a cloud of evil. The godly and the innocent were 
 victims on every side. Wherever you looked wicked- 
 ness and misery reigned triumphant. And prayer 
 was useless that was the most awful thought of 
 all. The one pathway to salvation was closed. Or 
 was salvation itself a dream, a delusion? Disinte- 
 grating echoes of Mrs. Masham's conversations 
 seemed to creep and creep through his brain. He 
 went into the house, ate a few mouthfuls of food, and 
 started out to walk to Hampstead. 
 
 Mrs. Masham expressed no surprise at seeing him. 
 She was in a gentle mood and he, too, remembering 
 how she had appealed to him only yesterday, spoke 
 gently to her, stifling the agony of his heart, striv- 
 ing to soften the unconciliating rectitude of his 
 manner. He told her simply, in few words, the story 
 of Mr. Pascoe's loss, and glancing at him she knew at 
 once that it had not, by so much as a hair's breadth, 
 changed his opinion of her husband. 
 
 Mrs. Masham appeared to ruminate. " Yes, he is 
 dense," she was thinking. After a decent interval 
 she remarked, " It is very sad, Mr. Barker. What 
 would Mr. Masham say if he knew? How he loved 
 the poor and the rich. How he loved everybody. 
 Did you say this Mr. Pascoe had lost much? " 
 
 56
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 " Two hundred pounds the savings of his life- 
 time." 
 
 " And he is an old friend of yours ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, my oldest friend." 
 
 " All right. / will make it good to him." 
 
 Mr. Barker jumped up with a cry, to meet the 
 brilliant, shining eyes of the beautiful Mrs. Masham 
 fixed upon him. 
 
 " Benefactress ! " he stammered in confusion. 
 
 Never before had he experienced such a hidden and 
 inconceivable emotion of guilt. 
 
 " You shall have it to-morrow," said Mrs. Ma- 
 sham. 
 
 He tried to thank her suitably, but all he said 
 sounded unreal and stilted. Presently he got up to 
 go. 
 
 " You remember what you promised me ? " said 
 Mrs. Masham, rising at the same time. 
 
 " About my coming to-morrow? " 
 
 Mrs. Masham smiled. 
 
 " Yes, my friend, that's what I mean. But why 
 are you trying to run away so early? You have 
 never really seen my garden yet. Will you walk 
 round it with me? " 
 
 Mr. Barker bowed. He could not have expressed, 
 even to himself, the bewildered shame of his heart. 
 He felt that he must talk about Mr. Masham. 
 
 " When you write to your husband, ma'am," he 
 57
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 muttered, " be sure to tell him what you have done. 
 It will give him great happiness." 
 
 "Will it?" said Mrs. Masham; then added 
 briskly, " Come, Mr. Barker, you are not looking at 
 my garden." 
 
 The heat radiated from the high red walls. They 
 walked along the paths and, going through a door in 
 the wall, found themselves on the green slopes of a 
 lawn overlooking a little pond. All was peaceful as 
 the quiet of a dell in the midst of a pine-wood. 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. Barker," said his companion 
 all at once, " I think there is something very touch- 
 ing about your faith in Mr. Masham." 
 
 "Why so, ma'am?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; I just think there is." 
 
 Mr. Barker was not the sort of person to notice 
 grades of intonation, but he suddenly trembled. 
 
 " My faith in Mr. Masham is founded on facts," 
 he replied. 
 
 " Well, it is very touching," reiterated Mrs. 
 Masham. 
 
 Every minute of their walk had seemed more un- 
 bearable to Mr. Barker. He could not understand 
 what was happening within him. He felt as if some 
 insufferable guilt were penetrating into his soul. 
 He would have seized any opportunity for de- 
 parture. 
 
 Perhaps she realised this, because she remarked be- 
 58
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 fore long, " Well, I know you want to be getting 
 home now," and held out her hand. 
 
 He took it, let it drop as if he had been stung, and 
 went away without a word. 
 
 After he had gone Mrs. Masham settled down to 
 one of her long evenings of rapturous immobility. 
 All round her the scent of the garden, rising with the 
 dew, seemed like an intoxicating rare perfume out of 
 the East. The hours passed. The stars, coming 
 out in the sky, began to shine like faint harbour lights 
 across the sea. She was completely at rest. 
 
 " Yes," she thought suddenly, " as soon as his be- 
 lief goes, then everything goes," and, jumping up, 
 she went full of joy and gladness into the dark house. 
 
 On Monday morning at ten o'clock Mr. Barker ar- 
 rived for his new duties. He was conducted to Mr. 
 Masham's study where, with a pile of papers before 
 him, he continued working all day. At five o'clock 
 Mrs. Masham made her appearance and urged him 
 to go home. She had a few minutes' conversation 
 with him about what he had been doing and just as 
 he was leaving handed him a bulky envelope. She 
 did it quite simply. 
 
 " It contains the money," was all she said, adding 
 immediately, " I shall expect you again to-morrow." 
 
 " Yes very good ten o'clock," mumbled Mr. 
 Barker, too overcome to know how to answer. 
 
 He did not wait to go home, but hurried straight 
 59
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 to Mr. Pascoe. The old man lived in two meagre 
 rooms at the top of a flight of dark stone stairs and 
 he could always be found there of an evening por- 
 ing over sermons from the Free Library or knitting 
 comforters on a wooden frame of his own invention. 
 They were his only relaxations. He was reading 
 when Mr. Barker knocked, trying painfully with the 
 aid of horn spectacles to spell out comfort for his 
 ancient and stricken heart. Mr. Barker explained 
 what had happened and produced the envelope and 
 gave it over. But the old man seemed unable to com- 
 prehend. He had no sooner torn it open than he was 
 overwhelmed by the most violent trembling and great 
 tears began to roll down his face. He crushed the 
 notes in his hand and suddenly opening it he stared 
 at them with amazement and ecstasy. 
 
 " But here they are! Where did you get them? " 
 he stammered. 
 
 " I tell you, I got them from Mrs. Masham. They 
 belong to you now." 
 
 Mr. Pascoe shut his eyes. 
 
 " The Lord is my Shepherd ; I shall not want," he 
 quavered. Then, " Where does this woman abide, 
 Brother Barker? " 
 
 Mr. Barker gave him the address. 
 
 The old man was getting more excited every mo- 
 ment. " You mean to say you just went and told 
 her everything and she gave you the money? O 
 
 60
 
 Lord, my God, Thou art my Saviour ! Ah, well, she 
 knows it was my money. A poor wretch like me, too. 
 Listen, Brother Barker, I shall put it in the Savings 
 Bank. O Lord, Thou art indeed a help in time of 
 trouble! Brother Barker, shall we pray? No, I 
 must pray alone. My head seems to be going round. 
 I was sitting here and then, before I know where I am, 
 there's my 200 on the table. Brother Barker, you 
 are absolved from a great sin. God will judge us 
 all and me, too, and everybody. I was thinking, 
 * There's nothing but the workhouse now '- and, be- 
 hold, you were already knocking at the door. How 
 my heart beats ! God will reward you." 
 
 He got up, shivering like a little child after a 
 fright. 
 
 " Yes, God knows all our secrets," he whispered 
 vaguely. 
 
 Mr. Barker hastened to bid him good-bye. 
 
 " Shall I take a message from you to Mrs. Ma- 
 sham?" he asked, as he was going out. 
 
 Mr. Pascoe looked at him. 
 
 " No, I will manage that," he answered slowly. 
 
 Mr. Barker did not see him again to speak to for 
 some time. For now began for him several weeks of 
 hard work. Alone in Mr. Masham's study he toiled 
 ceaselessly from morning till night to bring order 
 out of chaos in all that remained of his former mas- 
 ter's papers and affairs. He had little enough to go 
 
 61
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 upon. Everything in the slightest degree incrim- 
 inating had been impounded long since. Still his 
 perseverance had some slight measure of success. 
 Moreover, he continued to draw up the first report 
 ordered of him by Mr. Masham. During all this 
 period he saw but little of the financier's wife. As a 
 matter of fact, he avoided her. And she, on her side, 
 was discretion itself. If she came into the study it 
 was only to speak formally to him on business. She 
 asked intelligent questions ; she even initiated lines of 
 research. And yet he knew that in their relationship 
 there was something that had not been there before, 
 something which her very reticence made all the more 
 significant, something born, as it were, on that after- 
 noon he had told her of Mr. Pascoe's ruin. How it 
 haunted him, this horrible, this hidden understand- 
 ing! He did not even know properly what it was. 
 But suddenly, in the middle of the most impersonal 
 conversation, their eyes would meet as though words 
 were just going to be said that could never be unsaid 
 again. Mrs. Masham would laugh and turn away, 
 while Mr. Barker, biting his lips very hard, would be- 
 gin striding up and down the room. She would be 
 gone so softly that when he looked up he was alone. 
 Mr. Barker would pass his hand over his face as 
 though he had been dreaming. " I must do some 
 work," he would mutter, " some more work," and he 
 would sit down resolutely at the table. But some- 
 
 62
 
 times after such a scene he could not work. He could 
 only stare at the door like a man bewitched. He had 
 to pull himself together with a jerk. Now and al- 
 ways he was assailed by the most awful of doubts, by 
 the most terrible suggestions of evil. He could ex- 
 plain everything by phrases but he could not still his 
 questioning heart. An argument went on within per- 
 petually, an argument aching like the stab of con- 
 science, forever traversing the same ground, forever 
 confronted by the figure of the innocent Mr. Ma- 
 sham. It was a dual argument, in which a strange, 
 forbidden horizon appeared to be emerging from 
 above the withered shadow of belief. Mr. Barker 
 dreaded human society. He seemed to live in a world 
 of phantoms. Truly he was deafened by the eternal 
 conflict of his doubts. 
 
 And Mrs. Masham, observing him from day to day, 
 knew every step of the journey. She knew that to 
 him she was no longer a mere factor in the problem 
 of Mr. Masham. It made her glow all over as she 
 sat amidst her darkening rose-bushes. More and 
 more she felt at peace with all the world. Since the 
 debacle no one had visited her, and she was glad of 
 it. She had never been so happy before. The hum 
 of the advancing summer used to wake her every 
 morning, and, lying with her eyes closed, she would 
 let the very essence of it sink into her body, pulsat- 
 ing as with new life. She thought of Mr. Barker, as 
 
 63
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 a painter thinks of the completed picture with the 
 first dab upon the canvas. She had almost forgotten 
 her husband. She felt no animosity towards him, no 
 malice at all, but for a long time he had been fading 
 out of her life and now his actual absence had com- 
 pleted the illusion. She was one of those women 
 whose past has no hold on them. Her reveries were 
 concerned with another kind of existence altogether, 
 with half-material glimpses of sun-lit isles, with emo- 
 tions of delight, with dreams of conquest, passion, 
 and surrender. She could not have explained why 
 it was that the incongruous Mr. Barker had become 
 the pivot of her desires. She was not interested in 
 explanations. They bored her. She took things as 
 they happened. If they were good she accepted 
 them; if they were bad she retired within herself, 
 listening, as in a trance, for the footfall of the hours 
 to come. Intrigue, alone, did not amuse her. She 
 was too imaginative. Her sensuous nature was 
 moored to the unsatisfied yearnings of romance. . . . 
 
 When, on the second Saturday after his instal- 
 ment, Mrs. Masham entered the study to pay him his 
 salary (she did this with great tact, leaving the 
 money in an envelope as though she had dropped it 
 on the desk by mistake), she found Mr. Barker star- 
 ing out of the window with his hands behind his back. 
 
 " I have finished my work here, ma'am," he said, 
 answering her look of enquiry. 
 
 64,
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 " Then you are not coming again ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am ; everything is now in order ; that's to 
 say as far as it's possible for me to put it in order." 
 
 "I thank you from my heart," murmured Mrs. 
 Masham. " But remember, Mr. Barker, it is only as 
 an employer I am losing you. As a friend you are 
 necessary to me." 
 
 " Of course at your service," blurted Mr. Bar- 
 ker indistinctly. 
 
 " Well, I should think so indeed ! What a strange 
 man you are, Mr. Barker ! " 
 
 " No, I am a very ordinary man," said Mr. Bar- 
 ker, not smiling in the least. 
 
 Mrs. Masham laughed more merrily than ever. 
 
 " Oh, but you are a strange man ; you remind me 
 of what shall I call it? a conspirator." 
 
 But Mr. Barker was not heeding. 
 
 " How often has Mr. Pascoe been here ? " he asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 She affected surprise. 
 
 " Mr. Pascoe ? How did you know he had been 
 here at all? I can't say how often several times. 
 He came to thank me and well, he keeps on com- 
 ing. We agree famously. I believe he's waiting to 
 see me at the present moment." 
 
 " He is," said the direct Mr. Barker. " I saw him 
 through the window five minutes ago. I'm always 
 seeing him. I think he tries to avoid me." 
 
 65
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 Mrs. Masham glanced at him. 
 
 " There may be a reason," she replied in a lower 
 key. 
 
 But Mr. Barker did not like the conversation. He 
 hated all this air of mystery and, most of all, he 
 hated himself. He wished he had never mentioned 
 the subject. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," he retorted ; " per- 
 haps he still fancies he has a grievance against me. 
 If that's so " He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Mrs. Masham smiled but she did not enlighten him 
 any further. 
 
 " Come and see me again soon," she remarked as 
 he was leaving. 
 
 Mr. Barker went home in a curious frame of mind. 
 He was abased to the very ground. He did not 
 know where to turn. He felt that things needed 
 straightening out and he did not dare to ask himself 
 why. He was horribly anxious to see Mr. Pascoe. 
 He resisted the desire for several days (during which 
 he did positively nothing but walk up and down his 
 garden), but one evening he suddenly took up his hat 
 and went round to the old man's lodgings. He found 
 him just finishing his supper, but, to tell the truth, 
 Mr. Pascoe showed no pleasure at his visit. 
 
 " You are never at Chapel now, Brother Barker," 
 he piped shrilly in answer to the other's greeting. 
 
 He did not wait for Mr. Barker to make any re- 
 66
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 sponse (what response was there?), but, jumping up, 
 he began to clear the table with quite unnecessary 
 noise. 
 
 " I wanted to ask you," said Mr. Barker, " how 
 it is " ("No, what am I saying?" he thought 
 bitterly.) "You are very friendly with Mrs. Ma- 
 sham now, aren't you? " he added in a steady voice. 
 
 Mr. Pascoe looked slyly at him, but all at once 
 redoubled his energy. 
 
 '* What is it you're saying, Brother Barker ? Oh, 
 these plates, how they clatter and clatter ! I wish I 
 had never bought tin plates." 
 
 " Is it true that you often see Mrs. Masham? " in- 
 sisted Mr. Barker. 
 
 " Well, I went to thank her. There, I've dropped 
 it now! What were you asking? Do I see her 
 often? I see her sometimes, of course. Oh, Brother 
 Barker, what a godly, upright woman ! Look how 
 I've dented it! That's the way these tin plates al- 
 ways go. Lord, help me in my small trials ! " 
 
 He stared ruefully at his friend. 
 
 " What has happened to you? " muttered Mr. Bar- 
 ker, more to himself than aloud. 
 
 But Mr. Pascoe, whose hearing seemed to have 
 grown abnormally acute, took him up at once. 
 
 "What has happened to me? Glad tidings, 
 Brother Barker, glad tidings. I have traversed 
 verily the Valley of the Shadow. But God, in His 
 
 67
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 mercy has remembered me. My heart is lifted 
 up." 
 
 Mr. Barker frowned. Mr. Pascoe's piety ap- 
 peared out of tune. Moreover, he felt quite sure 
 that there was something else. 
 
 " You have altered a great deal," he remarked 
 drily. 
 
 Mr. Pascoe went on buzzing about the room like a 
 fly. But he heard everything. 
 
 " Altered, you say? No, no, it is not I who have 
 altered, brother. You have altered. Oh, these cups ! 
 Yes, it is you who are different. You have become 
 very godless. How the dust gets everywhere! I 
 know I brushed this shelf only yesterday. Do you 
 hear? only yesterday I brushed every inch of it. 
 You talk about change, Brother Barker. May God 
 soften your heart." 
 
 Mr. Barker had had enough of it. He got up. 
 
 Mr. Pascoe was still running from corner to corner 
 with his duster. It was quite evident that he had 
 resolved not to hold any real conversation with the 
 clerk. The whole thing was a mystery to Mr. Barker 
 and nothing in it was more mysterious to him than 
 the fact that it should appear so momentous. An 
 old man in his dotage carried away by flattery and 
 good fortune ! Bah, it was absurd ! But he did not 
 cease thinking about it all night. His thoughts were 
 confused. Only one thing he saw clearly and that 
 
 68
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 was that this state of affairs could not go on. There 
 must be an end to it. Pacing in his garden in the 
 morning twilight he made his resolution. As soon as 
 the paper arrived he began eagerly to scan the 
 vacant-situation pages. Having marked suitable 
 ones with a blue pencil, he folded the sheet and went 
 forth to try his luck. The final result of it was 
 (and it took more than a week of trudging and re- 
 buffs) that he got the offer of a post as book-keeper 
 in some stores at a salary of 2.10. It was not bril- 
 liant but he accepted it at once. The very difference 
 from his past employment would close the old chapter 
 as nothing else could. And it needed closing tight, 
 tight, so that no whisper of the other world could ever 
 penetrate again. 
 
 Entering his little hall, on his return home from 
 this successful expedition, the first thing he saw was 
 a letter from Mrs. Masham. It was lying on the 
 mat, just where the postman had shoved it through 
 the door. The mere sight of it caused the blood to 
 rush into Mr. Barker's face. He picked it up, 
 opened it, and read that he was to call upon Mrs. 
 Masham at once. " Now this afternoon ? " he 
 thought breathlessly. He felt painfully excited, so 
 excited indeed that he was almost light-headed. At 
 the same time a formidable weight pressed upon 
 his heart. He found himself running to the sta- 
 tion. . . . 
 
 69
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 The meeting was a singular one. Mrs. Masham 
 opened the door to him herself as if she had been 
 awaiting his arrival. She did not speak, but immedi- 
 ately stepped past him out of the house and beckoned 
 him to follow her into the garden. 
 
 " You have been a long time coming to see me," she 
 said at last, and her voice, low in the still afternoon, 
 sounded very thrilling in Mr. Barker's ears. 
 
 " Yes, a long time. I have been trying to get 
 work." 
 
 " And you have succeeded? " 
 
 Mr. Barker nodded. He could only articulate 
 with difficulty and he noticed with terror that Mrs. 
 Masham was trembling. 
 
 " Does that mean I shan't see you any more, Mr. 
 Barker?" 
 
 Mr. Barker was silent. In spite of all his promises 
 to Mrs. Masham that was exactly what it had meant. 
 Their eyes suddenly met. 
 
 " I think it does, ma'am," he muttered hoarsely. 
 
 Mrs. Masham walked on a little way and stopped. 
 
 *' It's intolerably hot here," she murmured. " Let 
 us go down to the pond." 
 
 The heat was, indeed, terrific. In the last half 
 hour a singular change had taken place. The sky 
 had grown all leaden and was rapidly darkening 
 towards the East. Stagnant air drooped upon the 
 earth and quivered, parched and lifeless, over every 
 
 70
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 motionless twig and blade of grass. An unnatural 
 hush lay heavily upon the garden. Everything 
 seemed to portend a storm. 
 
 " Follow me," said Mrs. Masham. 
 
 Mr. Barker followed her. They went through the 
 further gate leading onto the lawn. Neither of them 
 spoke, hushed, perhaps, by the great warning hush 
 of nature herself. In passing down the slope Mr. 
 Barker happened to look at the house, only to catch 
 a distinct and fleeting vision of Mr. Pascoe's aged face 
 in an upper window. For some reason or other the 
 sight irritated him intensely. 
 
 " I see that you still have that old man visiting 
 you," he remarked. 
 
 " Yes, he comes nearly every day. He's here now. 
 I I didn't expect you so early." 
 
 Mr. Barker laughed, but it was not a very agree- 
 able laugh. 
 
 " Really, ma'am, I see no reason why we shouldn't 
 meet. There's no mystery, is there? " 
 
 " Perhaps not. Only he seems frightened of you. 
 And, who knows, you mightn't like to hear the truth 
 about his visits." 
 
 " Not like to hear the truth \ On the contrary, 
 that's precisely what I should like to hear. Tell me 
 the truth, ma'am." 
 
 He spoke bitterly. 
 
 " All right. Only don't be angry. The explana- 
 71
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 tion may strike you as rather sordid. He comes here 
 to to get more money. He's very persistent. 
 He's always at it. I suppose he thinks I'm a fool. 
 In a word, he's trying to sponge on me." 
 
 Mr. Barker gazed at her with open-mouthed dis- 
 may. 
 
 " What, you gave him all that money and that's 
 his answer! Mr. Pascoe sponging and begging! 
 How detestable ! Mr. Pascoe of all men ! " 
 
 Mrs. Masham pouted. 
 
 " Oh, that's nothing. You know, I never did be- 
 lieve in these religious old men. I don't give it a 
 second thought." 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me before ? " demanded Mr. 
 Barker. 
 
 " Because well, can't you guess why ? " and she 
 threw on him a glance so shy and burning that he 
 shuddered. " I wanted you to be jealous, if only of 
 an old man," she breathed. 
 
 Mr. Barker did not move or speak. Something 
 like blissful and poisonous honey seemed to seethe in 
 his blood. 
 
 " I am not acting now," she whispered softly and 
 timidly. 
 
 It was quite true. She was not acting. She had 
 never felt like this before in all her life. She did not 
 know what had happened to her. She would have 
 given all she possessed to hear that he loved her. She 
 
 72
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 had waited years for this moment and now, at last, 
 it was as if she could wait no longer. 
 
 Thus does woman's hatred of the abstract make 
 of romance itself only a form of patient discontent 
 until some Mr. Barker, at first merely exciting as a 
 contrast, shall have swept her past her conscious goal 
 in the sudden flood wrecking all the former bound- 
 aries of her desire. 
 
 " Oh, speak to me ! " she murmured. 
 
 But Mr. Barker did not speak. His thoughts 
 roared at him much too loudly. If there was no God, 
 no hereafter, no righteousness in the world then why 
 shouldn't he take her? If there was no good there 
 could be no evil and every one must think only of 
 themselves. Yes, why shouldn't he take her? She 
 would be his, and all would be forgotten, and he 
 would know that he had not lived in vain. All, all 
 would be forgotten. One word only and then for- 
 getfulness ! 
 
 Mrs. Masham, intent upon the moment, did not 
 understand. She had lost suddenly all her knowledge 
 of men. She only wanted to feel his arms round her. 
 The blushes came and went on her face as on that of 
 a young girl. 
 
 " Speak to me ! " she murmured again. 
 
 Her words stilled the tumult in Mr. Barker's 
 brain. What was the good of resisting ! He opened 
 his mouth to speak and at the same instant he remem-
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 bered Mr. Masham. Yes, strange as it may appear, 
 he had not thought of him before. Perhaps it was 
 that he had long realised (without admitting it to 
 himself) that her husband was nothing to Mrs. Ma- 
 sham. Well, and suppose that was the reason ! 
 Pretty reason, indeed ! Vile reason ! For in all the 
 welter of his thoughts Mr. Masham alone stood firm 
 upon the ground, a good man, just, innocent, his 
 benefactor. 
 
 "Your your husband?" muttered Mr. Barker 
 desperately. 
 
 And as he spoke it seemed to him, wrought up as 
 he was, that the spirit of the exuberant and burly 
 Mr. Masham was filling the garden. Here he had 
 walked on countless evenings, here his jovial shout 
 had sounded in the dusk calling upon his wife to join 
 him in his stroll. What memories! Nothing must 
 be undone! 
 
 " Mrs. Masham, what is to happen to him? " 
 
 She made a gesture of weariness. 
 
 " Never mind him it's you, you ! " 
 
 He heard her, and at her words the ghost of Mr. 
 Masham's presence vanished from the garden as 
 though his corporeal master had, in very truth, never 
 existed. Quick boiled once more the sweet poison in 
 Mr. Barker's veins. Again the shouts in his head, 
 but shouts of triumph, of certitude, and of accom- 
 plished victory. In the anarchy of a world without 
 
 74
 
 The Two Dependants 
 
 purpose there could only be yourself to think of, 
 only your own happiness and delight ! Look to your- 
 self, Mr. Masham! 
 
 She was so blind as not to read him even then. 
 She thought that, after all, he might yet slip from 
 her. 
 
 "What has my husband got to do with it? " she 
 asked him passionately. " Don't you know that I 
 hate him that I have always hated him? You 
 drive me mad with your chatter about his innocence. 
 Simpleton ! He's guilty, guilty do you hear ? 
 guilty as he can be ! He's a common swindler ! He's 
 been swindling for years. He's a scoundrel, a de- 
 frauder of widows, a man who would do anything for 
 money ! " 
 
 Above their heads the first clap of the thunder- 
 storm broke with a loud report and a few drops of 
 rain, large and viscid, fell and spattered over the 
 pond like grease. 
 
 Mr. Barker noticed nothing. He was staring at 
 Mrs. Masham. He never doubted her words for a 
 moment. 
 
 " Then, O God, Thou dost truly exist," he cried 
 all at once; " Thou art just and righteous and Thy 
 vengeance is upon the oppressor ! " 
 
 Mrs. Masham looked at him with eager, unseeing 
 eyes. 
 
 " I tell you he's guilty ; my husband, Masham, is 
 75
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 guilty. Oh, my beloved, forget him and come to 
 me!" 
 
 She tried to hold his arm but he shook her off with 
 horror. 
 
 " Begone, woman of Belial ! " he shouted with 
 frenzy. " God exists repent while there is yet 
 time ! I, too, will repent in sackcloth and ashes ! O 
 God, here on this spot I confess my mortal sin! I 
 implore thy pardon, and for him too, and for this 
 woman." 
 
 He turned and rushed from her, and the second 
 clap of thunder, breaking with a still louder ex- 
 plosion, drowned the cry of the woman he had left. 
 The rain swept down in torrents but he did not feel 
 it. God existed! So wildly did he run that he 
 nearly collided with a boy on a red bicycle who was 
 bringing a telegram to Mrs. Masham from the 
 governor of the jail informing her that her husband 
 had died that very morning from an attack of heart- 
 failure.
 
 MIDNIGHT
 
 MIDNIGHT 
 
 THE last strokes of midnight had hardly 
 ceased striking, loud or faint, from the City 
 Churches like echo upon echo of one enor- 
 mous chime, when Hazell, who had been writing stead- 
 ily at his desk, suddenly heard a knocking upon his 
 outer door. In the deep stillness succeeding the 
 momentary clamour, the little clock on the mantel- 
 piece, as though caught in an act of unpardonable 
 sloth, began to count twelve with guilty and feverish 
 haste. 
 
 " Midnight ! " said Hazell to himself in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 Whoever it was who had knocked must have come 
 upstairs as quietly as a mouse and be waiting out 
 there now ready to knock again. 
 
 " Who can it it be? " muttered Hazell, rising from 
 his chair. 
 
 At that instant it sounded again, the knocking, 
 more insistent and prolonged than before. 
 
 " Damnation ! " he exclaimed, and without more 
 ado he walked quickly into the passage and flung 
 open the door. 
 
 A man whom he had never seen before, a very polite 
 79
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 looking man of about twenty-eight, with a small 
 moustache and dark hair, was standing on the mat. 
 Hazell held the door open, pausing for him to say 
 something or other. It suddenly struck him that 
 his visitor was exactly like a clerk who has called 
 by appointment to discuss some business or other, 
 and he half expected him to introduce himself as such 
 ( " that little affair of the codicil, you remember," or 
 so forth), and instinctively he glanced down to see if 
 he were carrying the sort of seedy leather bag that 
 lawyers' clerks always seem to carry he was. 
 There was something quite absurd in the incongruity 
 of that bag. Hazell had actually an inclination to 
 laugh, but it was checked by the dignified expression 
 on the stranger's face. He stood before him with the 
 collected air of a person deep in thought. Suddenly, 
 without saying a word, he brushed past Hazell and 
 entered the room. " What the Devil is this fellow 
 up to ? " thought Hazell, following him angrily. The 
 man had gone over to the fire and was warming his 
 hands with his back to him. It was as if he were 
 awaiting the arrival of some one or other with whom 
 he had business to transact. It was most insulting. 
 
 " Excuse me, what is it you want? " asked Hazell, 
 leaning across the table. 
 
 The other turned and stared at him. 
 
 " What is it I want ? I want to know whether 
 you recognise me? " 
 
 80
 
 Midnight 
 
 " Certainly not. I've never set eyes on you be- 
 fore," snapped Hazell. He was thinking to himself, 
 " Pooh, this is a very old game to play ! " 
 
 " No, not set eyes on me," echoed the stranger dis- 
 tinct, weighing his words, " perhaps not that." 
 
 " For goodness' sake, explain yourself ! " broke 
 from Hazell, who was really losing his temper. 
 
 But the stranger only replied, in his even, dispas- 
 sionate voice, " Look at me more carefully." 
 
 Hazell regarded his curiously. No, the man was 
 a complete stranger to him. " Complete," he mur- 
 mured with conviction. He gazed at him, standing 
 so unexpectedly in the very room where all his 
 creations had risen silently into life. He felt 
 that he must fight against a sense of unreality 
 that was beginning to creep over him. Who was 
 this man watching him with such mysterious insist- 
 ence? 
 
 " Sit down," he said at length. 
 
 The stranger sat down but he continued to look at 
 Hazell in a very odd way just as though they had 
 some secret in common. 
 
 " I have been wanting to see you for a long time," 
 he muttered. 
 
 He stopped, as if in confusion. 
 
 " I say, don't you recognise me? " he stammered all 
 at once. 
 
 " No, I tell you I don't, if that's what you mean 
 81
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 but why are you shaking? What is it you 
 want?" 
 
 Hazell said afterwards that he had begun to feel 
 very excited. He saw that there was something 
 wrong somewhere. 
 
 " Eh, what is it? " he repeated in a loud voice, 
 thumping the table. " You don't expect me to an- 
 swer riddles, do you? Whoever heard of anything 
 so ridiculous! Do you know what the time is? 
 Twelve o'clock. Time I was in bed. Why do you 
 call at such an hour, and who are you ? " 
 
 The visitor placed his little bag upon the table. 
 
 " I've thought of coming to see you every day for 
 five months," he said, ignoring the question. 
 
 Hazell answered nothing at all, a faint and mali- 
 cious smile suddenly passed over his face. He must 
 have guessed how the other was going to begin. 
 
 " Do you remember that about a year ago you 
 published a book? " 
 
 " Oh, perfectly, thanks," observed the novelist in 
 a dry tone. 
 
 He felt quite in his element. ("Rubbing my 
 hands internally," as he called it. ) " This chap has 
 something on his mind," he thought. " Well, I pub- 
 lished a book," he added aloud in a mocking voice. 
 
 The stranger returned his glance without smiling. 
 He seemed to waive aside Hazell's irony. 
 
 " Listen," he began severely. " In dreams one 
 82
 
 Midnight 
 
 often has an eerie sensation of having experienced it 
 all before. Just as certain faces, perhaps the faces 
 of strangers, recall something familiar and yet elu- 
 sive. And you know, too, what it is to be on the 
 very point of falling asleep and to spring up Avith a 
 wonderful light bursting in on you a light flaring 
 and going out at the same instant? Have patience 
 
 that's a sort of analogy. When I read your 
 book I realised at once that if ever you were to meet 
 me in a crowd you would only have to look at me to 
 understand. Each time I read it I seemed to know 
 you better, I seemed to see your eyes glued on me, I 
 seemed to hear your voice telling me . . ." 
 
 " Mind what you say ! " interrupted Hazell sud- 
 denly. 
 
 The stranger rose from his seat, slowly ap- 
 proached him and then slowly retraced his steps. 
 
 " In your book," he murmured, " you unbare the 
 heart of a man who has committed a revolting crime 
 
 yes, just listen to what I say! you don't gloss 
 anything over, you don't make it romantic like some 
 psychologists would, but you -~- you explain." 
 
 " What's this? a confession? " Hazell cried out. 
 
 The stranger started. 
 
 " Confession ! What do you mean ? Who's talk- 
 ing about confession ? " he shouted. And be began to 
 laugh unsteadily. " A lot of nonsense ! What have 
 I got to confess? That's you novelists all over. 
 
 83
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 Living in a perpetual crisis. Every one has to com- 
 mit murders or something. I beg to be excused. 
 I'm an ordinary person." He seemed very irritated. 
 
 Hazell smiled. He felt that something was com- 
 ing out presently. " What's the good of all these 
 lies? " he thought spitefully. All the same he under- 
 stood. 
 
 " You didn't come here to tell me you were an 
 ordinary person, I presume," he remarked. 
 
 The stranger frowned. 
 
 " Suppose I've got better stories in my head than 
 any of yours," he murmured. " Suppose I've been 
 thinking to myself, ' I wish I could see that fellow and 
 give him some of my ideas.' Eh? Well, that's ex- 
 actly the truth of the matter. Here am I brimful 
 of ideas. I'm not a literary man no, thank you 
 but I've got the ideas right enough. Here's one. 
 Imagine that one night you were to arrive in London 
 very late and were to get out at Waterloo Station. 
 Imagine you had never been in London before. Well, 
 out you get and you begin to look about for some 
 place to sleep. You've only got a bag and very little 
 money. So you walk here and there through all 
 these streets of small houses. You don't really know 
 where you are. By and by you see * room to let ' 
 stuck up in a window. So you knock and a horrible 
 old woman peeps out from above and asks what you 
 want. You tell her you want the room and then 
 
 84
 
 Midnight 
 
 she bangs the window to and you hear her calling 
 out to some one inside. Steps keep going up and 
 down. And just as you begin to think ' There's 
 nothing to be got here,' she peeps out again and tries 
 to get a good look at you. ' What about that room 
 of yours? ' you shout at her. ' Coming, coming, all 
 in good time,' she calls back. Then slam goes the 
 window again and more talk inside and steps still 
 going up and down a whole regiment of steps. At 
 last down she comes and opens the door for you. 
 Begins to spin a yarn about the sheets being changed 
 or such like. You can't be bothered to listen to that 
 sort of thing. All the house is dark and quite silent. 
 Every one's gone except the old woman. ' This way, 
 sir, this way to your room,' she croaks. You stumble 
 up some beastly steps. * Why the Devil don't you 
 show a light? ' you ask. She strikes a match. Ah, 
 what a mean hole it is ! ' Here's the room,' she says, 
 * I'll light a candle for you.' You look round. It's 
 a big room, much bigger than you expected, and as 
 bare as a board. Whitewash on the walls. And the 
 old woman has melted away, gone before you can 
 turn round. You listen at the door. * Where 
 the deuce have all these people got to? ' you think, 
 ' suppose they come creeping out again like 
 rats.' . . ." 
 
 The stranger suddenly stopped. 
 
 " It's not much of a story after all," he observed in 
 85
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 a detached voice. " Besides, I think I must have 
 heard it somewhere. But suppose in that house, 
 quite out of sight, in a nasty great box full of saw- 
 dust, there was lying the bent-up, warm, naked body 
 of a man bah, it's all very odious now that I think 
 of it! I won't finish it. But here's another idea. 
 Imagine that a respectable person is just going to 
 bed in Russell Square one cold winter night when he 
 hears a terrific knocking at his front door. The 
 servants are asleep long ago. Down he runs, un- 
 fastens the door, and into the hall there staggers a 
 man dripping wet, all his clothes oo/ing with water, 
 liis boots squelching over the Turkey carpet. An 
 outrageous person. Both are speechless, one with 
 astonishment, the other for lack of breath. The in- 
 truder is a man like a sailor only not really like a 
 sailor. He has a beard. And do you know what he 
 wants the other man to do? He wants him to sew 
 some bank notes into the lining of his coat. Of 
 course the story's absurd because no one ever knows 
 who he is or anything about him. That's the whole 
 point. And then, just think, he makes the respect- 
 able householder take charge of a manuscript for 
 him. And it appears afterwards that the manu- 
 script is utterly unimportant (something about 
 beetles in Yucatan, very amateurish) and has noth- 
 ing to do with the story at all. Really, I don't know 
 why one should bring it in. But, at any rate, sev- 
 
 86
 
 Midnight 
 
 eral years later a letter comes from Australia de- 
 manding its return and saying nothing about any- 
 thing else, and that's the end." 
 
 It was evident that the stranger was hardly listen- 
 ing to his own words. 
 
 " I say," he remarked all at once, as though a no- 
 tion had just occurred to him, " do you ever have 
 fearful dreams? I do. The other night I dreamed 
 that I was gazing at the fire and suddenly, as I gazed, 
 I could see that the whole affair was gently moving 
 up and down like a person breathing. That's very 
 extraordinary, I thought. So I looked closer and 
 I saw that inside the fire, in the very centre of the 
 coals, there was stuck the enormous white face of a 
 pig ah, you never saw anything so white ! and 
 that it was breathing slowly and evenly and winking 
 at me in the highest good humour. It j ust seemed to 
 say, * I get three hours all to myself every afternoon 
 and I spend the whole of it drinking lemonade.' How 
 disgustingly silly ! I woke myself up double quick, 
 I can tell you. But it's no good bothering about 
 dreams. Only last night I dreamed that I was talk- 
 ing to Louis XIV, and it was very dull. He would 
 hold forth on etiquette and * le pauvre Roi d'Angle- 
 terre,' as he called him. I was frightfully bored. 
 I wanted to hear something about his ladies. 
 Finally, I could stand it no longer. * Come, do dry 
 up ! ' I bellowed. You would have laughed to see his 
 
 87
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 expression. His eyes positively bulged. * Excuse 
 me, that's quite improper,' he mumbled, ' I must go 
 and consult the Chef du Protocol.' At that I simply 
 guffawed, because every one knows that the Chef du 
 Protocol is an institution of the Third Republic. 
 Fancy Louis XIV making such a howler ! I was ac- 
 tually laughing when I woke up." 
 
 " I daresay you were," observed Hazell by way of 
 saying something. 
 
 " Yes, I was laughing quite out loud. There were 
 the tears running down my cheeks. It was the most 
 preposterous thing." 
 
 Although the stranger spoke like this about his 
 dream, the recollection of it did not really seem to 
 amuse him. On the contrary, his face had grown 
 more and more sombre. He suddenly looked keenly 
 and, as it were, darkly at Hazell. 
 
 "That's all rot that I've been telling you," he 
 muttered. 
 
 " Well, of course," assented Hazell politely and as 
 though it were not a point worth discussing. 
 
 The other bit his lips. 
 
 " So much for dreams then," he conceded. " And 
 as for short stories Pooh ! I daresay you think 
 that any ass could go on plotting short stories for- 
 ever. So they could. Don't you know what the 
 Frenchman said about ideas? It's when you get to 
 something big that the difficulty comes in. So just 
 
 88
 
 Midnight 
 
 let me tell you that I've planned the whole scheme of 
 a long novel. It's not easy to explain, but it's about 
 a man in the tropics, entangled physically and men- 
 tally in a vast maze of lagoons. If you can under- 
 stand, the story is like a sort of realistic Lady of 
 Shallot. That's the great thing about it it's ab- 
 solutely realistic ; and yet, in a way, it's not realistic 
 at all. It'll be very lengthy. And every day, as he 
 rows by himself far from land and gazes at his image 
 reflected eternally in the water, gorgeous ideas flood 
 his brain, washing slowly over it as the tide washes 
 over the seaweed of the pools. You needn't laugh 
 it won't be a bit like Robinson Crusoe. And the la- 
 goons stretch endlessly, for miles, right out to sea, 
 divided by low coral ridges, a sort of mirror of lovely 
 and poisonous calm. I assure you it will be the most 
 realistic novel ever written. Do you find that hard 
 to believe? You see, all I've told you is only a kind 
 of background. The real story has to do with an 
 escape. And, do you know, in spite of what I said 
 before, I'm going to write this story myself one of 
 these days. It'll be awfully thrilling. At any rate, 
 I may write it. I can't say. Certainly no one else 
 would be able to, for I'm sure I could never even 
 explain my idea properly to any one else. Well, 
 never mind." 
 
 He stopped abruptly. It seemed to Hazell that 
 he had been making intense efforts all this time to
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 keep off a subject close to his mind. He was ob- 
 viously very uneasy. 
 
 " Look here," he began after a silence of nearly a 
 minute, " what you novelists ought to do is to write 
 idealistic stories. That's my real belief. For years 
 I've been haunted by one scene. Imagine some great 
 park in the South of England stretching round an 
 old red-brick Tudor mansion. All is still. It's 
 nearly ten o'clock on a June evening and it's getting 
 quite dark. There's a sort of glow in the sky. And 
 somewhere by the chestnut trees the owner of it all 
 is walking with the girl he loves ; and she loves him. 
 They don't speak, they listen to the silence. And in 
 the sky the last glow is fading away." 
 
 He made a gesture of despair. 
 
 " It strikes you as very commonplace, I daresay," 
 he added presently, " but don't you realise the point? 
 It's happiness I'm thinking of ! Happiness ! " 
 
 He rested his head in his hands. 
 
 " I don't know why it is I go on talking like this," 
 he continued wearily. " I really came here to dis- 
 cuss your book with you. Yes, it was an extraor- 
 dinary book. Sometimes as I read it I felt con- 
 vinced that you must know all about me. I thought 
 that if you were to see me you would immediately ap- 
 proach and say to me, ' Look, there is no crime, how- 
 ever abominable, that cannot be understood.' I went 
 further I persuaded myself that you were at that 
 
 90
 
 Midnight 
 
 very instant on your way to me. I would close your 
 book and listen for your footsteps without, for the 
 ring of your bell. . . . And at last, I have sought 
 you here. . . .'* 
 
 " Hum, he's a criminal, is he? " thought Hazell. 
 His interest was rising from moment to moment. 
 
 " I conceal nothing," murmured the stranger 
 as slowly as though the words were being hauled out 
 of a well. 
 
 Hazell got up and immediately sat down again. 
 
 He told me that at that instant he would have given 
 worlds for the man to have gone at once. His inter- 
 est was all frozen within him. 
 
 " Let me advise you to be careful," he mur- 
 mured. 
 
 " Come, that's enough ! I'm sick of telling lies. 
 Will you listen to me or not? " interrupted the 
 stranger suddenly in a loud and unpleasant tone. 
 
 Hazell tried to smile but it was not very success- 
 ful. He nodded his head. 
 
 They continued to regard one another for several 
 minutes without a word being spoken. Between them, 
 on the table, the bag appeared all at once, monstrous, 
 sinister, filling the whole room. 
 
 " Why do you write about crime ? " asked the 
 stranger at length. 
 
 Hazell shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Why not ? " he replied vaguely, " it's interest- 
 91
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 ing." He was not thinking of the question but of the 
 questioner. 
 
 " .Well, I'm going to tell you of a crime. But 
 don't be misled beforehand. Nothing interesting 
 there. It's in books that crime is interesting, only in 
 books. Like disease. Crime and romance. . . ." 
 
 He looked at Hazell again. 
 
 " I I am the man who " 
 
 " Stop, no names ! " exclaimed the novelist rap- 
 idly. " No names, I say ! Tell it to me without 
 names." 
 
 The stranger suddenly laughed, only to be im- 
 mediately silent. His face had become extremely 
 gloomy. 
 
 " It was jealousy," he said in a low voice. " A 
 horrible story. Most horrible. By a lake at 
 night do you remember? " 
 
 "You didn't?" began Hazell. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The stranger got up from his seat, trembling all 
 over. 
 
 " I strangled her," he added in a whisper. 
 
 Hazell, who felt very cold, cast a glance at the bag. 
 
 " These pigeons you recollect ? I laughed at 
 them," proceeded the other in a dazed voice ; 
 " laughed at them it was just before isn't that 
 what madmen do ? " 
 
 92
 
 Midnight 
 
 He sank back in his chair, covering his face with 
 both hands. 
 
 "Pigeons? what pigeons are you talking 
 about?" muttered Hazell. But after a minute he 
 continued hurriedly, " If you had been in your right 
 mind you would never have done this." 
 
 His visitor looked contemptuously at him. 
 
 " Don't you know better than that ? " was all he 
 said. 
 
 " Then why did you come here ? " 
 
 " Why? Remorse that's why ! Agony, torture 
 isn't that enough ? I don't want absolution, I 
 want a reason, I want you to tell me, to tell me. . . ." 
 His eyes were positively glaring. " You, who know 
 about these things, tell me ! " 
 
 Hazell did not reply. 
 
 " You don't say anything," supplemented the 
 other, " but I know what you're thinking. 
 You're thinking that there are innumerable shades 
 of sanity, motive, self-consciousness, responsibility, 
 and so on you mean to trot them out for my 
 benefit. You needn't! I know everything about 
 that. Some people say that all crime is a disease 
 and that therefore you cannot be responsible even 
 though you know you are. What rubbish! Soph- 
 istry! Besides, pardon my saying it, but how can 
 you be sure that I'm not concealing something from 
 
 93
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 you all the time or tingeing what I tell you with some 
 sort of a bias? " 
 
 " I can't be sure perhaps you are," murmured 
 Hazell. 
 
 " Yes, but what then? " insisted the other dis- 
 tractedly, " the fact remains, oh, that remains ! " 
 
 " I know," said Hazell ; and he proceeded firmly, 
 " there is something much more important than sub- 
 tleties. Whatever you could tell me, still I know 
 quite well that you were not in your right mind." 
 
 " I you mean ? you are sure ? " muttered the 
 stranger in great agitation. " No, it's nonsense ! 
 Get away with all that talk! Get away with it! 
 It's real what I'm telling you ! Look, here in this 
 bag ." And he made as though to open it. 
 
 Hazell was seized with horror. He had been 
 guarding against this from the very beginning. 
 
 " Don't ! " he shouted " you leave that bag 
 closed ! Do you hear ? Put it down ! " 
 
 They remained, the two of them, staring insanely 
 at one another. 
 
 " No need for that," said Hazell with difficulty. 
 
 He began to walk up and down before the motion- 
 less and seated stranger. Suddenly he stopped in 
 front of him and asked in a singular voice, "Why 
 was it you came here with that bag? " 
 
 " You you know quite well." 
 
 " Yes, I know quite well," answered Hazell, who 
 94
 
 Midnight 
 
 had approached his face very close to that of the 
 other man, " I know quite well, but I want you to 
 tell me." 
 
 " Because you, alone, can explain." 
 
 " Yes, yes, but the bag, the bag ! Think ! " 
 
 Their faces were almost touching. 
 
 "Attend to me!" said Hazell at last. "You 
 bring evidence. Why do you do that? " 
 
 The other remained obstinately silent. 
 
 " Shall I tell you? " proceeded Hazell in a new 
 and authoritative tone. " Shall I tell you why you 
 have not destroyed that evidence? Shall I tell you 
 why you took it ? " He did not wait for a response 
 but added immediately, " You took it because you 
 knew that some day or other you would confess." 
 
 The man rose and approached Hazell. His whole 
 face had become wonderfully bright. 
 
 " I say, just repeat that," he murmured, with an 
 idiotic smile. 
 
 " You have all along intended to confess," said 
 Hazell gravely. 
 
 " You swear it? " 
 
 " Yes, I swear it." 
 
 " God, Thou hast not totally deserted me ! " cried 
 his visitor: "Thou art merciful blessed, blessed 
 be Thy name!" 
 
 A rapturous expression had overspread his face. 
 Hazell waited for what would happen. He did not 
 
 95
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 know why what he had just said should so have 
 lightened the murderer's heart. But his psycho- 
 logical instinct had been true. That's where these 
 novelists have the pull. 
 
 By now the stranger was walking impetuously up 
 and down the room. " Oh, I cannot speak ! " burst 
 from him. " You have washed away all my bitter- 
 ness. What does anything matter now that I am 
 at rest? To-morrow I shall confess all. Let me 
 go! " 
 
 Hazell let him go forth without a word. 
 
 The most inconceivable part of this story is really 
 the end. Would you believe it ? Hazell never 
 tried to find out anything further. So he says, at 
 any rate. He never even read the paper on the fol- 
 lowing days. Amazing man ! It seemed to him that 
 he knew enough. What could details tell him? Be- 
 sides, you understand, an artist must keep his at- 
 mosphere intact. (Forgive my cynicism.) To this 
 day he is not certain whether the stranger did ac- 
 tually confess or not he is not even certain 
 whether he had anything to confess. (By the way, 
 are you?) Perhaps he thinks he was an escaped 
 lunatic. I repeat, Amazing man ! His idea is suf- 
 ficient for him. He won't discuss the matter or 
 allow any one to tell him anything. But I strongly 
 suspect that he may make use of it one of these days 
 
 96
 
 Midnight 
 
 in a book (again I must crave your forgiveness) 
 for I notice that he is beginning to be known as 
 " Our English Dostoievsky." 
 
 97
 
 HIS KINGDOM
 
 HIS KINGDOM 
 
 I HAD gone into the store to buy a pound of 
 bacon and was rather surprised to find the 
 equable Mrs. Klip in a state of open revolt 
 against destiny. It is true that her late husband 
 had failed on three separate occasions and that she 
 had been left a widow only a year ago with six small 
 children and debts sufficient to warrant a fourth 
 bankruptcy, but, knowing her as I did, I should 
 never have expected a word of complaint. 
 
 " No, I can't stand it any longer," she exclaimed, 
 as she rolled the bacon in a piece of paper. 
 
 " Can't stand what, Mrs. Klip? " I enquired po- 
 litely. 
 
 " The whole thing," she replied with indigna- 
 tion. " Think of it, Mr. Brown has taken to drink 
 now ! " 
 
 " Mr. Brown taken to drink ? " I repeated incred- 
 ulously. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Brown," she insisted bitterly. " He's 
 liquoring up in the back-room at the present mo- 
 ment." 
 
 I was greatly shocked. I couldn't imagine Mr. 
 101
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 Brown " liquoring up " anywhere. He was not that 
 sort of person at all. " Why, he must be nearly 
 sixty," I said to myself not, indeed, that age is 
 any criterion of respectability but I was thinking 
 rather of his grave deportment and assured posi- 
 tion. For in the short time he had been with Mrs. 
 Klip (he had appeared from some remote corner of 
 the Orange Free State in reply to her advertise- 
 ment) he had become universally esteemed and had 
 managed the store so commendably that he had suc- 
 ceeded in staving off the fourth bankruptcy. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Klip, what can have happened to him ? " 
 I stammered. 
 
 " He's broken out, that's all," she replied vin- 
 dictively. 
 
 Mr. Brown " broken out " it was a horrible 
 thought! For I must tell you that I had a high 
 opinion of Mr. Brown and considered him one of my 
 friends. At first, it is true, I had been rather re- 
 pelled by the cold propriety of his bearing (so dif- 
 ferent to that of the late Klip), but, happening one 
 day to enter the store as he was giving an extremely 
 graphic description of how to eat a naartje, I had 
 suddenly taken a liking to him and had resolved to 
 " draw him out." I had not been very successful in 
 the ordinary sense, that is to say I had learned 
 nothing of Mr. Brown's personal history, but I 
 wouldn't have missed the experience for anything. 
 
 102
 
 His Kingdom 
 
 Mr. Brown was a very remarkable man. Many a 
 Sunday walk we had taken together over the veldt or 
 along the reedy banks of the river. He would never 
 come to my farm but we used to meet by appoint- 
 ment outside the store. He would wait for me there 
 beneath the shadow of the loquot tree. Standing 
 very still, with his eyes fixed upon the distance, he 
 had an absorbed and venerable appearance. In his 
 slouch hat and with his long grey beard he looked 
 more like a Boer patriarch than an Englishman. I 
 used to come upon him suddenly round a corner of 
 the road. He was invariably alone. Mrs. Klip and 
 her six children would be sleeping after their Sunday 
 dinner, her sister, the post-mistress, would be " carry- 
 ing on," out of sight, with one of her young men, 
 while even that famous bore (and retired school- 
 master) Mrs. Klip's father, would be dozing in his 
 patch of garden at the back with a pipe between his 
 lips. 
 
 Mr. Brown would greet me without a smile and to- 
 gether we would start walking across the veldt. He 
 was fond of discussing matters of botany and natural 
 history. " I have studied these questions a little," 
 he would add apologetically. The excuse was quite 
 superfluous he was an expert. 
 
 " Three things have been named after me," he 
 once confided in a moment of expansion, " one of 
 your Cape heaths, the son of a chief, and a cray- 
 
 103
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 fish from the Zambesi it was a long time ago." 
 
 " You have been a collector ? " I hazarded. 
 
 " Amongst other things," he answered drily. 
 
 I did not press the subject. 
 
 He had a habit of stopping suddenly, after a long 
 spell of silent walking, and of flourishing his hand 
 round the whole circuit of the valley. 
 
 " I often think," he would say, " that one day 
 some one will arise who will be able to give a voice 
 to all this." 
 
 He would nod his head, digging his stick into the 
 dry earth of the veldt. 
 
 " I wonder," he would add pensively. 
 
 He was not given to following out aloud such 
 trains of fancy. That, perhaps, was why he ap- 
 peared so enigmatic to me. For, after all, though 
 he had not told me his history I could guess at that. 
 South Africa is full of wandering Englishmen, edu- 
 cated men, men of ability, who have lost every home- 
 tie and who have grown old in failure. One soon 
 gets used to them. And yet Mr. Brown did not quite 
 fit the picture there was no trembling about his 
 mouth, no talk of former importance (if you except 
 the story of the Zambesi crayfish, etc.), no hauteur 
 ending in sentimental tears. He was one of the 
 few men I have ever known whose dignity was a com- 
 plete protection. He would serve Cape Boys with 
 the same air with which he might have greeted the 
 
 104?
 
 His Kingdom 
 
 President of the Royal Society. His manner was, 
 at once, cheerful and reticent. Mrs. Klip and her 
 family adored him and even Mrs. Klip's father, who 
 had never been known to talk about any one but him- 
 self, once observed to me at the end of a long con- 
 versation that Mr. Brown was " an excellent listener 
 and full of agreeable information." As this remark 
 appeared to have nothing to do with the subject in 
 hand, I suppose it may very well have been aimed at 
 me, but all the same, considering the source, I re- 
 gard it as a singular piece of testimony. Yes, no- 
 body knew anything about Mr. Brown and every- 
 body respected him. You may well ask why. In 
 the natural course of events he was just the sort of 
 man South Africans would have looked askance at. 
 Probably I was the only person who knew that he 
 was learned, a philosopher, a man of imagination, 
 but I think he impressed every one by his personal- 
 ity. And that's the great secret of power after all, 
 this genius that comes to one without effort, this 
 magnetic influence which can make him a man or or 
 destroy him. . . . 
 
 Still, if he did not quite fit the picture, it was 
 probable, all the same, that he did belong to the 
 great category of South African failures. As we 
 walked leisurely across the veldt I would give him an 
 occasional side-glance, trying to pierce, so to speak, 
 his everlasting reserve. All in vain. He would 
 
 105
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 make these rather strange remarks of his without so 
 much as turning a hair. He was an enigma. I 
 would as soon have thought of asking him intimate 
 questions about himself as I would have of knocking 
 him on the head. Being with him was like being 
 with a monarch (a monarch who would have been 
 delighted to sell you some tinned asparagus) you 
 instinctively waited for him to suggest subjects of 
 conversation. It sounds absurd, I daresay, but it's 
 quite true. 
 
 I remember that one Sunday afternoon we had 
 wandered down to the river and finding a yellow bank 
 of sand between the reeds had sat there watching the 
 shadows deepen upon the mountains. We were later 
 than usual and the water, stealing by us in the dusk, 
 had grown indistinct before we rose to go. We had 
 not spoken for nearly an hour but at the moment of 
 departure old Brown said to me in that odd way he 
 had of talking apropos of nothing : 
 
 " On the slope above Cayley's farm, where they 
 are ploughing up the soil to plant vines, they have 
 found a number of stone arrow-heads." He paused 
 to make in the sand these eternal dim designs with 
 his stick. " An extinct race," he continued medita- 
 tively : " they have left no record, there is no history 
 in this land, and yet here, on the veldt, I feel the 
 passage of thousands of years." He waved his hand 
 over the dark valley on which the silence of the 
 
 106
 
 His Kingdom 
 
 African night had already fallen. " Thousands of 
 years," he muttered again in a low voice. I waited 
 for him to say something more. You know, one oc- 
 casionally has, quite illogically, these strange and ex- 
 pectant moments. Around us all was peaceful. 
 Over the darkness of the veldt the pipits were rising 
 and falling with their melancholy whistle. The river 
 gurgled in the reeds, the frogs croaked, and the great 
 mountains, black against the sky, appeared like 
 sentinels watching the valley. And I listened for 
 his voice as though suddenly I should hear words 
 that would illuminate the dark history of this ancient 
 land. Yes, I listened intently. And he said nothing 
 more, not a word. But he sighed deeply, as though 
 he, too, were very old and his past life all forgotten, 
 useless, and lost forever. 
 
 We walked home without exchanging a word. 
 
 For some reason or other this scene, especially, 
 had made a great impression on me. Every time 
 Mr. Brown sold me things over the counter I used 
 to recall it with amazement. It was not, perhaps, 
 so much what he had said as the feeling that he could 
 have said so much more well, I can't quite explain. 
 But, as I say, it used to make me look at him in 
 amazement, as he stood there serenely aloof behind 
 the wooden counter, with the rows of bottles level 
 with his head, and the smell of sawdust and cheese 
 filling the hot air. . . . 
 
 107
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 And this, this was the man who had been " liquor- 
 ing up " in the back-room ! No, impossible ! I 
 gazed at Mrs. Klip in bewilderment. 
 
 " You can't mean it," insisted. 
 
 Mrs. Klip shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " Go in and see for yourself," she recommended 
 disdainfully. 
 
 I passed behind the counter and through the 
 passage into a squalid room, which was in semi- 
 twilight and which appeared to be half bed-chamber 
 and half store-cupboard. Cases of mottled soap, 
 sugar, tinned milk, and bags of coffee were piled up 
 along one side and on the other was a truckle-bed on 
 which Mr. Brown was lying half-dressed. There 
 was something tragic and grotesque about his ap- 
 pearance. He looked tousled like a little wild man 
 of the woods caught in a trap. He lay on his back 
 with his grey beard sprawling across his chest and 
 one hand over on the floor clasping an empty bottle 
 of Cape brandy. He was talking rapidly to himself 
 and with his loose hand he kept making commanding 
 gestures at the ceiling. His face wore a severe and 
 almost majestic expression but drops of sweat were 
 hailing down his forehead and his dull eyes were 
 half closed. He had evidently not noticed my en- 
 trance. I couldn't make out what he was saying 
 but he seemed to be repeating words like, " My 
 future, my future ". . . 
 
 108
 
 His Kingdom 
 
 I went across the room and standing by his bed I 
 said in my ordinary voice, " What is the matter, old 
 friend? " 
 
 He looked at me for an instant without a flicker 
 of recognition and then turned away towards the 
 wall. 
 
 " Here's another of them," he muttered in a quick, 
 husky whisper, " here's another of them. Get off ! 
 I'm not the man you think. I'm Brown, Brown, the 
 Brown. Ha, ha! You ask them, you ask them up 
 there. They know me. Brown that's my name. 
 O Lord, my future, my future ! " 
 
 Suddenly he added in a totally different voice, 
 "Is that you?" 
 
 " Yes," I answered. 
 
 He opened his eyes and stared round at me out 
 of the corners. 
 
 " Hum, I thought," he began " have you been 
 here long? " And he wound up gloomily, " You'd 
 best go I'm not well." 
 
 " I shall call for you on Sunday as usual," I re- 
 plied cheerfully. 
 
 He did not answer and I went out of the room. 
 What a wretched business it was altogether! I felt 
 somehow that I should like to slink away and hide 
 my head. And coming out of the passage the first 
 thing I saw was the lugubrious and inquisitive face 
 of Mrs. Klip. 
 
 109
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " Well, I told you," she said, with a sort of dreary 
 satisfaction. 
 
 " Really, Mrs. Klip, you're mistaken," I responded 
 coldly. " I've been having a conversation with Mr. 
 Brown. He's ill. That's what's the matter with 
 him." 
 
 Of course it was no use my saying anything. I 
 knew Mrs. Klip quite well enough to be certain that 
 old Brown would " go," but I felt so savage that I 
 could have given her a good shaking. 
 
 " 111 ! " echoed that excellent woman with great 
 spirit. " It's the last time he'll be ill like that in 
 my house. And I trusting him so ! " 
 
 There was nothing left for me to do. Every one 
 in the valley was acquainted with Mrs. Klip's moral 
 code. It was all up with Brown as far as the store 
 was concerned. 
 
 I began to walk slowly homewards. " Yes, this 
 is how he'll end," I thought, seeing, as it were, the 
 whole of his future before me as clearly as the dusty 
 road. " Yes, in some miserable room in some God- 
 forsaken store back of nowhere." I, too, like Mrs. 
 Klip, felt rebellious against destiny. One knew what 
 would happen. In a few days Mr. Brown would 
 simply melt out of the valley as though he had 
 never existed. People would shake their heads, Mrs. 
 Klip would advertise for a new store-keeper, and in 
 a month he would be entirely forgotten. And as 
 
 110
 
 His Kingdom 
 
 for old Brown, he would reappear presently a thou- 
 sand miles away, with the same charm of manner, the 
 same power of persuasion, and the same " soft spot." 
 
 How plain it was ! People don't alter at that time 
 of life. He would go on and on, flitting mysteri- 
 ously over a continent, arriving suddenly and leav- 
 ing " under a cloud," obliging, politely-reserved, and 
 utterly lonely. And, at last, the end, the inglorious 
 death, the veldt grave and who would care ? No- 
 body, not a single being. And all his experience, 
 his knowledge, his personality would go out like a 
 spark that has lit no fire. Ah, these are the most 
 hopeless cases! . . . 
 
 " Is there nothing to be done? " I said aloud. 
 
 There was no answer. My only audience was the 
 valley, lying bathed in early twilight. In its per- 
 fect stillness, in the repose of ages, it seemed to listen 
 with ironical unconcern. " Men die, trees wither, I 
 remain." So be it! 
 
 I did not dare put into words the idea that had 
 floated across my mind. There would be time 
 enough on Sunday. (" Precious fool that you are," 
 whispered a little inward voice.) Yes, time enough 
 wait till Sunday. 
 
 But I did not have to wait till Sunday. At about 
 5 o'clock on Saturday afternoon I was coming up 
 towards my stoep when I saw my house-boy Koos 
 approaching with an air of secrecy and importance. 
 
 Ill
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 I have noticed that when Koos walks like that it 
 generally means that he's been too clever by half. 
 
 " Well, what are you hanging about for? " I 
 asked him. roughly. 
 
 Koos, who has a strong eye for dramatic situ- 
 ations, pointed over his shoulder towards the house. 
 
 " Dat dere Mistah Brown waitin' to see you," he 
 observed contemptuously. 
 
 (Bad news travels fast over the valley.) 
 
 He gave a superior smile. 
 
 "Don't grin like that at me!" I shouted. 
 " Where is he in the study ? " 
 
 Pained surprise was depicted on the face of that 
 snobbish individual. 
 
 " No, sah, in de passage," he muttered. 
 
 I didn't say anything, but I gave him a glance 
 which I'm sure made him feel very unwell for several 
 hours, and I ran past him into the house. 
 
 In the darkest part of the passage, just outside 
 the door of my study, Mr. Brown was standing 
 motionless. 
 
 " Come, come in here, Mr. Brown ! " I cried, fling- 
 ing open the door ; " that ass Koos has been making 
 a fool of himself as usual ! " 
 
 Mr. Brown, austere and venerable in appearance, 
 followed me quietly into the room. He had not said 
 a word. I bustled about with chairs and going to 
 the window I yelled to Koos to " hurry up with 
 
 112
 
 His Kingdom 
 
 some tea out there." What had old Brown come 
 for, I wondered, not giving him a chance to explain. 
 Before these critical, and unsmiling eyes I felt 
 extraordinarily confused. I turned from the window 
 and sat down opposite him. 
 
 " I didn't know you could get off on a Saturday," 
 I began. 
 
 " I'm off altogether," replied Mr. Brown in a level 
 voice. 
 
 " Oh, I see, it's like that, is it? " I answered 
 lamely. 
 
 He sat very upright, with his grey beard flowing 
 grandly over his chest and an air of solemnity upon 
 his rugged face. 
 
 *' I have come to see you before I go," he pro- 
 ceeded remorselessly, " because I owe you an apol- 
 ogy. I have permitted you to make a friend of 
 me under false pretences." 
 
 " No, no, Mr. Brown," I said quickly, " you're 
 putting it all wrong. There's no question of false 
 pretences. I've always valued your friendship 
 highly and I always will." 
 
 " Pardon me, there is nothing to value about my 
 friendship. You have found that out for yourself." 
 
 " I must be the best judge of that," I broke in 
 heartily. " Look here, Mr. Brown, before you came 
 there wasn't a soul here I cared to speak to. You've 
 made all the difference in my life. There's not a 
 
 118
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 man to touch you in the whole valley. And now you 
 want to go and clear out ! No, it won't do, it won't 
 do, Mr. Brown! I want you to stay here with me. 
 Are you listening? I want to give you a post on 
 my farm I've been meaning to ask you for a long 
 time. Come and help me with my citrous trees. 
 I ask you now definitely, Mr. Brown, will you ? " 
 
 I had risen and gone to the window from where I 
 could see Koos laying tea on the stoep. Mr. Brown 
 was silent. 
 
 " Say yes," I cried all at once, spinning round im- 
 petuously, " say yes, Mr. Brown ! " 
 
 But Mr. Brown sadly shook his head. 
 
 " No, I must get away from here," he muttered. 
 
 " But why, why must you ? " I expostulated. 
 
 Beneath its tan Mr. Brown's skin seemed to 
 redden. 
 
 " I must," he repeated in a firm tone. 
 
 I felt angry. Why should people behave like this ? 
 I began to walk up and down the room, fuming to 
 myself. I avoided his eye. 
 
 After a minute he added quietly, " Forgive me, I 
 have no choice." 
 
 "No choice, Mr. Brown? Why, you have only 
 to say * Yes * and it's done. Your future is as- 
 sured." 
 
 Mr. Brown got up noiselessly and joined me over 
 at the window. 
 
 114.
 
 His Kingdom 
 
 " I am a man without a future," he mumbled. 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 " With a dead past and no future," he continued 
 in the same voice, gazing straight out over the veldt. 
 
 I did not say anything. 
 
 " I have been in Africa nearly forty years and 
 they are as blank as a clean slate. What I have 
 done has been forgotten, what I have felt has with- 
 ered within my heart. I am an old man before my 
 time and disgraced. I have no future." 
 
 Grave and still he stood in the flushed light of the 
 window, facing the sweep of the valley. 
 
 " I could have made a great name. My history is 
 the failure of success. Wherever I went I had only 
 to put out my hand. I was like a king going hither 
 and thither, invincible. . . ." 
 
 He paused and sighed deeply as I had heard him 
 sigh that other evening by the river. 
 
 " Come out onto the stoep and we can talk," I 
 suggested. 
 
 We went out, sat down, and drank some tea. But 
 we did not talk, not for a long time. The setting 
 light had caught the mountains and the whole range 
 appeared to hang suffused above the sombre veldt. 
 
 " And it will be so when we are dust," said Mr. 
 Brown suddenly. 
 
 It was one of those remarks which require no 
 comment. 
 
 115
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " Yes, when we are dust," he repeated, as though 
 in a dream. " Do you know that when I was a young 
 man it always seemed to me that the world would 
 stop at my death? I was as proud as Lucifer. I 
 had only one desire. I wanted to bend everything 
 to my will. But long ago a girl whispered in my 
 ear, * Oh, wait with me, if you wander and wander 
 you will lose your soul.' How long ago ! And I 
 laughed in her face. I laughed loudly, confidently, 
 with love in my heart. For I thought to myself, 
 * I will conquer the veldt it is nothing and I 
 will return to her then.' And behold - I am even 
 as you see me now. And the veldt remains un- 
 conquered." 
 
 He had risen and was pointing over the earth. 
 
 " I never did return," he added softly. 
 
 It gave me an uncanny sensation to hear him speak 
 thus, echoing as he did so many of my own con- 
 clusions about him. 
 
 " This land has got hold of me," he added sud- 
 denly, " has got into my blood. I cannot resist it. 
 It comes over me from time to time, the desire of 
 wandering, strong as life itself, and I must go, I 
 must wander. I struggle. It has ruined me before 
 and it will again and again till all is over. I remem- 
 ber my past. ( If you had listened,* I say to my- 
 self, * you would have been happy, you would have 
 been famous. Yes, famous ! ' and now ! I feel a 
 
 116
 
 His Kingdom 
 
 wild despair. I shut myself into my room and I 
 try to drown everything ah, you know ! " 
 
 He stood before me in the dusk, trembling with 
 passion. 
 
 " This time you must stay," I said to him. 
 
 ** No, I must start at once." 
 
 The glow was fading from the mountains. The 
 whole earth was black as night and a few stars were 
 glittering in the deep sky. The sweet, powerful 
 scent of the orchards was rising through the warm 
 air. 
 
 He jumped up. 
 
 " There is no time to lose," he said resolutely. 
 " At eight o'clock the mail-cart passes by the store. 
 I have to pack." He hesitated. " I don't know 
 how to say good-bye to you. I have done nothing to 
 deserve your kindness. Every word you say fills me 
 with bitterness. There is only this I would have 
 stayed if it had been possible." 
 
 " I will walk with you so far," I said. 
 
 And silently we went towards the open veldt 
 through the long groves of the orchards. There 
 was not a breath of wind, not a cloud upon the sky. 
 All the valley slept, with its dim contours grouped 
 like crouching animals upon the plain and its thou- 
 san night-voices murmuring like the echo of a far- 
 off sea. 
 
 I took leave of him by the store. I watched him 
 117
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 disappear inside and, turning, I made my way home 
 through the dark. . . . Yes, I repeat, these are 
 the most hopeless cases. . . . 
 
 I was fated to see Mr. Brown once more. It was 
 three years later. I had taken a trip to Cape Town 
 to interview a Greek about some fruit business and, 
 having a few days to spare, I began to explore the 
 city. I did it thoroughly; I went into all sorts of 
 places where the residents of Rondebosch and Rose- 
 bank never find themselves. I pushed my way into 
 the purlieus of mean streets where the " poor " whites 
 of half an Africa tremble before the curses of col- 
 oured women and eke out a wretched existence with 
 mongrel dogs. It is not a pleasant sight but it is 
 very curious. When you stand upon the shoulder 
 of Table Mountain and gaze upon the spreading 
 city outlined by blue ocean and violet range it hardly 
 occurs to you, perhaps, that the golden fruit is full 
 of rotten sores. But it is and as local colour they 
 are worth a probe. . . . 
 
 So one afternoon, about two o'clock, I had entered 
 a bar in the Salt River district. I was thirsty and 
 tired. Through the glass partition I could see a 
 billiard-room which appeared empty, and I thought 
 I would take my whisky in there and have it in 
 peace. The girl behind the bar condescended to 
 give me permission. She observed that there was 
 
 118
 
 His Kingdom 
 
 only the marker inside and that he was " trash " I 
 could do what I liked. I thanked her graciously 
 and went into the billiard-room. 
 
 Yes, there was only the marker and lie was not 
 likely to trouble me. In the quiet of the afternoon 
 he lay fast asleep on the settee. He had pulled a 
 dirty handkerchief over his face, which kept flutter- 
 ing up from his mouth and sinking down again every 
 time he breathed. In the stifling heat flies were 
 buzzing noisily round his head, half-drowning his 
 regular snores. His clothes were old, dirty, and 
 fraying at the edges and his boots were down at 
 heel. Even in that room of cracked mirrors, with 
 loud advertisements on the walls, and its general air 
 of dust and decay, he made a sordid and ignominious 
 picture. But at the first sight of him I had been 
 filled with uneasiness. Where had I seen that figure 
 before? He stirred suddenly and I caught a glimpse 
 of a grey and noble beard straggling from under 
 the handkerchief. Good God it was Mr. Brown ! 
 I sat down so abruptly that I spilt half the contents 
 of the glass. The other half I swallowed at a gulp. 
 Mr. Brown a billiard-marker ! I got up, went on 
 tip-toe across the room, and lifted a corner of the 
 handkerchief. But it was not the big fly settling 
 upon his forehead that made me drop it immediately. 
 No, it was something else altogether. On that dig- 
 nified and expressive countenance the ravages of 
 
 119
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 time had wrought a frightful change and not 
 only a material change, do you understand? I cov- 
 ered it again as I would have covered the face of 
 a corpse . . . Mr. Brown would make very few more 
 journeys. 
 
 I waited for an instant to regain command of my- 
 self and then I hurried out into the street. I was 
 in need of fresh air. The coloured girl watched my 
 departure with the most perfect indifference and I 
 I did not dare to stop and question her. I was 
 terrified of revelations not even a barmaid would 
 have called Mr. Brown " trash " three years ago. . . . 
 
 It was my last sight of that remarkable man. 
 
 120
 
 THE WOULD-BE FRIENDS
 
 THE WOULD-BE FRIENDS 
 
 ONE Saturday afternoon at four o'clock a 
 young man of about twenty-five was wait- 
 ing outside the door of a second-hand 
 bookseller's shop in Charing Cross Road. He was 
 the kind of young man that is to be seen anywhere, 
 the nondescript clerk type, rather undersized, nom- 
 inally clean-shaven, with a pallid, cunning expression, 
 and seedy clothes. He seemed to be expecting some 
 one because he kept looking impatiently up and down 
 the street. All at once he straightened himself up 
 and crossed the road. A man who was walking rap- 
 idly up from the direction of Trafalgar Square cast 
 on him a perfunctory glance of half-recognition and 
 would have proceeded without a word had not the 
 little clerk accosted him with these words spoken in 
 a tone of cheeky deference : 
 
 " Good afternoon, Mr. Turner." 
 
 The other started and looked at him again, but 
 this time much more closely. 
 
 " Mr. Turner yes, that's my name sure enough. 
 But who are you? I seem to recognise you. Have 
 we met somewhere? " 
 
 1M
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 He spoke in a rather forced, jovial voice. He was 
 a man with a certain " manner," fully ten years 
 older than the clerk, and had probably risen in life. 
 
 " In a way of speaking, Mr. Turner. In fact, if 
 you will allow me, that's what I want to talk to you 
 about." 
 
 "Talk to me? well, come along. I was just 
 going in there to get some tea." 
 
 He pointed up the street and smiled patronisingly. 
 Then he added : 
 
 " By all means, Mr. Mr. " 
 
 " Mr. Garbendyke," suggested the little clerk sub- 
 serviently. 
 
 " Mr. Garbendyke oh Lord ! Come along then, 
 Mr. Garbendyke." 
 
 Mr. Garbendyke bit his lip and an evil look passed 
 over his unhealthy face. He smiled. 
 
 " Yes, it's an odd name, Mr. Turner. It's done 
 me no good, I can assure you." 
 
 " I daresay not. Never mind. It won't spoil my 
 tea, at any rate. Garbendyke oh Lord ! Come 
 along." 
 
 Mr. Garbendyke had some difficulty in keeping up 
 with the other's rapid strides. Nor did he speak 
 again until they were seated on a plush lounge before 
 a marble-topped table and Mr. Turner had ordered 
 tea in a loud and peremptory voice. Then he said, 
 rubbing his chin:
 
 The Would-Be Friends 
 
 " You must think me very strange, Mr. Turner ? " 
 " Your name's strangej certainly. But what was 
 it you were wanting to see me about ? " 
 
 The face of the clerk flushed for an instant as he 
 replied, " Some business, Mr. Turner." 
 
 " Business ? oh, really ! What business ? " 
 " Listen, Mr. Turner. Every Saturday after- 
 noon you walk up Charing Cross Road like you were 
 doing to-day. Then when you've had tea here you 
 walk down again, visiting all the second-hand book- 
 shops on the way. That's so, isn't it? " 
 " What are you driving at ? go on ! " 
 Mr. Garbendyke attempted a wink of familiarity, 
 but, meeting only the stare of Mr. Turner's eyes, 
 went very white. 
 
 " I know what sort of books you buy," he con- 
 cluded lamely. 
 
 " Oh, damn, is that all you want to tell me? " 
 Mr. Turner looked extremely annoyed and oddly 
 nervous. 
 
 " Oh, no, Mr. Turner. Just be patient. What I 
 mean is, I know you buy books that can be sold again 
 at a profit. I've often been astonished. * There's 
 a man who understands the ropes,' I've thought many 
 a time. I know something about books, Mr. 
 Turner. I've made my living by them these ten 
 years off and on. I get them from barrows and sell 
 them to the booksellers. You need knowledge for 
 
 125
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 that. Well, excuse me. I've watched you with ad- 
 miration, sir. * Here's a gentleman buying for his 
 library,' I used to say to myself. But then every 
 Saturday hum, I began to wonder. And so many 
 books bargains, dirt cheap. * " Top shelf litera- 
 ture " and all that eh ? ' If only I'd had money 
 myself. However, that's just it I hadn't." 
 
 Mr. Turner fidgeted in his seat. 
 
 " This is all very well, Mr. Garbendyke, but posi- 
 tively I can't . . ." 
 
 The clerk, who looked frightened and excited, 
 stopped him by holding up his hand. 
 
 " Please speak lower, Mr. Whitelaw," he mur- 
 mured. 
 
 The other man half jumped out of his seat. 
 
 " Who the hell are you ? " he said in a violent 
 whisper. 
 
 "I? oh, I am just what I tell you ! Of no im- 
 portance. Most negligible in every way. Still, I 
 am a man of ideas, Mr. well, Mr. Turner." 
 
 In the darkening restaurant he smiled again. 
 
 There was a slight pause, but after a second or 
 two Mr. Garbendyke began once more : " You 
 know, Mr. Turner, if I had your means and your 
 your courage I would have made a fortune by now. 
 I've seen you do things we needn't go into details 
 which I've admired. And you have a way with 
 you, Mr. Turner. You can do the * legitimate ' 
 
 126
 
 The Wcmld-Be Friends 
 
 right enough. No one would suspect. Just the 
 sort of book Pm after myself. But does it never 
 occur to you, Mr. Turner, does it never occur to 
 you that you're not making a good use of all this? 
 Have you never said to yourself * I need a part- 
 ner >?" 
 
 Mr. Turner, who had been listening intently, sud- 
 denly began to laugh. But, strange to say, he 
 laughed inwardly, making no sound. This lasted 
 for some time, while the little clerk waited patiently, 
 sipping his tea with a demure and pleased expres- 
 sion. 
 
 " All these * evers ' of yours," remarked Mr. 
 Turner all at once, " make me wish to ask you 
 something did you ever hear of Caius Caligula? 
 I'll tell you a story about him. One day at dinner 
 he was laughing like anything for no reason at all 
 and when two senators politely asked him the cause 
 he observed that he was thinking that if he were so 
 much as to nod, their heads would be off before they 
 could turn round. That story always appeals to 
 me. I really must be a sort of Caligula myself. 
 While you were speaking just now I was thinking, 
 * Suppose I were to call a policeman and have 
 him arrested for blackmail.' No wonder I 
 laughed." 
 
 " Blackmail ! my dear Mr. Whitelaw I beg 
 your pardon Mr. Turner." 
 
 127
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 The other's expression had suddenly become very 
 gloomy. 
 
 " Yes, and I shall do it still if you don't take 
 care," he muttered. 
 
 " No, I think not, I think not, Mr. Turner. 
 Firstly, because I haven't blackmailed you, and sec- 
 ondly well, to tell you the truth, it would be worse 
 for you than for me. I am not here to make an 
 enemy of you. There's such a thing as mutual bene- 
 fit. You have the courage, the manner, yes, the 
 money too, but I have something just as important 
 the power of organisation. Besides, Mr. Turner, 
 after all it's not as if you could give your whole 
 time to it. Ah, that's the weak spot! To make 
 money a man must concentrate. Now, how can you 
 be travelling about the country and at the same 
 time . . ." 
 
 Mr. Turner's look had been growing still more 
 sombre. 
 
 " I warn you," he interrupted threateningly, 
 " that you are playing a game I don't like. You 
 are evidently a scoundrel." 
 
 He looked as if he would have added more had he 
 not suddenly remembered something. 
 
 " Why do you go on calling me Whitelaw? " he 
 finished uneasily. 
 
 " Why ? because I'm not really sure what your 
 128
 
 The Would-Be Friends 
 
 name is. You will forgive me, Mr. Turner, but you 
 know it is rather difficult to say." 
 
 Mr. Turner frowned impatiently. 
 
 " Abominable inuendoes," he snorted. " What 
 are you up to ? " 
 
 The other looked crestfallen. 
 
 " I was sure you would misunderstand me," he be- 
 gan plaintively. " My only wish is to do good to us 
 both. Of course it's easy to blame me. I'm too 
 frank. Every one speaks well of you. If we were 
 to go into any of these shops together and you were 
 to say, ' You see this fellow, he accuses me of what 
 shall I call it " imperfect sense of property," they 
 would laugh.' * Why, that scarecrow,' they would 
 reply, * we know all about him an out-of-work 
 tout! Don't you bother, sir.' Can't I hear them! 
 Good gracious, they'd probably think it was / who 
 had been taking their books. There, how stupid of 
 me, I've let it out ! Well, well ! And suppose in my 
 desperation I were to answer, ' Will the gentleman 
 give you his address and tell you what his employ- 
 ment is,' and they were to press you, you would clear 
 yourself at once. * I have a permanent room at 
 
 the Club ' (I'll just whisper the name in your 
 
 ear) * and I'm employed by , , ,' (let 
 
 me just whisper again) 'I travel for them!' I 
 would look like a fool, wouldn't I ? It would be a case 
 
 129
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 for a policeman all right. But suppose, just as he 
 was coining, I were to make one final appeal like this, 
 ' Will you go with this gentleman to such and such 
 an address in Chelsea? ' (he wrote something on a 
 scrap of paper and held it for a moment close to Mr. 
 Turner's face) ' and ask there what his name is, and 
 will you examine his flat and tell me! . . .' eh, Mr. 
 Turner, suppose I were to do that?" 
 
 Mr. Turner got up slowly from his seat. His face 
 was white and trembling with passion or fear. 
 
 " Keep quiet ! " he whispered ; " do you want to 
 ruin us both? " 
 
 " No, I want to make both our fortunes." 
 
 The little clerk spoke very distinctly and more 
 authoritatively than he had done before. 
 
 " I want to make both our fortunes, I say. I'm 
 poor I haven't got a stiver. I slept on the Em- 
 bankment last night. What do you think I have 
 to lose? I'm not afraid of prison. I'm perfectly 
 reckless. You can understand what that means. 
 But for you well, make your choice." 
 
 He had thrown off all his servility. 
 
 " Make your choice," he repeated after a silence, 
 " and hurry up." 
 
 Mr. Turner remained standing, looking formid- 
 ably at the clerk. At this second challenge he sud- 
 denly sat down. 
 
 ** Very good," he said deliberately. 
 130
 
 The Would-Be Friend* 
 
 The clerk cocked an eye at him. 
 
 " What shall we call it Whitelaw and Garben- 
 dyke? " he sniggered, squirming in his seat and 
 speaking in his old voice. " Shall we christen it 
 that? " 
 
 " Oh, you cunning devil ! " 
 
 " I'll make both our fortunes, Mr. Turner, never 
 you fear. I think I ought to start at once, don't 
 you?" 
 
 There was a veiled note in this last sentence. 
 
 " Oh, you cunning devil ! " said Mr. Turner again. 
 
 Garbendyke smiled deprecatingly. 
 
 " You musn't take on like this, Mr. Turner, sir," 
 he murmured, " I assure you that your interests 
 won't suffer. Come, I'll be honest with you. I ad- 
 mit that I'm thinking of number one, but you see 
 I can't help number one without helping number 
 two. It is so, isn't it? But seriously, now, when 
 do you think I should start? " 
 
 Mr. Turner looked as if he were about to have an 
 apoplectic fit. 
 
 " Do you mean to accompany me when I leave 
 this shop? " he asked in a savage undertone. 
 
 Garbendyke watched him intently. 
 
 " Yes," he answered after a moment's delay. 
 " You always spend the week-ends there. What 
 could be better? " 
 
 Mr. Turner's lips were tightly pressed together. 
 181
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 He seemed to be restraining himself by a great effort. 
 
 " Listen you what do you call yourself? Gar- 
 bendye," he said in a raised voice, " I warn you that 
 you won't come well out of this." 
 
 " Be careful what you say, Mr. Turner. Lower 
 your voice. There's a girl just behind us bringing 
 the bill." 
 
 Mr. Garbendyke spoke softly but his raised hand 
 trembled a little. It was impossible to see his face 
 in the dusk of the shop, but the very sound of his 
 voice, so gentle and menacing, brought Mr. Turner 
 to his senses. 
 
 " Well, so be it," he said briefly, as he rose. 
 
 They went out together into the street. 
 
 They had not walked a hundred yards when Mr. 
 Turner hailed a cab and, bundling in Garbendyke 
 before him, gave the driver an address in Chelsea. 
 
 " Now, Garbendyke," he began resolutely, making 
 his voice heard above the jolt of the cab, " let us 
 come to a clear understanding. This, of course, is 
 an ordinary case of blackmail. Yes, it is don't 
 contradict! You think you can squeeze me and I 
 daresay you're chuckling at your success. All right 
 chuckle away. I'm not grudging it you. Only 
 remember that there's always a point where the worm 
 turns. However, that'll do for that. I begin to 
 think there may be something in what you say. You 
 did hit on the weak spots of my business. A man 
 
 132
 
 The Would-Be Friends 
 
 who can do that can do more. That's how I see it. 
 At any rate, I'm going to give you a chance. 
 There's the long and the short of it." 
 
 Mr. Garbendyke had sat listening quite still with 
 a smile on his face. 
 
 " You will not regret it, Mr. Turner," he an- 
 swered in a voice humble and mocking. " What I 
 say is, let bygones be bygones. We're here to work 
 together for each other's advantage. Only don't 
 give way to anger, sir. It's very unjustifiable be- 
 tween friends." 
 
 He ended with a disagreeable laugh. 
 
 Mr. Turner spoke with difficulty as he replied, 
 " You'd better do well by me, by gum ! " 
 
 " There, there, Mr. Whitelaw how stupid of 
 me Mr. Turner, I mean, don't take on so. I'm 
 not posing as a disinterested person. I help myself 
 by helping you. You know that yourself, don't you ? 
 Of course, you do. Please be reasonable." 
 
 Mr. Turner thought for a minute. His ideas were 
 probably becoming more formed. 
 
 " Tell me exactly what you propose? " he asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Now we're getting to the point. I propose, Mr. 
 Turner, to organise your business by giving my 
 whole time to it. I'm not bringing references " (he 
 giggled) , " but one week will show you what I can 
 do. One short week, Mr. Turner. While you're at 
 
 133
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 your office or in the country or at your club, I'll 
 be slaving away in Chelsea. Your business is the 
 kind that can be enormously developed. And along 
 lines of which every one would approve too " (he 
 giggled again) " safe lines. Still, I won't speak 
 too much about that. But what happens as things 
 are? You're there over week-ends and, say, a couple 
 of nights during the week for a few hours. What 
 can you expect? The business stagnates it must. 
 But I'll be on the spot all the time examining 
 catalogues, making out lists, organising, enlarging. 
 Mr. Turner, you don't begin to guess the money 
 that's slipping through your fingers." 
 
 " Do you mean to live there? " asked the other 
 in a strangled voice. 
 
 "Live there? of course! Where else should I 
 live? You wait till you see your receipts going up. 
 Besides, don't you need some one to admit callers ? " 
 
 " My business is American." 
 
 " Ah, I was wondering I thought it must be. 
 Still, Americans do call now and then, I suppose. 
 But that's not really the point. What I intend to 
 do is to make the business. I daresay even now it's 
 tidy enough in fact, if I may say so . . ." 
 
 He spoke in a jocular tone. 
 
 "No, you may not," shouted Mr. Turner all at once. 
 
 A deep silence followed this outbreak, which was 
 not broken till they had left the cab and were climb- 
 
 184
 
 The Would-Be Friends 
 
 ing a long, winding flight of stone stairs. Then, on 
 the point of opening the door, Mr. Turner whispered 
 to his companion, " Never call me anything but 
 Whitelaw here." 
 
 It was pitch dark inside the flat. 
 
 " Just wait outside a moment while I turn on the 
 light," said Mr. Turner or rather, Mr. White- 
 law. 
 
 Garbendyke heard him stamping about inside the 
 passage and suddenly the whole place was lit up. At 
 his very feet lay a great pile of unopened letters. 
 
 " Come in and I'll shut the door," said Mr. White- 
 law. " Three days' accumulation," he continued, 
 stooping down and gathering up his correspondence 
 in both hands. " I haven't been round since 
 Wednesday. We'll take them in here," and he 
 nodded towards a door on the left. Garbendyke 
 opened it and switched on the light. He entered, 
 followed by Mr. Whitelaw. They might have 
 stepped into the inner room of a second-hand book- 
 seller's shop. Glass cases, running up to the ceil- 
 ing, hid the walls on three sides. Mr. Garbendyke 
 gave them a rapid glance. Scattered over the floor 
 near the cases, scattered neatly, with method, were 
 piles of books, of portfolios full with prints, of 
 bulky brown paper parcels. They made an uneven 
 rampart a couple of feet high, full of lanes and 
 breaches, to within a short way of a large table 
 
 185
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 that stood in the middle of the room. This table 
 contained heaps of circulars, wrappers, postcards, 
 writing paper, brown paper, tissue paper, envelopes 
 of every size, also bottles of red and black ink, a 
 ball of string, several small metal boxes, sealing wax, 
 blotting paper, etc., etc. all very neat and busi- 
 ness like. Over against the window was a bureau of 
 old oak. Mr. Whitelaw, his hands full of letters, 
 made his way to the table. 
 
 " Come here, Garbendyke ! " he called out over his 
 shoulder to the little clerk who had remained stand- 
 ing by the door, staring inquisitively round him. 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw sat down inertly, letting his arm- 
 ful of letters flow over the table before him. He 
 appeared to be sunk in gloomy reflections. Gar- 
 bendyke noiselessly approached. 
 
 " Speak, can't you ? " said Mr. Whitelaw at last 
 in an irritable voice ; " what d'you think of the 
 place? Eh, haven't you a tongue?" 
 
 " I'm delighted with it, Mr. Mr. Whitelaw 
 most delighted.'* 
 
 " Are you, indeed? Very condescending of you ! " 
 
 He began moodily tearing open one letter after 
 another. Garbendyke stood patiently by, stealing 
 rapid glances round the room. 
 
 " Excuse my interrupting you, Mr. Whitelaw," 
 he said presently, " but is this where I'm to work? " 
 
 " Yes, it is. I do everything at this table the 
 136
 
 The Would-Be Friends 
 
 whole damned business. I even make up my own 
 paper parcels generally. But when I need real 
 packing done wooden cases or anything of that 
 kind I get a man in. I've got a little room for 
 that along the passage. He comes about once a 
 week. His wife, too, now and then to dust. But 
 I'll have to explain all that later. Here, come and 
 look through these letters. They'll give you an 
 idea. I'm going out to buy some food back in 
 half an hour. 
 
 He got up abruptly. The little clerk edged his 
 way to the chair. 
 
 " Don't bear me any malice, Mr. Whitelaw," he 
 murmured. " You won't regret this day, sir. I'll 
 get to work straight off." 
 
 The other gave him a look of hatred and contempt 
 and went out of the room. At the door he turned 
 and shouted insultingly, " Just remember, by the 
 way, that I have a list of every one of my books." 
 A moment later the door of the flat banged behind 
 him. 
 
 No sooner did he hear this sound than Garbendyke 
 jumped up and ran out to listen in the passage. 
 The steps were retreating audibly. He stood there, 
 smiling poisonously at the door. An ugly expres- 
 sion had overshadowed his pale and meagre face. 
 
 " Make him sorry he was ever born," he said dis- 
 tinctly. " His books ! bah, the fraud ! " 
 
 137
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 But he did not waste time in melodramatic asides. 
 He ran quickly from room to room of the flat, taking 
 in all the contents with marvellous rapidity. He 
 found the tiny packing-den of which Whitelaw had 
 spoken, two bedrooms facing each other across the 
 passage, a small dining-room, a kitchen, and a room 
 with a locked door. This last appeared to fascinate 
 Garbendyke. He returned to it several times, tried 
 the lock softly, and even attempted to peep through 
 the key-hole. It was all in vain. He could do 
 nothing with it. Then, standing indecisively in the 
 passage, he recalled to mind the bureau in the book' 
 room and he ran back there to see if its drawers 
 would open. Almost to his chagrin they were un- 
 locked. They contained only great supplies of sta- 
 tionery, bundles of receipts, of booksellers' cata- 
 logues, of collectors' addresses in America, and of 
 letters. He would have looked more closely at the 
 letters had he not heard steps on the stairs. He 
 quickly shut the draws, sat down at the table, and be- 
 gan studying the mail Whitelaw had left with him. 
 
 When Mr. Whitelaw entered his flat he went 
 straight into the kitchen with several parcels he had 
 brought back with him. Presently a smell of frying 
 began to pervade the place. Garbendyke, who had 
 finished opening, reading, and docketing the letters 
 and who was now carefully examining the contents 
 of the bookcases, sniffed appreciatively. He had 
 
 138
 
 The Would-Be Friends 
 
 eaten very little for the last two weeks. He heard 
 Mr. Whitelaw walking to and fro from the kitchen 
 to the dining-room, the jingling sound of knives 
 and forks, hi fact all the usual preparations 
 for supper. Hunger grew upon him as he waited. 
 He thought of his last night's meal of dry crust. 
 His cunning face wore a fatigued and wolfish expres- 
 sion. He gazed languidly round the room, his whole 
 mind centred on the smell of frying sausages. All 
 at once he slipped out into the passage and along 
 to the kitchen. Mr. Whitelaw was just removing 
 the sausages from the frying pan into a dish. He 
 looked up at the intruder in surprise. 
 
 " Who asked you in here? " he said. 
 
 " Me oh, nobody, Mr. Whitelaw. I thought 
 perhaps I could help you. I'm a good cook. Are 
 we to have supper now? " 
 
 He could not help putting a certain eagerness 
 into this last sentence. 
 
 " Looks like it, don't it? " responded Mr. White- 
 law. " Stand aside, please ! " 
 
 He swept past him with the steaming plate. 
 
 A minute later Mr. Garbendyke was cramming 
 sausages into his mouth with indecent haste. Mr. 
 Whitelaw, eating more slowly, watched him with an 
 ironical smile. He seemed pleased for some reason 
 or other as though he had found the chink in an 
 adversary's armour. The more Garbendyke ate, the 
 
 139
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 more he watched him and the more jolly he grew. 
 He urged him on to drink several large cups of 
 cocoa, to eat great hunks of bread and butter and 
 some corned beef from a tin. Meanwhile he got out 
 a bottle of whiskey and lit his pipe. 
 
 At length he saw that the other had really fin- 
 ished. He moved in his chair. 
 
 " Now, suppose we talk business," he said in a 
 hearty and unnecessarily loud voice. Mr. Garben- 
 dyke nodded thoughtfully, brushing the crumbs from 
 his mouth. 
 
 " Yes, suppose we talk business now," repeated 
 Mr. Whitelaw, pouring out a glass of whiskey for 
 Garbendyke and pushing it across the table. 
 
 Garbendyke, who had fully recovered all his cau- 
 tion, remained silent but again nodded assent. 
 
 " The truth is I've come to your conclusion. I 
 accept you as a fact a fait accompli, as they say. 
 Let us work loyally together. And why shouldn't 
 we? There's no reason that I can see. I drink to 
 your health, Garbendyke." 
 
 Garbendyke smile politely and rather drily. 
 After Mr. Whitlaw had drunk he proceeded in a still 
 more confidential tone, " When I leave here on Mon- 
 day morning, Garbendyke, you will be in charge. 
 Not a word. I trust you. I agree with what you 
 say about our interests being mutual. I've been 
 thinking it over. You will live here as my guest. I 
 
 140
 
 The Would-Be Friend* 
 
 daresay you have seen your bedroom " (a slight and 
 transient annoyance came into his voice) " well, 
 that's all right. You will report to me from time 
 to time. I shall often be looking in. You will save 
 me a great deal. Besides, with your knowledge and 
 so on Mr. Garbendyke, I do believe our meeting 
 has been a fortunate one after all." 
 
 He paused for a few seconds, leaning back in his 
 chair and puffing smoke out in a contemplative 
 reverie. Then he continued leisurely, " As for sal- 
 ary, I propose to give you 2 a week." 
 
 ". . . and a share in the profits," added Mr. Gar- 
 bendyke very softly. 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw did not answer at once. A great 
 alteration had suddenly transformed him. 
 
 " I told you not to go too far," he murmured 
 finally. " There are limits limits, do you hear? " 
 
 He had closed his eyes and did not see the look 
 of hate and greed which had come into the face of 
 the clerk. When he spoke again his voice sounded 
 strangely forced, " You must be reasonable, Mr. 
 Garbendyke." 
 
 The clerk was breathing quickly and nervously. 
 
 " No one wishes to be fairer than I do," he ob- 
 served vaguely. 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw jumped to his feet. 
 
 " That's a damned lie," he shouted in a voice of 
 thunder. 
 
 141
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 Mr. Garbendyke had jumped up at the same in- 
 stant and stood looking unsteadily at his host. 
 
 " Do you want to rouse the whole house? " he 
 snarled. 
 
 Both of them remained silent as though appalled 
 by the sudden clamour that had died out so instan- 
 taneously. All at once they heard a door being 
 opened cautiously outside the flat. Mr. Whitelaw 
 slipped from the room with a finger to his mouth. 
 He top-toed down the passage; then noiselessly and 
 very swiftly he flung open his outer door. It was 
 exactly as he had expected. In the doorway op- 
 posite a little old man was leaning forward in an 
 attitude of strained attention. On catching sight 
 of Mr. Whitelaw he smiled timorously and backed into 
 his own flat. Mr. Whitelaw thoughtfully retraced 
 his steps. 
 
 He found Garbendyke just where he had left 
 him. 
 
 " It was nothing," he remarked, " nothing at all." 
 Then, changing his tone, he continued, " As to the 
 other thing I apologise. I lost my temper. 
 What was it you were saying? you want a share 
 in the profits? Make a business, and I shan't com- 
 plain. Only be reasonable and don't irritate me. 
 I'm a hasty man very hasty and violent," he con- 
 cluded in a gloomy undertone. 
 
 Garbendyke still seemed to expect a fresh out- 
 142
 
 The Would-Be Friends 
 
 break. He looked sourly at Mr. Whitelaw and was 
 inclined to be on the offensive. Whitelaw, on the 
 other hand, seemed anxious to make amends. He 
 kept pressing the little clerk to drink more and more. 
 Indeed, he was becoming quite affable again. He 
 began to explain the ramifications of his business 
 his legitimate business with much detail and with 
 great gusto. He outlined new schemes, suggested 
 where Mr. Garbendyke would be of real service, 
 showed him exactly where he, Mr. Whitelaw, failed, 
 and where he, Mr. Garbendyke, was to succeed. He 
 was of opinion that there was really a big thing to 
 be made out of it. Look how huge America was, and 
 then, too, Australia was coming along, and Canada 
 " as long as we keep far enough from England," 
 he observed, laughing discreetly and knowingly. 
 " Eh, Mr. Garbendyke ? Well, you saw the letters I 
 got to-day. There's a business here all right." 
 
 Mi-. Garbendyke began to thaw a little though 
 still keeping himself very much on the alert. He 
 nodded several times. 
 
 " You are right, Mr. Garbendyke," continued the 
 other deliberately. "You and I together well, 
 you know the motto. There is a motto, isn't there? 
 However, as I was saying, two's strength where one's 
 weakness. You follow me? " 
 
 Again Mr. Garbendyke nodded. 
 
 " Oh, I follow you, Mr. Whitelaw," he murmured. 
 143
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " It's what I've thought all along. I mean to jus- 
 tify myself, sir." 
 
 " You shall, you shall I'm sure of it." 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw got up fussily and began to walk 
 up and down. 
 
 " Well, Garbendyke, what about turning in ? " he 
 said all at once. " Help me to clear away and then 
 -bed. Eh?" 
 
 " Very good, Mr. Whitelaw." 
 
 Twenty minutes later Garbendyke had retired to 
 his own room. 
 
 He began to undress slowly. Several things about 
 Mr. Whitelaw and his flat still puzzled him. He 
 heard him stamping about in the room opposite and 
 he could well imagine his expression of annoyance 
 and impotent rage. " His books, indeed ! " he mut- 
 tered contemptuously, continuing in his own mind 
 the scene in the library. " I'll soon show him 
 whether I'm dog or not," he added in a whisper, 
 after listening for another minute. But feeling very 
 tired he presently slipped into his sheetless bed, wear- 
 ing his dirty shirt. The noise still went on in the 
 other room but all at once he heard Mr. Whitelaw 
 come out and next moment knock at his own door. 
 
 " Come in," he shouted, jumping up in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " Oh, I just looked in to say," remarked Mr. 
 Whitelaw in the doorway, " that I sometimes lie in
 
 The Wmtld-Be Friends 
 
 bed rather late on Sunday. Suppose you cook the 
 breakfast to-morrow? You say you're a good cook. 
 They'll leave a can of milk outside the door. See 
 what you can do, at any rate. You'll find bacon and 
 so on in the kitchen. And, by the bye, be as quiet 
 as you can. Very inquisitive lot in these flats, al- 
 ways bothering about other people's affairs." He 
 cleared his throat as though at a painful recollection. 
 *' As I say, it's best to keep oneself to oneself. Well, 
 good-night again." 
 
 " That'll be all right," answered Garbendyke from 
 his bed ; " good-night, Mr. Tur Mr. Whitelaw." 
 
 This interruption had the effect of completely 
 driving away Garbendyke's sleepiness. For some 
 reason or other he now felt particularly alert and 
 wakeful. He heard Mr. Whitelaw go back to his 
 room and then a long time after it seemed to him that 
 he emerged again, but this time very softly and 
 cautiously. Garbendyke got carefully out of bed 
 and put his ear to the door. At the other end of the 
 passage a key was being inserted into a lock. This 
 sound did not really surprise him because, oddly 
 enough, he had been expecting something of the kind. 
 He felt greatly excited. He realised instantly that 
 Mr. Whitelaw was about to enter the locked room. 
 But what to do now? He looked about him in the 
 dark, trying to formulate some plan. He was fright- 
 ened lest a board should creak or lest he should up- 
 
 145
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 set something. After a minute's thought he silently 
 opened the door and went out into the passage in 
 his shirt and bare feet. At the further end a light 
 was shining into it. Keeping close to the wall and 
 stepping warily as a cat, Garbendyke made his way 
 towards this light. Like many calculating people 
 he had moments of insane rashness. He felt that if 
 he were discovered he might be the victim of violence, 
 but then if he were not discovered . . . Vistas of 
 blackmail and revenge passed rapidly before his mind. 
 And so, step by step, he went noiselessly forward. 
 
 And this is what he saw at length. He saw his 
 would-be friend sitting in a tiny room before a little 
 table propped up on which was a glorious illuminated 
 Horae. He seemed to be examining with a magni- 
 fying glass a picture of the Holy Child lying on 
 His back in a wide field and gazing up into a sky of 
 deep blue spangled with golden stars. The room 
 was so small that the table, chair, and a large safe 
 were almost its only furniture. A green shaded 
 lamp cast down a brilliant glare upon the open page 
 and left the remainder of the room in shadow. Mr. 
 Whitelaw seemed lost in admiration or in the sheer 
 luxury of possession. His glass slowly traversed 
 the surface of the page as he leant adoringly towards 
 the figure of the Holy Child. 
 
 No sooner had Garbendyke seen this book than an 
 expression of incredulous amazement crossed his face. 
 
 146
 
 The Would-Be Friends 
 
 It was followed by a smile of the most complete 
 understanding. (He was one of these horrid little 
 men who seemed to know about everything.) Mr. 
 Whitelaw had not stirred in the very least but Gar- 
 bendyke appeared to have satisfied his curiosity. 
 Stepping into the shadow of the wall he glided back 
 to his own room and crept once more into bed. It 
 was not until he had heard Mr. Whitelaw return, 
 fully an hour later, that he allowed himself to think 
 of sleep. 
 
 The next morning he was up betimes. Mr. White- 
 law's door was shut and a sound of snoring showed 
 that he was still asleep. The little clerk quickly 
 dressed himself and then began walking softly about 
 the flat peeping into every corner. He could dis- 
 cover nothing new. After a time it occurred to him 
 that he ought to begin making preparations for 
 breakfast, and he opened the outer door so that he 
 could take in the can of milk. He was greatly sur- 
 prised to see in the doorway opposite a little old 
 man who gave every appearance of having been 
 listening to his movements. He was one of these 
 small, insignificant, withered old men who look like 
 retired tradesmen in a small way and who always 
 appear extremely nervous and fretful. No sooner 
 did Garbendyke cast eyes on him than he reached 
 the noise of last night which had made Mr. White- 
 law run so hastily to the door (it was a thing that 
 
 147
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 had given him some thought since) and he associ- 
 ated this old man with the former interruption. The 
 old man, meanwhile, seemed to be in a state of intense 
 curiosity, annoyance, and indecision. He half re- 
 treated into his flat and then came out again like a 
 frightened rabbit. He began to address Garben- 
 dyke at once : 
 
 " Please note that I have a perfect right to stand 
 here if I want to," he remarked in a jerky voice; 
 " I decline to be tyrannised over by Mr. Whitelaw 
 or any of his friends. Do you hear that, young 
 man? Definitely decline, I say." 
 
 " I was only just getting the milk," replied Gar- 
 bendyke mildly, pointing down at the can. 
 
 This observation seemed to mollify the old man's 
 annoyance and to reawaken his curiosity. 
 
 " Well, I am glad to hear it," he replied. " Mr. 
 Whitelaw does not treat me fairly. But I won't be 
 tyrannised over. No, I won't. And why shouldn't 
 I be inquisitive if I want to be? Can you tell me 
 that, young man? Don't you suppose I ask myself 
 what all the parcels and cases are that keep going 
 up and down ? I'm a person that likes to know about 
 my neighbours. Fine squabble you had last night, 
 and generally so quiet as he is. If it wasn't that 
 I'm a cautious man I'd have rapped on his door. 
 But I don't like the way he comes running out when- 
 ever he hears me moving. No, I don't like it." 
 
 148
 
 The Wmtld-Ee Friends 
 
 He pouted like an old man in his dotage. 
 
 "And who are you?" he continued querulously: 
 " I heard you walking about. ' Why he may have 
 murdered him,' I thought. I don't like it at all." 
 
 Garbendyke laughed. He had a notion that he 
 might get some information here. 
 
 "Don't like it?" he echoed him in an astonished 
 voice ; " What do you mean exactly ? what is it 
 you don't like? " 
 
 The little old man blinked his eyes and took a 
 cautious step nearer. 
 
 " I don't like all this mystery," he whispered, and 
 then, as though recalling some event, he added 
 angrily, " And mind you, you can tell Mr. Whitelaw 
 from me that I won't be tyrannised over." 
 
 Mr. Garbendyke looked very wise. 
 
 " I want you to tell me everything you can," he 
 said in a low voice ; " you may be sure I'll see that 
 it's all right." 
 
 But at these comforting and, as it were, confi- 
 dential words, an expression of vague alarm came 
 into the old man's face. He backed onto his own 
 door mat. 
 
 " Well, I don't like to be mistrusted," he mumbled, 
 concealing, so it seemed to Garbendyke, some knowl- 
 edge or other under an air of general grievance, and 
 accentuating, as he spoke, his tone of feeble and 
 petulant old age. 
 
 149
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 Garbendyke's face assumed an expression of the 
 most lively sympathy. He had no wish to frighten 
 the old man away. 
 
 " Now that I've come," he murmured, " I think 
 you'll find . . ." 
 
 " All very well, but who are you? " said the other 
 quickly ; " I've asked you that already." 
 
 " Oh, I'm looking into things in general. Mr. 
 Whitelaw wanted my help. I'm a business man, you 
 know a jack-of-all-trades, so to speak." 
 
 " Hum ! " said the old man rudely, " you look to 
 me as if you hadn't been doing much business lately. 
 I don't like it, I tell you. I'm a man who won't be 
 tyrannised over. Don't you forget that, young 
 man." 
 
 " No, don't go in," said Garbendyke hastily, seeing 
 that the old man was about to shut the door in his 
 face. " I think I understand what you mean 
 you fancy there's something something queer 
 going on in there" (he jerked his thumb over his 
 shoulder) . 
 
 He had to be careful not to endanger his position 
 and yet he was full of curiosity. 
 
 " Good gracious me, don't you put words into my 
 mouth," said the other in a frightened voice. And 
 suddenly he added slyly, " What is one to think if 
 one hears high words one can put two and two to- 
 gether, I suppose." 
 
 150
 
 The Wvuld-Be Friends 
 
 Garbendyke had only time to ejaculate, " I can 
 explain everything to you," when the little old man 
 shut the door most unceremoniously in his face. 
 
 Garbendyke stood there for fully a minute quite 
 motionless, then, taking up the can of milk, he went 
 stealthily back into the flat. Whitelaw was still 
 asleep (his snoring sounded louder than ever) and 
 Garbendyke made straight for the kitchen and began 
 to prepare breakfast. Finally, when this was ready 
 and he had spread the table, he knocked boldly on 
 Mr. Whitelaw's door and entered. 
 
 " Breakfast is ready, Mr. Whitelaw," he began in 
 a cheeful voice, " I thought perhaps you would come 
 and have it in your dressing-gown. Everything's 
 nice and hot." 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw stared moodily at him from his bed. 
 
 " I hope it's cooked properly," he answered. 
 " Not that I feel particularly hungry however, 
 thanks. I'll be with you at once." 
 
 Mr. Garbendyke went into the dining-room and 
 immediately afterwards was joined by his host. Mr. 
 Whitelaw had hastily shoved on a pair of old slip- 
 pers and came out like that in his pink pajamas, 
 with his hair all tousled and the bristles on his un- 
 shaved face giving him a soiled appearance. He 
 huddled himself up in his chair and began to eat his 
 breakfast without a word, yawning and scratching 
 himself from time to time. But after he had finished 
 
 151
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 it seemed to occur to him that he had better make 
 himself pleasant to his guest. 
 
 " Capital," he said at last, " a capital breakfast ! 
 You've done well, Garbendyke. I'm apt to be a bit 
 grumpy on Sunday mornings. You musn't mind 
 that." 
 
 " Of course not, sir. You're tired naturally. I 
 daresay you have to work late of a Saturday night ? " 
 
 He smiled as innocuously as he could. 
 
 " Depends," said Mr. Whitelaw laconically. 
 
 Mr. Garbendyke smiled still more gaily. 
 
 " I say, Mr. Whitelaw," he remarked all at once, 
 " do you ever attend the big book sales ? " 
 
 " No, never." 
 
 " Oh, I see." 
 
 He nodded several times as though he had just 
 made a remarkable discovery. 
 
 " Remember, Garbendyke, I don't like inuendoes," 
 said the other slowly. 
 
 Mr. Garbendyke's expression suddenly became 
 quite solemn. 
 
 " I assure you you are misunderstanding me," he 
 replied. " It only struck me that we might de- 
 velop that side. I wish you hadn't such ideas about 
 me, Mr. Whitelaw." 
 
 He looked slightly crestfallen and aggrieved. But 
 Mr. Whitelaw did not seem altogether satisfied. He 
 got up and left the table. 
 
 152
 
 The W&uld-Be Friends 
 
 A few minutes later when Garbendyke passed his 
 door on the way to the kitchen he heard him moving 
 inside his room. He was dressing. 
 
 Mr. Garbendyke spent almost an hour cleaning 
 up. He felt in a contented mood and whistled sev- 
 eral popular tunes in a subdued key. After a time 
 he heard Mr. Whitelaw walk down the passage and 
 go into his library. Presently he followed him there. 
 He found him sitting at his table. He was exam- 
 ining a bundle of little books that he had just taken 
 out of a parcel. He was working without zest, how- 
 ever, in a perfunctory, ruminating manner. The 
 sight of Garbendyke appeared to awaken some un- 
 pleasant idea. He stared loweringly at him for an 
 instant and then said : 
 
 " Suppose you help me to look over these books." 
 
 Garbendyke willingly assented. Probably he had 
 a wish to impress Mr. Whitelaw favourably with his 
 own knowledge. He began to dissertate upon the 
 volumes that the other handed up to him, one at a 
 time. He revealed that precise " inside " informa- 
 tion so dear to the expert's heart. Mr. Whitelaw 
 was obviously impressed. 
 
 " Come, this is not so bad," he said at length. 
 
 Garbendyke smiled faintly. 
 
 " I always said I should be useful to you," he 
 murmured. 
 
 " And so you will be," answered Mr. Whitelaw 
 155
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 heartily. " Let us both be reasonable in this matter 
 and we'll make a big success of it." Then he added 
 suddenly, in a rather uneasy tone. " By the way, 
 what's this you say about attending the auctions? " 
 
 " Have you never attended auctions ? " said Gar- 
 bendyke in a singular voice. 
 
 Whitelaw, glancing up quickly, seemed to see the 
 ghost of a smile on the white face of his new as- 
 sistant. He did not answer immediately because he 
 experienced all at once the sensation of standing 
 upon the edge of a precipice. He leant forward with 
 his head resting upon his outspread hands. A deep 
 and ominous silence filled the room. 
 
 " That's the second time you've asked me that 
 question," he muttered at last. 
 
 Garbendyke did not move but he gradually became 
 even paler than before. 
 
 " Perhaps your memory is not very good," he 
 answered slowly. 
 
 The words were hardly out of his mouth when 
 Whitelaw leapt to his feet, overturning in his excite- 
 ment his chair, which fell with a loud clatter upon a 
 bundle of piled-up books. His face was fearfully in- 
 flamed with ungovernable rage. But he did not utter 
 the shout that seemed ready to issue from his lips 
 because, in the momentary pause following the noise, 
 there was heard again the rapid opening of their 
 neighbour's door and his abrupt, inquisitive steps on 
 
 154.
 
 The Wauld-Be Friends 
 
 the landing. Whitelaw made one dash for the en- 
 trance and darted out, leaving Garbendyke all alone. 
 The little clerk tried to smile but it was broken by 
 a strange shiver that ran through his body. A feel- 
 ing of actual sickness caused him to pass his hands 
 across his eyes. It was as much as he could do to re- 
 main standing upright. After a time he became as; 
 tonished at the quietness outside and went cautiously 
 to the door to listen as best he could. He did not 
 dare to go further because he was sure that Mr. 
 Whitelaw would burst into the flat at any instant. 
 He could hear nothing at all, no raised voices, no 
 steps nothing. He was emboldened to creep to the 
 outer door and put his ear to the key-hole. Two 
 people were whispering on the landing. He could 
 not make out what they were saying but he was sud- 
 denly overcome with panic and ran up the passage 
 into his bedroom and bolted himself in. 
 
 He tried to remember what it was he had said to 
 the old man ("He'll invent something for certain," 
 he thought), but felt unable to recall things clearly. 
 He was trembling very much and had to sit down on 
 his bed. The look on Mr. Whitelaw's face still 
 haunted his thoughts. 
 
 After what seemed to him a long interval he heard 
 Mr. Whitelaw come back quietly into the flat and go 
 into his room and then presently into his library. A 
 look of hatred, fear, and avarice enlivened for an in- 
 
 155
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 stant the expression of sombre gloom that had settled 
 upon Garbendyke's face. 
 
 " He daren't touch me," he said to himself, " but 
 I'll touch him all right." 
 
 At this feeble joke he grinned devilishly. 
 
 " I'll touch him all right," he repeated " a clear 
 thousand and out I go. Too much temper for 
 me." 
 
 He got up and looked out of the window, stroking 
 his chin and blinking in the sunlight. 
 
 " A thousand pounds," he murmured softly. 
 " Does he guess, I wonder curse him ! " 
 
 His cockney cheek was beginning to conquer the 
 craven fear of his heart. He felt extremely resent- 
 ful. Who was Whitelaw to give himself such airs? 
 A thief an ordinary low thief ! Blackguard ! 
 Well, he would show him ! 
 
 He fumed up and down his tiny room, stamping 
 on the floor. Best show that brute at once who was 
 master here! After a few minutes of this he noisily 
 opened the door and marched down the passage. He 
 was slightly disconcerted at the dead silence that was 
 all the greeting his determined attitude aroused. 
 The library door was shut. He was about to fling 
 it open, but on second thoughts he marched back, 
 this time to the kitchen. It struck him that it would 
 be a good idea to set about preparing dinner as 
 though nothing had happened. Mr. Whitelaw had 
 
 156
 
 The Would-Be Friends 
 
 bought some steak on the previous evening and there 
 was a sack of potatoes in the corner. Garbendyke 
 got to work at once. He laid the table again and 
 he cooked the dinner. Then in a loud, cheerful voice 
 he called on Mr. Whitelaw to come along to the 
 dining-room and have something, but Mr. Whitelaw 
 did not respond though he must have heard because 
 it was quite evident to Garbendyke that he was 
 walking about his room. The little clerk did not 
 repeat the invitation. The silence of the older man 
 filled him with fury. He would like to have 
 shouted through the key-hole, " Come out of it, you 
 thief ! " but caution kept him still. Without saying 
 another word he went back to the dining-room and 
 ate his own dinner. When he had finished he did 
 not bother to clear away, but remained there think- 
 ing how best he should set about getting the thou- 
 sand pounds. The great thing was to make White- 
 law realise what he knew without enraging him ! A 
 nasty, dangerous brute ! " Like to suck him dry," 
 he said to himself malevolently. How much had he 
 already guessed? Evidently a good deal! Had he 
 been pumping that old fool opposite? Well, he, 
 Garbendyke, hadn't told Twm anything ! no, but, 
 they invent, they imagine, they go lying and lying! 
 He had a sudden desire to run very softly down the 
 passage and escape from the flat. He had to pull 
 himself together to repress a mad wave of terror 
 
 157
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 that struck him like a blow. If only Whitelaw would 
 come out into the open and show his hand ! He got 
 up from his chair and went softly to the library 
 door. This time there was no sound within. He 
 seemed almost to see Whitelaw sitting at his big 
 table staring straight in front of him. And per- 
 haps the little old man was waiting outside! He 
 had a horrible sensation of being caught in a trap. 
 By now it had begun to grow dark in the passage. 
 Garbendyke's assurance, born in crowds and day- 
 light, was fast melting. But like many low and 
 cunning natures he had a taint of natural cruelty in 
 him which he had never been able to gratify. He 
 was the sort of man who would have committed un- 
 heard of ferocities in a revolution, but whose chance 
 in life had made him merely cringing and malicious. 
 He would have liked nothing better than to have got 
 money out of Whitelaw by cruelty by running a 
 needle into him, for instance. Thoughts of making 
 him go through some humiliating scene, a notion 
 even of spitting in his face, flashed across his mind 
 thoughts mingled with terror. In such people the 
 passions of hatred and revenge are generally intense, 
 smouldering, and vicious. Garbendyke was no ex- 
 ception. It was these passions really which pre- 
 served his craven heart, these even more than avarice, 
 from a counsel of flight. After he had waited for 
 a few minutes he went back quietly into the dining- 
 
 158
 
 The Would-Be Friends 
 
 room. It must have been later than he supposed 
 because already the day was far gone. But it was 
 still light enough for him to see to write down with 
 a pencil stump on a half sheet of paper, " Mr. White- 
 law, please come and speak to me at once in the 
 dining-room I don't mean to stay here to-night." 
 This he folded and marked " immediate " on the 
 outside. Then going with it along the passage he 
 shoved it under the library door, knocking loudly 
 at the same instant. No sooner had he done this 
 than, not waiting for any answer, he hurried quickly 
 back into the dining-room and shut the door. He 
 was basely alarmed at his own temerity and waited 
 with feverish anxiety for any sound of Mr. White- 
 law's approach. But he waited in vain. There was 
 no sound at all. He thought to himself, " It will 
 all be over within ten minutes," but at the end of 
 ten minutes he was still waiting. The darkness in 
 the room had rapidly increased, but he did not get 
 up to turn on the light. " Perhaps he's asleep," he 
 said to himself. " Yes, he must be asleep," he re- 
 peated in a whisper. At that moment it seemed 
 to him that there was a sound of faint, regular 
 breathing just outside the door. He sprang to his 
 feet and opened it with a swift movement. Facing 
 him in the gloomy passage stood Mr. Whitelaw. 
 Garbendyke uttered a cry. 
 
 " Excuse me, may I come in? " said Mr. White- 
 159
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 law, speaking with mock and frostly politeness. 
 
 He did not wait for an answer but entered imme- 
 diately. 
 
 " Well, you seem surprised to see me," he con- 
 tinued in the same tone, " but you asked me to come 
 and here I am." 
 
 While he spoke Garbendyke had been darting wary 
 and venomous looks at him. The recollection of how 
 he had asserted himself over this scoundrel only yes- 
 terday, and how utterly he appeared to have lost that 
 superiority filled him with rage. He was hardly 
 listening to what the other had been saying, and 
 was actually astonished to hear himself mutter, " You 
 made no sound." 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw waived aside the remark. 
 
 " My dear fellow, you have some things yet to 
 learn. That's a very old dodge and a very use- 
 ful one too." 
 
 Garbendyke did not say a word. 
 
 " Yes, a very useful one," proceeded the other ; 
 " perhaps if I had been more careful to use it last 
 night it would have been better for us all eh, Mr. 
 Mr. Garbendyke? " 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " said the little 
 clerk, wetting his lip. 
 
 " I mean that you wouldn't have come prying on 
 me then," answered Whitelaw very slowly. 
 
 Garbendyke seemed to be examining the carpet. 
 160
 
 The Wvuld-Be Friends 
 
 " I won't pretend to misunderstand you," he said 
 at length. " You are no fool, Mr. Whitelaw." 
 
 " Yes, I am no fool," remarked his host. " Listen, 
 Garbendyke! I have come to the conclusion that 
 you and I will never be able to pull together unless 
 we fully understand one another once and for all. 
 Do you hear me? once and for all. I positively 
 will not have you spying on me or talking to that 
 old man next door. Do you hear? " 
 
 Garbendyke smiled a very disagreeable and acid 
 smile. 
 
 " As for the old man next door," he responded, 
 " I can assure you he is much more inquisitive about 
 you than I should ever be. I suppose he told you 
 I was asking all sorts of questions. True enough 
 but only because I wanted to know how much he 
 knew. He's one of those old men who need stopping 
 effectively." 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw suddenly sat down on a chair. 
 
 " You have a disgusting habit of inuendo," he 
 said in a hoarse voice. " You are the vilest scum, 
 Garbendyke yes, the vilest ! " 
 
 " You'll begin to shout presently, Mr. Whitelaw 
 please restrain yourself. You continue to misunder- 
 stand me. What have I said now? Nothing at all. 
 However, let it pass. I wanted to remind you, Mr. 
 Whitelaw, that you are no fool. Do you 
 take me? For instance, you have got here, in this 
 
 161
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 flat, something that it needed a very clever man to 
 get. I've often wondered how things disappear at 
 these big sales. Most astonishing! You are an 
 able man, Mr. Whitelaw." 
 
 " What are you leading up to ? " shouted the other 
 all at once. 
 
 Garbendyke, terrified as he was, resolved to play 
 his card. 
 
 " I want a thousand pounds from you you, the 
 thief of the Baldini manuscript from Perugia," he 
 said in a threatening undertone. 
 
 Except for the very rapid flickering of his eyelids 
 Mr. Whitelaw might have appeared not to have 
 heard. 
 
 " I will not give you one penny," he said after 
 a long pause, in a strange voice. 
 
 Garbendyke attempted to laugh but he felt op- 
 pressed. 
 
 " Don't play with me," he answered, and, curiously 
 enough, he spoke almost imploringly, " you must 
 give me a thousand pounds, I say." 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw got up, stretching his arms like a 
 man waking from sleep. 
 
 " Not one penny," he muttered again in the same 
 strange and mournful voice. 
 
 " Be reasonable, Mr. Whitelaw," murmured 
 Garbendyke, as though appealing to his better 
 nature. 
 
 162
 
 The Would-Be Friends 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw suddenly laughed and as suddenly 
 ceased. 
 
 " Very clever," he sneered ; " we both seem to be 
 able men, don't we? " and he repeated once again, 
 " I won't give you one penny." 
 
 At these words Garbendyke, whose hesitation and 
 uneasiness had been very obvious, seemed to make up 
 his mind. 
 
 " Here, you hand me over that money or, damn 
 you, you'll be somewhere else to-night ! " 
 
 He expected a fearful outburst, but he was mis- 
 taken. Mr. Whitelaw merely considered him con- 
 temptuously, and asked, " And what guarantee have 
 I that you would cease to trouble me? " 
 
 "Guarantee? I'll I'll sign a paper. Besides, 
 you don't suppose I'm going to be such a fool as to 
 put my neck into this noose again, do you? Not 
 much! Come, where's the cash? " 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw gazed steadily at him without re- 
 plying. That look disconcerted the little clerk and 
 made him bluster. 
 
 " Get along with you," he cried ; " none of your 
 tricks with me ! I want my money d'y ou hear ? 
 Shell out, you thief!" 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw had almost the appearance of a 
 dreaming man. His eyes were dulled, his lips parted, 
 and the faintest smile, as at some passing fancy, 
 seemed to hover about his mouth. 
 
 163
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " I said ' once and for all,' " he whispered in a 
 voice so deep and ominous that Garbendyke started 
 back. 
 
 For a second he had the wild idea of flinging up 
 the sash and shouting for the police, but then, sum- 
 moning up all his oozing courage, he said, " Don't 
 you attempt violence, Mr. Whitelaw you had much 
 better pay up." 
 
 He noticed with horrible alarm and for the first 
 time that Mr. Whitelaw was carrying a heavy, ebony 
 ruler which till now he had kept well out of sight. 
 
 "What's that? don't attempt any violence, I 
 say ! " he exclaimed breathlessly. 
 
 It seemed to his terrified senses that Mr. Whitelaw 
 was trying to conceal the ruler and that he was hold- 
 ing it furtively in his lowered palm. 
 
 " You're trying to hide that ruler," he cried sud- 
 denly; " I see it there in your hand! What do you 
 want to hide it for? " 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw did not reply, but he took one quick 
 step forward. 
 
 " My God, leave me alone ! " yelled Garbendyke 
 suddenly. 
 
 He experienced a dreadful intuition of evil. He 
 darted towards the door and in another second was 
 racing up the black passage of the flat. But all at 
 once he tripped over a Gladstone bag, lying, fully 
 packed, across his path, and fell heavily to the 
 
 164
 
 The Wvuld-Be Friends 
 
 ground. Dazed and bruised, he got to his feet and 
 staggered towards the outer door. Fumbling in the 
 dark, he seized the handle and attempted to open it. 
 It resisted his efforts because it was locked and the 
 key had been removed. 
 
 This discovery seemed to clear his brain. 
 Trapped! A cold sweat broke out on his forehead 
 as he remembered the bag packed as though for a 
 departure. He dared not call out for help. There 
 was no time! He stood panting by the door, shak- 
 ing the handle and trying to collect his thoughts. 
 That monster would be on him any moment! All 
 at once he took a frantic resolve. He began to walk 
 slowly back up the passage, calling out as he did so, 
 " Mr. Whitelaw, I give in. I don't want any money. 
 Let me go. I ask for nothing. I give in ; I give in." 
 
 He felt dizzy again and weakly despairing. He 
 could have fallen, sobbing, at Mr. Whitelaw's feet. 
 
 " I give in ; I give in," he quavered. " Where are 
 you, Mr. Whitelaw ? " 
 
 He was suddenly answered by an outlandish guffaw 
 close at his elbow. 
 
 "Thank God!" he cried hysterically; "it's all 
 right now ! " 
 
 But his time had come. He was not able to say 
 anything more because at that very instant he was 
 struck down by a deadly blow behind the ear. 
 
 In the profound silence following the crash, the 
 165
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 owner of the flat heard, outside, the eager, frightened 
 steps of his next door neighbour. It caused him to 
 frown. If it hadn't been for him ah, it was too 
 late to think of that! He knelt down by the pros- 
 trate form of the clerk and put his hand upon his 
 heart. Then he slowly rose to his feet, trembling 
 very much. Mr. Garbendyke, the optimist, would 
 never indulge in blackmail again. 
 
 His murderer waited for a minute, listening for 
 any further sound. Hearing nothing, he groped his 
 way into the dining-room and drank half a tumbler 
 of whiskey. Like many desperate and violent men, 
 he had hardly realised as yet the enormity of his own 
 deed. He forgot how carefully everything had been 
 planned in the glow of righteous indignation that 
 was still uppermost in his mind. But he did not 
 attempt to turn on the lights. He was anxious to be 
 gone. He was dressed as for a journey, and coming 
 out of the dining-room he carefully picked up his bag, 
 that contained, amongst other things, a priceless 
 manuscript (lettered upon its binding of old red mo- 
 rocco, " Horae Beatae Mariae Virginis ad Usum Ec- 
 clesiae Romanae ; cum calendario ") which had once 
 reposed in a monastery at Perugia. He smiled 
 grimly to himself at the thought that in another min- 
 ute Mr. Whitelaw would have ceased to exist as com- 
 pletely, as mysteriously as his late assistant. The 
 instinct of self-preservation, touched by some deep 
 
 166
 
 The Would-Be Friends 
 
 emotion of terror, made him hasten. At the door he 
 took a key from his pocket, softly let himself out 
 and, turning, locked the door behind him. He 
 seemed to breathe again. He was just about to dart 
 down the stairs when he became aware of the little 
 old man standing on his mat, regarding him with un- 
 wonted excitement and agitation. 
 
 " Oh, it's you, is it? " he accosted him brusquely. 
 " Was there ever any one like you for inquisitiveness ? 
 What do you want now eh? " 
 
 "That noise what was it?" said the old man 
 huskily. 
 
 " Noise why, that precious friend of yours, of 
 course ! Drunk as a lord ! I told you this morning 
 he must have been at it. But I've given him a bit of 
 my mind. He won't cheek me again in a hurry." 
 
 He laughed savagely and then suddenly continued, 
 " I say, thanks for your hint. I believe you were 
 right. I really doubt whether he's honest. At any 
 rate, I've given him the sack. You won't be troubled 
 by him any more. Glad he didn't succeed in getting 
 money out of you very glad." 
 
 The old man gazed at him as though spell-bound. 
 
 "Why were you locking the door just now? " he 
 said at length. 
 
 " Why the devil shouldn't I ? Can't I lock my own 
 door even? Will you try and mind, your own busi- 
 ness! It's always * why? why? why? ' with you. I 
 
 167
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 believe you'd ask questions on the last day. Stop it, 
 can't you ? You're becoming a nuisance ! " 
 
 The old man retreated backwards, his haggard and 
 suspicious eyes fixed on Mr. Whitelaw. 
 
 " Don't tyrannise over me," he mumbled. " I 
 don't believe you're telling me the truth I believe 
 you're concealing something. I'll speak to the por- 
 ter." 
 
 He made ready to bang his door in Mr. Whitelaw's 
 face. 
 
 But Mr. Whitelaw suddenly began to roar with 
 laughter. 
 
 " You're an old character ! " he cried, beginning to 
 descend the winding stairs, " an old scandal-monger ! 
 Don't you know that that fellow in there is one of my 
 pals ? I've been giving him a chance not my fault 
 if he took the bottle instead. Ha, ha, ha! Well, 
 never say die! See you next week, I suppose. I 
 forgive you for being a nuisance as you're a charac- 
 ter. Get hold of another scandal, old cock ! Keep's 
 you young." 
 
 His words died away in a fit of laughing, growing 
 fainter and fainter. The old man, dubious and 
 frightened, returned to his flat and locked himself in, 
 while the other, hailing a cab, tried to drown the 
 memory of his would-be friend by remembering that 
 Mr. Whitelaw, too, had ceased to exist, and that he 
 was now Mr. Turner forever. 
 
 168
 
 GENERAL SERVICE
 
 GENERAL SERVICE 
 
 WHEN she heard the drawing-room bell 
 she did not immediately answer it but 
 only turned up her nose, giving to her 
 whole face an unpleasant and ill-tempered expression. 
 (She was not really bad-looking but had been grow- 
 ing coarser lately, owing to her stoutness.) She 
 sat alone in the kitchen in the cook's armchair which 
 she had drawn up close to the blazing fire. Beside 
 her on the dresser were the remains of a cup of tea 
 and of several rounds of hot, buttered toast. She 
 knew quite well that she ought not to eat this but she 
 could never resist the temptation. If it did fatten 
 her what then ? Hadn't she tried every kind of 
 patent medicine and hadn't every one of them been 
 useless ? She was gaining weight every week. Even 
 her face was getting shapeless now and she couldn't 
 go upstairs without panting. She had been staring 
 into the fire when her mistress' bell roused her out of 
 her dreams. She sat up, breathing heavily and de- 
 jectedly. 
 
 " Suppose I must go now," she muttered, rising 
 from her chair and yawning. 
 
 171
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 Before leaving the room she smoothed her dress 
 and assumed a prim and dignified look. She felt 
 instinctively that this was the only thing that could 
 carry off her appearance. Even to the cook she 
 never unbent unless she was really irritated (which, 
 to be sure, was rather frequently) and as for the 
 people upstairs . . . 
 
 She opened the drawing-room door, stifling her 
 gasps, and staring straight before her with her head 
 well up. 
 
 "Yes, madam?" she enquired coolly. (She al- 
 ways said " madam " and not "ma'am " it sounded 
 more distant.) 
 
 Although she did not glance at her mistress she 
 could tell at once by the way she was drumming on 
 the table that she was in a petulant mood. She was 
 an old lady of seventy who had a fixed idea that 
 everything was going wrong and that her two serv- 
 ants were only prevented from carrying on intrigues 
 with the tradesmen from fear of her wrath. 
 
 " Why did you not answer my bell at once, 
 Grace? " she began. 
 
 ** I was washing up the tea things, madam," an- 
 swered Grace with the glibness of long practice. 
 
 " Oh, well, as long as you weren't wasting your 
 time but that's not what I rang for. I want to 
 speak to you about yourself. I've been thinking of 
 doing so for several weeks. Do you know that you 
 
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 General Service 
 
 are losing your looks " she hesitated " your 
 looks and your figure? Your appearance is not 
 what it was." 
 
 " Indeed, madam." 
 
 The girl threw into her voice an icy fury of malice 
 and rudeness. She had always hated her (" inter- 
 fering old fool," as she called her), but really this 
 was going a little too far! Moreover, it filled her 
 with a sort of despair that the change should be so 
 obvious. 
 
 " Yes, I speak for your own good. There is no 
 necessity to show annoyance." There was a queru- 
 lous acidity in the old lady's voice which was very 
 disagreeable. " At your age it is most sad. I had 
 hoped to see some improvement." She coughed dis- 
 creetly. " Hoped very much. But really as things 
 are besides you are becoming so slow. I have not 
 only myself to consider. There was a short pause. 
 " I do hope you will always lead a moral life, Grace," 
 she concluded, as she smoothed her dress. 
 
 For the first time since entering the room Grace 
 looked her mistress full in the face. 
 
 " Are you giving me notice, madam ? " she en- 
 quired insolently. 
 
 " I am, Grace, and I am very sorry to see that 
 your manners have deteriorated. A most painful 
 alteration most painful. I am afraid there can 
 be no question of a reference." Observing that her 
 
 173
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 servant did not flinch, she added condescendingly, 
 " However, I will think it over. When the time 
 comes you may ask me again." 
 
 " I have not asked you once yet, madam," said 
 Grace. 
 
 The old lady's lip trembled with rage. 
 
 " I dismiss you for impertinence ! " she screamed. 
 " Go at once ! And not a penny do you get ! " 
 
 " I must have my month's wages, madam," replied 
 Grace with ominous calm. 
 
 " No, not a penny ! " repeated the old lady, shak- 
 ing like a leaf. 
 
 " Then I shall have to County-Court you, madam," 
 remarked Grace with cynical familiarity. 
 
 " At once, do you hear, leave the room ! " cried the 
 old lady. 
 
 " Certainly, madam," observed the imperturbable 
 Grace. " And perhaps you will be so good as to 
 have my money sent down to the kitchen. I shall go 
 this evening." She gave a short laugh. " And I 
 hope you will be better suited by your new servant 
 and and suit her better." 
 
 Without waiting for a reply she walked out of the 
 room. But her calm was only artificial because she 
 was no sooner back in the kitchen than she gave way 
 to hysterical weeping. After a time she went to the 
 glass to rearrange her hair which was beginning to 
 get into her eyes. She sighed deeply at her appear- 
 
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 General Service 
 
 ance. Then she went into the miserable little room 
 in which she slept and began to pack her box. Her 
 clothing consisted mostly of " finery " on which she 
 had spent much of her wages since she had given up 
 buying patent medicines. She arrayed it out on the 
 bed. It cheered her to see it like that, conjuring 
 before her mind, as it did, all sorts of thrilling adven- 
 tures. For several minutes she surveyed the bed 
 with a complacent and satisfied air. . . . But then 
 again the thought of her misfortunes came upper- 
 most and she could not restrain her tears. . . . 
 
 When the cook returned she found Grace sitting, 
 red-eyed and defiant, before her tin trunk. 
 
 " Well, I declare! " she ejaculated. 
 
 She began to question her closely. But Grace had 
 no inclination to be " drawn " and only snapped in 
 reply, " It's the old cat upstairs ; you can ask her." 
 
 Throwing up her hands, the cook gave way to sev- 
 eral wondering exclamations. But she kept dis- 
 creetly to herself that she had been trying to under- 
 mine Grace's position with her mistress for some time 
 past. She disliked the girl's " superior " manner. 
 
 Grace, in spite of her temperament, felt so forlorn 
 that she almost allowed herself to make a confidante 
 of the cook, which, of course, would have resulted in 
 her weeping copiously in her arms, but it suddenly 
 occurred to her that the other's astonishment was 
 overdone, and at that all her aloofness was redoubled. 
 
 175
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " Indeed, are you surprised? " she remarked iron- 
 ically. " I should have thought you knew her ways 
 by now." 
 
 At that very instant the bell upstairs rang out 
 again. 
 
 " You can answer it," said Grace ; " I'm not going 
 near her." 
 
 The cook would certainly have declined to do any- 
 thing of that sort had she not been consumed by 
 curiosity. 
 
 " All right, Grace," she replied loftily, " and I 
 hope you will be sorry for what you have just 
 said." 
 
 After about five minutes she returned with an 
 extremely irritating and mysterious smile on her 
 lips. 
 
 " This is for you, Grace,'* she said, handing her 
 an envelope in which were two pounds (her month's 
 wages) and a tract concerning the dangers awaiting 
 girls in the London streets. Grace took it from her 
 hand, wrapt the money in her handkerchief, and 
 threw the tract into the fire. 
 
 " Well, of all the ungrateful girls ! " cried the 
 cook. 
 
 " Don't be a fool," said Grace, rising. " I must 
 go and get a cab now." 
 
 The cook eyed her malevolently. " But, of 
 course," she continued as though unaware of offence, 
 
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 General Service 
 
 " of course, with your appearance, Grace, you won't 
 be under such temptations. That's what comforts 
 me." 
 
 Grace had just sufficient control of her temper not 
 to bang the door behind her. 
 
 It was still snowing outside and the snow was turn- 
 ing into slush in the salted streets. A chill wind was 
 blowing up from the river. She shivered as she 
 stood on the pavement whistling for a four-wheeler, 
 but it was more with rage and despair than with 
 actual cold. 
 
 Presently an old battered cab came staggering up 
 out of the darkness. The driver, muffled in a huge 
 ulster, gazed stolidly down at her. 
 
 " You want a cab, miss ? " he muttered incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 " Yes, it's for myself. Could you help me to carry 
 my box? " 
 
 Without a word he got down and went with her 
 into the area. 
 
 The cook pretended to ignore their existence and 
 continued over her work with a severe expression. 
 The cabman gave her one long stare and then hoisted 
 up the box and went forth in silence. Grace, after a 
 final glance round her room, followed him. It had 
 been her home for three years she would see it no 
 more. 
 
 When she reached the street again the cabman had 
 177
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 already remounted and her box was on the roof. It 
 seemed to her heated imagination that he must have 
 been there all the time, because he was gazing down 
 at her with just that same stolid look which he had 
 given her when he first drew up. But instead of ask- 
 ing her whether she wanted a cab he mumbled thickly, 
 "Where to, miss?" 
 
 Where to, indeed! For the first time the bare 
 reality of her position flashed before her. Where 
 to ? Why, nowhere ! Where could she go ? " What 
 brutes people are ! " she whispered inaudibly. She 
 felt a great pity for herself, an abounding and tragic 
 pity. She could have screamed. But after a mo- 
 mentary pause she replied calmly, " Drive towards 
 Westminster, please I'll tell you where to in a few 
 minutes." 
 
 They began to drive slowly along the Embank- 
 ment. She felt cold in the cab and the noiselessness 
 oppressed her. Besides, the refrain kept rolling in 
 her head, "Where to? .Where to?" "Oh, what 
 shall I do? " she murmured distractedly. She remem- 
 bered hearing something about servants' homes, but 
 at the mere notion she gave a contemptuous toss of 
 her head. " More tracts," she thought, dismissing 
 the idea at once. But she must think of some place. 
 The cabman would be wondering, and then the ex- 
 pense but where, where? She counted her money 
 three pounds and four shillings. 
 
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 General Service 
 
 So softly had the cab been travelling over the snow 
 that she had not noticed it stopping. She was 
 greatly startled to see the cabman's head thrust 
 through the door. 
 
 " Excuse me, miss," he asked bluntly, " but have 
 you made up your mind yet? " 
 
 " Well, no, I haven't," she answered awkwardly ; 
 " that's to say, not altogether." 
 
 " Then you aren't going to no situation ? now 
 I thought you wasn't." A gloomy satisfaction 
 showed itself in his voice. 
 
 Grace made a gesture of indifference. 
 
 " I can go anywhere I like," she said, bridling a 
 little. 
 
 " Yes, but where are you going? " insisted the cab- 
 man. 
 
 That same question again ! Where was she going 
 where? She looked at him blankly, shaking her 
 head. 
 
 " Well, miss, excuse me for speakin', but there's 
 my wife now down Pimlico way she's got a 
 room, if you was to think of it." 
 
 Grace's expression lit up with an air of genuine 
 pleasure. 
 
 " No, really and truly she would take me in ? " 
 she exclaimed. " That is good. Just for a few 
 days till I can settle my plans." (She could not 
 avoid this hint of importance. ) " Yes, it would be 
 
 179
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 very convenient." She looked rather shy. " Very 
 convenient," she added hastily. " I must thank you. 
 It's kind of you." 
 
 In a short time they drew up in a little dark street 
 and the cabman jumped down and dived along a nar- 
 row passage. 
 
 Presently he returned, lifted her box, and asked 
 her to follow him. His house was at the end of the 
 passage, which smelt more strongly at every step. 
 She was ushered into a small room in which stood, 
 very bolt upright, an elderly, thin woman of the same 
 sort of type as her late mistress. She was one of 
 those women who invariably wear black and whose 
 every glance expresses a tacit disapproval of any 
 conceivable action. 
 
 " Good evening to you," she said. " My husband 
 tells me that you want a room." 
 
 Grace's antagonism was at once aroused. 
 
 " I do want a room but it's only for a few nights," 
 she answered. " I can pay well for it and in ad- 
 vance, too, if you like." 
 
 For answer she got a shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 " You'd best come with me," said the cabman, 
 starting up from the fire. 
 
 It was dark on the staircase and she followed him 
 as well as she could. Her room was an attic one with 
 a sloping roof and damp walls. It had an aspect of 
 the most complete squalor and dreariness and was lit 
 
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 General Service 
 
 by a single candle. The cabman placed her box on 
 the floor. 
 
 " Pooh, it ain't much of a place after all," he ob- 
 served sheepishly. " Still . . ." He rubbed his 
 nose. " I say, miss, could you pay me for the cab? " 
 he added quickly. " My old woman's a bit graspin'. 
 She's built that way. It'll be two shillin's for the 
 cab." He winked. " She'd stick it on the bill," he 
 whispered in a hoarse undertone, " and where should 
 I be then ? Er, tell me that ? " 
 
 Grace gave him the two shillings without a word. 
 
 As soon as she was alone she sat down on the edge 
 of the bed and allowed her hands to fall helplessly 
 into her lap. This was romance! She made a sign 
 of disgust. What an awful place, what awful peo- 
 ple! ("The man's a fraud, too," she said to her- 
 self. ) She felt that her dignity had suffered an out- 
 rage. But at length she rose and began to unpack 
 her box. Without voicing it to herself she had al- 
 ready made her plans for the evening. She knew 
 some shop-assistants. . . . She had got to know them 
 several years before at the skating-rink. She had 
 gone there because she thought the exercise would 
 keep her slim vain hope ! She was pretty then 
 and they had been in the habit of treating her 
 latterly she had had to treat them. They had even 
 tried to shake her off but she had clung to them with 
 desperation. She used to buy threepenny seats for 
 
 181
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 them at the Cinema and provide them with beer. 
 She called them her " boys " ( there were two of 
 them), and though they were selfish, drunken, heart- 
 less and stupid, she had woven a sort of romance 
 round them. This evening she meant to dazzle 
 them as she had never dazzled them before. Piece 
 by piece she took out her " finery.". . . 
 
 When at length she surveyed herself in the 
 cracked and blotchy glass she could not help smil- 
 ing. She dabbed touches of powder on her pale 
 cheeks. Good! What would her boys think of her 
 to-night? And she would have to treat them well, 
 too! Yes, indeed! They were apt to be a little 
 " difficult " nowadays. 
 
 She was just counting over her money again, 
 calculating how much she could afford to spend, 
 when the cabman's wife entered the room. She 
 caught sight of the gold lying in the open handker- 
 chief and her eyes glittered. Then, observing the 
 appearance of the girl, she compressed her mouth. 
 
 " Are you going out to-night? " she asked grimly. 
 
 " Certainly I am," said Grace without looking 
 round. 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! Well, I will trouble you to pay in 
 advance as you suggested. One week's board and 
 lodging, fifteen shillings; and you may add two and 
 sixpence for the price of the cab." 
 
 Grace restrained her rising indignation. 
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 General Service 
 
 " I paid your husband two shillings exactly for 
 the cab," she said with emphasis. " And about the 
 other thing, I'm not going to be here a week. I'll 
 give you seven and six for half a week." 
 
 " No, miss, you must give me the whole of the 
 fifteen shillings or I can't keep you. As to the 
 cab," she added venomously, " allow me to say that 
 I know a good many things my husband doesn't." 
 This rather vague retort seemed to give her a sense 
 of triumph. She looked sternly round on the 
 " finery " strewn on the bed and covering Grace 
 herself. " And what's more," she continued, 
 " you must understand that I am a respectable 
 woman." 
 
 " I don't follow you," said Grace stiffly. " How- 
 ever, I won't bandy words with you," (this was a 
 favourite expression of her late mistress ) " here's 
 your fifteen shillings. And now please let me have 
 a latch-key." 
 
 " Latch-key, indeed ! " exclaimed the other. 
 " That's a fine word ! And pray, what should I be 
 doing with latch-keys ? " ( She attempted to mimick 
 Grace's accent.) " No nonsense of that sort in my 
 house. You can knock at the door like other people. 
 If it's to hide your coming in late, all I can say is 
 all I can say is that you'd better not begin that 
 sort of thing here." 
 
 Grace was almost speechless with anger. " You 
 183
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 you won't gain anything by insults," she almost 
 sobbed. " Leave me to myself, please ! " 
 
 With a sour smile on her lips the cabman's wife 
 went slowly out of the room. 
 
 Although she was so furious Grace understood at 
 once that there must be some sort of jealousy at work 
 in the heart of the wife. She curled her lip. What 
 a fool the woman was ! Fancy thinking that she 
 would " carry on " with a cabman ! Bah ! 
 
 She waited for a few minutes, then tip-toed down- 
 stairs, and ran out into the alley. It had stopped 
 snowing by now and the wind seemed to be lessen- 
 ing. She had thrown a thick coat round her and 
 she wore a pair of goloshes over her fanciful shoes. 
 In a lighted thoroughfare not far from the Em- 
 bankment, somewhere behind Victoria Station, she 
 jumped on to a 'bus and in less than twenty 
 minutes had reached her destination. It was a pub- 
 lic-house in a side street, one of those public-houses 
 that do a discreet and regular business with a class 
 of men who never seem to be quite sober and who 
 always live " just round the corner." She hesi- 
 tated for an instant outside, then, seeing that no 
 one was in sight, she slipped in. 
 
 As she had expected, her two " boys " were sitting 
 in a corner of the bar, drinking beer. They were 
 undersized young men with spotty complexions and 
 thin, sandy moustaches. One of them had warts 
 
 184
 
 General Service 
 
 on his fingers. They greeted her without effusion, 
 indeed with a certain disgust, but as she immedi- 
 ately ordered them more drink they began to be 
 slightly mollified. She addressed them as Herb and 
 Alf in tones of solicitude and endearment. Were 
 they cold, would they like something to eat, had 
 the manager been nagging again, and so on, and 
 so on? Herb and Alf were sulky, answered by 
 grunts and monosyllables, didn't see " why folk 
 couldn't leave them alone," etc. She took no notice 
 of all this. They accepted her gifts with grudging 
 condescension still, they accepted them. That 
 was always something. Presently they became more 
 talkative, inveighing graphically against the hard- 
 ness of their lives. She listened with sympathy. 
 
 " I wish I could help you more," she murmured, 
 feeling a wonderful and disinterested tenderness in 
 her heart. 
 
 They laughed unrestrainedly. 
 
 "D'yer 'ear that, Alf?" said Herb, digging him 
 in the ribs. 
 
 Alf chuckled. 
 
 She looked from one to the other of them with 
 tears in her eyes. 
 
 " I do mean it," she said earnestly, " if you would 
 only believe me sometimes! Why don't you? It's 
 all true oh, it is ! " Then changing her tone she 
 added, " Look, I've put on some good clothes I 
 
 185
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 thought you might like sixpenny seats this cold 
 night." She opened her handkerchief and showed 
 them the contents. "That's not so bad, is it?" 
 
 " You're a lucky girl, Grace," said Alf. " Poor 
 devils like us don't 'andle cash like that, do we 
 'Erb?" 
 
 "That we don't!" replied Herb. "You can't 
 think what our life is, Grace it's 'ell ! " 
 
 " And look at 'er dress," continued Alf rhetor- 
 ically (she had opened her coat as though unin- 
 tentionally). "There's money for yer! There's 
 taste, 'Erb!" 
 
 The " girl " behind the bar, a woman of about 
 forty-five with bright yellow hair, the complexion 
 of a corpse, and an impossible pearl necklace, sud- 
 denly giggled and then began dusting the bottles 
 with great energy. 
 
 " Don't yer mind 'er, Grace," said Alf generously. 
 
 " I'm only thinking of you. I want you to have 
 a good time," answered Grace, smiling painfully. 
 
 The two shop assistants exchanged glances. 
 
 "Won't you come to the Cinema now?" she 
 added. " We could have a rare evening you 
 know you'd like it." 
 
 " Our boots ain't any too good," replied Herb 
 sadly ; " and in this wet . . . they're leaky." 
 
 Grace was thunderstruck. 
 
 " Do you mean to say," she cried breathlessly, 
 186
 
 General Service 
 
 " that you haven't got proper boots ? No, that's 
 too awful ! Here, take this take this money ! 
 Here's a half sovereign for you and Alf; buy new 
 boots with it." 
 
 She had lost all thought of herself. It never oc- 
 curred to her to tell them of her own misfortunes. 
 Her pity for herself had been swallowed up in the 
 deep pity she felt for these two men. At heart she 
 realised that they laughed at her and despised her, 
 but still they were all she had and she loved them. 
 It was not love in the ordinary sense she knew it 
 was hopeless to think of that it was a sort of 
 maternal devotion. She was older than they. If 
 she could only protect them a little, ever so little! 
 Her eyes flashed. 
 
 " Take it, Herb," she said, thrusting the ten- 
 shilling bit into his hand, " and if it's not enough, 
 why you just tell me? " 
 
 Herb took it as though regretting the necessity. 
 He looked particularly sly at that moment. 
 
 " You're a pal, you are," he muttered, shifting on 
 his feet " here, Alf, d'yer know where a bloke can 
 buy two pairs of boots for ten shillings ? " 
 
 The barmaid, who was watching the scene with 
 languid enjoyment, suddenly gave an artificial 
 laugh. 
 
 " You are cautious, you two," she simpered, " why 
 can't you leave the poor gal alone? " Then address- 
 
 187
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 ing the air in general, she added, " It's really too 
 absurd." She had evidently an educated sense of 
 humour. 
 
 Grace felt herself growing hot all over. 
 
 " Of course it isn't enough," she murmured hur- 
 riedly. " Take this pound instead." She smiled 
 bravely at them. " Look at my lovely shoes ! " she 
 continued, blushing a little as she kicked off her 
 goloshes. 
 
 " Hum don't suppose you got them for 
 nothink," observed Alf critically, cocking his eye 
 at the barmaid. 
 
 " That I didn't. They cost me twelve-and-six. I 
 thought you'd like them, Alf." 
 
 All four people in the bar suddenly began to 
 laugh. But with Grace it was as near to weeping as 
 possible. 
 
 " Do come now," she urged. " It's getting late. 
 You won't see the whole programme if you keep 
 sitting here." 
 
 The young men rose unwillingly. 
 
 " Are you really going, gentlemen ? " asked the bar- 
 maid in a supercilious and smirking voice. 
 
 " Well, are we, Alf? " said Herb, ignoring the 
 glances of the servant. 
 
 " May be yes, may be no," replied Alf. " It's a 
 night outside." 
 
 " Do, do come ! " said Grace. 
 188
 
 General Service 
 
 " I ain't got no proper paints," objected Alf, 
 shivering realistically. 
 
 " No, nor I neither," chimed in Herb, chattering 
 his teeth. 
 
 The barmaid went into such convulsions that she 
 had hastily to retire into the back room. 
 
 Grace snatched her opportunity. 
 
 " I'll make all that right if you'll only come," she 
 whispered vehemently. " Don't let that girl laugh 
 at me any more, Alf." She touched him on the 
 shoulder. " Oh, do come ! " she added in piteous 
 agitation. 
 
 They little knew (and, as a matter of fact, would 
 not have cared at all to know) what it had cost her 
 to humble herself in the presence of that woman. 
 They were regarding her with an air of distaste, 
 uncertainty, and greed. 
 
 " What'll yer make right? " said Herb with brutal 
 frankness. 
 
 She knew what they meant. She thought sud- 
 denly, " They'll leave me with nothing," but she an- 
 swered at once, " Why, about the underclothing 
 I'll give you money to buy some." 
 
 " Oh," said Herb with a faint tinge of embarrass- 
 ment, " that's you all over, Grace." He prodded 
 Alf in the ribs. "What have yer got to say, Alf? 
 'Aven't I always told yer as 'ow Grace was kind- 
 'earted? "
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 The two precious friends nodded sagely. At the 
 same instant the barmaid returned with a more or 
 less composed face. 
 
 " Look here, Alf," whispered Grace desperately, 
 " if you and Herb come now now, at this moment 
 I'll give you another ten shillings." 
 
 " What, still here, gentlemen ! " observed the bar- 
 maid in a tone of polite surprise. 
 
 " You hold your tongue ! " shouted the gallant 
 Alf. 
 
 *' Make it a quid," he muttered, turning to Grace 
 and looking balefully at her. Herb was scowling. 
 
 " All right, only come ! " she implored, and stoop- 
 ing down she fastened on her goloshes, then, pulling 
 her coat closely round her, she ran out of the bar. 
 
 It had begun to snow again. She stood in the 
 protection of the porch, waiting for the two men. 
 Suddenly she heard a peal of laughter from the three 
 people inside, then a loud " Hush ! " then silence, 
 followed by whispers. 
 
 She shut her eyes, trembling all over. 
 
 A minute later the two men reeled outside. 
 
 " Where's that quid ? " asked Herb at once, in a 
 tone of great determination. 
 
 She pressed it into his hands. 
 
 Without so much as thanking her he half-opened 
 the door again and called through, " Ye'r wrong 
 I've got it." 
 
 190
 
 General Service 
 
 She took them one by each arm and literally 
 dragged them into the road. 
 
 " No, yer don't, Grace," said Herb, breaking 
 free and gazing at her with tipsy disapproval. 
 " Yer ! Alf and me don't allow no liberties." 
 
 " No, should say not," echoed the virtuous Alf, 
 wrenching himself free on his part. 
 
 The night air had muddled their already sodden 
 minds. They stared at her with inflamed eyes, 
 breathing horribly of beer. 
 
 " Don't yer try no tricks on with us, Grace," 
 said Alf, "we aren't on the loose; and if we was 
 you aren't the sort not by a long chalk." 
 
 Grace looked at them with despair. 
 
 " You're not coming to the Cinema ? " she stam- 
 mered incredulously. Then flaring up she shouted 
 all at once, " You know quite well that I'm not that 
 sort of girl. How can you treat me like this ! 
 Haven't I given you everything I have almost! 
 Haven't I done everything I can ! " 
 
 She burst into tears. 
 
 The sight of her grief caused a wave of sentimen- 
 talism to dim the eyes of the two drunkards. It 
 might equally have caused them to kick her. 
 
 " Don't take on so," mumbled Herb, sniffing. 
 " We wouldn't harm 'er, would we, Alf? " 
 
 Alf was much moved. 
 
 " That we wouldn't," he hiccoughed. " But don't 
 191
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 talk no more about Cinemas, Grace. Them's places 
 of sin. We're going back 'ome, 'Erb and me." 
 
 (They " lived in," as it is called.) 
 
 Grace suddenly smiled. 
 
 " Then I'll walk with you," she said. " It's good 
 to hear you talk kindly, my dears." 
 
 They looked owlishly at her. 
 
 " Don't yer lead us into no temptations, Grace," 
 observed Alf reprovingly. 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " Here, you take hold of my arms," she replied ; 
 " you take one, Herb, and you the other, Alf." 
 
 Thus, romantically entwined, they proceeded down 
 the street. They walked unsteadily for a very ob- 
 vious reason and as they walked the two shop as- 
 sistants wept for their past wickednesses. They re- 
 called their mothers with fervour, they offered up 
 vows of a dramatic and stringent nature. Natu- 
 rally, this mood did not continue long. The shop 
 was distant some way and before they reached it 
 they had passed out of the penitent stage into one 
 of active quarrelsomeness. They wanted to know 
 
 why the they should be walking about with 
 
 this " Talk about fat women in a show ! " 
 
 muttered Alf with resentment. Herb laughed 
 spitefully. Their anger was sincere but maudlin. 
 They cursed Grace, each other, their employer, the 
 whole world, with complete impartiality. They 
 
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 General Service 
 
 wanted to pick quarrels with every one they met, 
 they wanted to enter every bar. 
 
 Grace never answered them back but only guided 
 their steps and kept them firmly on the move. Her 
 heart sank within her but her outward dignity had 
 reasserted itself in the open streets and she resembled 
 some avenging deity bearing off two drunkards to 
 retribution. Her companions began to sing a fool- 
 ish song about " A last farewell beneath the rising 
 moon." It touched their imaginations anew and 
 they wept, waving time with their free arms. A 
 policeman warned them that they would find them- 
 selves in the station if they didn't " dry up." He 
 evidently took Grace for the ring-leader and his 
 look of personal, as apart from professional, dis- 
 approval was meant to convey his opinion of her 
 motives. This warning sobered Herb and Alf and 
 they were able to approach the shop (a huge, 
 gloomy, shuttered building) in a more subdued state. 
 Several of the other assistants now made their ap- 
 pearance and at this sight the two shook off Grace 
 and ran to join them. Hardly knowing what she was 
 doing, she followed behind. At the little side door 
 of the shop all the men stopped for a last drunken 
 argument. Ill at ease Herb and Alf kept glancing 
 round, only to see with dismay that the woman they 
 hated this ghastly shadow, this " old man of the 
 sea " was standing a few yards off. They beck- 
 
 193
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 oned her away with cautious and violent gestures, 
 they frowned with contorted faces. But she did 
 not move. She stood gazing at them with a dumb 
 and hopeless look. Soon every one began to notice 
 her and to chaff Herb and Alf, who would willingly 
 have strangled her at that moment. An obscene ex- 
 pression passed round the group, an expression re- 
 peated loudly and shamelessly and with several vari- 
 ations. She flushed and then went deadly pale. 
 But like some fascinated animal she remained rooted 
 to the spot, staring at them with wide open eyes. 
 All at once an idea seemed to strike Alf and he went 
 up to Herb and whispered in his ear. Both of them 
 began to laugh as tipsy men laugh, without a sound, 
 aimlessly, idiotically. This continued for fully a 
 minute, whilst the other men gathered round them 
 and jeered. When they had mastered themselves 
 a little the two whispered, in turn, to the whole 
 group. Then with supernaturally grave faces Herb 
 and Alf stepped over to Grace and said solemnly, 
 " Grace, we've got some pals 'ere whose boots ain't 
 no better nor ours, and as for their pants why, 
 you can guess can yer give us anythink for 
 them?" 
 
 Without a word she took out all her remaining 
 money and handed it over. 
 
 She did not speak to them because she knew that 
 it would be worse than useless. Besides what did 
 
 194
 
 General Service 
 
 it matter? It was all over. She had suffered too 
 much. She turned on her heel and walked slowly 
 away. The echo of their insulting laughter reached 
 her faintly. She shuddered and increasing her speed 
 into one of nervous haste she hurried from them into 
 the shelter of the darkness. 
 
 She had been walking for a long time before she 
 suddenly realised that she was nearing Pimlico again. 
 Strangely enough she no longer felt at all cold, al- 
 though it was freezing hard. Her lethargy had 
 given way to an unnamed excitement. She kept re- 
 peating to herself, " I have no money now." But 
 outwardly she was as self-contained as she had been 
 in the drawing-room of her late mistress. Her 
 sacrifice of dignity had not humbled her spirit. Her 
 sense of shame, which had been swamped by her pity, 
 had all revived. She saw her " boys " at last quite 
 clearly. " They took everything I had to give," she 
 said to herself. And it was not as if they had ever 
 really been the heroes of her dreams. The very 
 thought made her smile disdainfully. " What ears 
 they have ! " she murmured, going over their features 
 one by one. She blushed crimson at the memory of 
 the night. " They took everything no pity," she 
 thought again. She was completely disillusioned, 
 but she was not comforted. She walked swiftly on, 
 looking neither to right nor left. No, she was not 
 comforted. " I haven't a penny left," she muttered 
 
 195
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 all at once in an astonished undertone. The idea 
 seemed to smite her afresh. Then she recalled the 
 cabman's wife. What would she say? She stopped 
 to reflect. Ah, there was only one thing certain ! 
 she musn't go back. " I knew when I gave it them," 
 she whispered, as though a window had opened in her 
 mind. " Never," she pronounced aloud. That 
 alone was certain. She looked about her. " Why 
 not end all this ? " she thought. It was so natural 
 an idea that it did not occur to her to summon up 
 self-pity. " This is how it happens," she continued, 
 remembering various stories she had heard or read: 
 " like this or this. Yes. And so down they go 
 and why not? " 
 
 " Better end it all," she thought again. 
 
 A man who had been watching her for the last 
 minute or two suddenly came close up and looked at 
 her intently. He had a sniggering, tipsy, and de- 
 praved face and he walked continually on his toes. 
 
 " Are you going home? " he asked in an unmis- 
 takable voice. 
 
 She turned haughtily from him and began to run 
 towards the river. Her excitement was growing 
 more intense. "Wait what is it?" she thought, 
 stopping and staring at the ground. " Why, of 
 course ! " she muttered. It was all plain. " Plenty 
 of girls before me," she muttered, and she began to 
 move on again. The melting snow on the parapets 
 
 196
 
 General Service 
 
 had frozen into cat's ice that crunched beneath her 
 elbows as she leant on it. The tide had turned and 
 was setting towards the sea. And she thought all 
 at once, " Suppose I'm too fat to sink and only bob 
 up and down, dying from cold." The river, swollen 
 by the winter floods, flowed onwards, gurgling into 
 eddies and waves. She tried to think of what she 
 was going to do. A strange gleam of tenderness ir- 
 radiated her heart and she seemed to experience once 
 more every happy and unselfish emotion of her life. 
 Instinctively she began pulling the pins out of her 
 hair, letting it fall about her in a tangled mass. 
 This action released her, as it were, from all her 
 past. It was as symbolic as is the desire of dying 
 people to bathe their hands in cold water. 
 
 Closing her eyes tightly she clambered onto the 
 parapet. She felt so dizzy that she could scarcely 
 realise anything, but, knowing that all was finished, 
 she left herself fall, rather than threw herself, into 
 the river. She cried out once in terror a cry 
 drowned by the wind. The water closed over her im- 
 mediately and in the gloom of the deep night not 
 even the bubbles of her expiring breath appeared for 
 an instant upon the angry surface. 
 
 197
 
 MONSIEUR CLAVEL
 
 MONSIEUR CLAVEL 
 
 WHEN I was a boy at school I always 
 looked forward to the lesson under 
 Monsieur Clavel. So did every one. 
 As he was a Frenchman, we naturally considered him 
 an extremely ridiculous person. He was a small 
 man with an enormous head, coarse features, and 
 little, twinkling eyes. He had one of these confiden- 
 tial and irritable natures that have a fascination for 
 schoolboys one never knew quite how far one 
 could go with him. He was a colonial, altogether out 
 of sympathy with the Republic, and was very fond 
 of talking about his home in Guadaloupe. I remem- 
 ber the air of content with which he would watch us 
 assemble and the sudden gesture by which he would 
 enjoin silence. He used to give us dictation from 
 La Fontaine or Florian. " Un toup n'avait que les 
 os et la peau," he would begin, speaking in a reso- 
 lute voice and smiling at us in an extraordinary 
 satisfied and knowing way. He liked to see his class 
 interested and therefore he approved of questions. 
 Our only idea being to get as much fun out of the 
 hour as possible we invariably abused his good 
 nature. We had a regular plan of questions by 
 
 201
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 which he should be led back to tell us of his early 
 life. After three or four lines of dictation some one 
 would ask him a simple thing like, " When was La 
 Fontaine born, sir?" That was the sort of inter- 
 ruption that delighted Monsieur Clavel. He would 
 stop his dictation to cast a long, quizzical look at 
 the speaker and then with a sweep of his hand he 
 would, as it were, gather us round him. He was 
 never tired of dilating upon the reign of Louis XIV, 
 the Hotel de Rambouillet, Moliere, Bossuet, Racine, 
 and so on. It was the Golden Age for him. I be- 
 lieve he really fancied we were interested in it, too 
 we weren't. Presently some one would ask, 
 " Were your family living in Paris then, sir ? " 
 
 Monsieur Clavel would answer, " No, my family 
 comes from the South." 
 
 " But you weren't born in the South of France, 
 were you, sir? " 
 
 A question such as this would visibly affect Mon- 
 sieur Clavel. 
 
 " No more talking, we will continue with the dic- 
 tation," he would exclaim wrathfully. 
 
 But after another sentence he would generally go 
 up to the boy who had asked the question and say 
 in a tone of jocular melancholy, " So you want to 
 know about my family, do you ? " That was a sign 
 for every one to stop writing, and to lean forward 
 with an air of expectancy. 
 
 202
 
 Monsieur Clavel 
 
 " Yes, sir, please." 
 
 Monsieur Clavel would give a swift, suspicious 
 glance round the room and would enquire abruptly, 
 " You've heard of the Revolution ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, we have," every one would murmur 
 in a tone of horror. 
 
 This manifest sympathy seemed to soften Mon- 
 sieur Clavel's heart. He would smile kindly and give 
 the nearest boy a pinch on the ear (like Napoleon 
 whom he greatly despised), as he said, " Our fam- 
 ily were Royalists emigres" 
 
 Excited questions would greet this remark. 
 
 "Were they guillotined, sir?" "Did they dress 
 up in disguises, sir ? " " What happened to them, 
 then, sir?" "Did they escape to London, sir?" 
 and so on. 
 
 Monsieur Clavel would hold up his hand. 
 
 " Silence ! " he would shout, looking balef ully at 
 the form, " take your pens : I'm going to dictate 
 again." 
 
 And above the scratching of the nibs you could 
 hear his guttural voice, " Uattaquer, le mettre en 
 quartiers." 
 
 It was about now that the real adventures of the 
 hour used to start. If you played him well he would 
 tell you all about his family's escape to Trinidad and 
 finally to Guadeloupe and he would even go on to tell 
 you about his own boyhood in that island, but if you 
 
 203
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 played him badly you would get at least two hundred 
 lines. He needed to be a bold and skilful angler 
 who would tackle Monsieur Clavel when the storm 
 signal was once hoisted. I remember many an en- 
 counter, both fortunate and unfortunate. 
 
 The danger was that Monsieur Clavel's tempera- 
 ment varied from hour to hour. He was subject to 
 sudden fits of reserve and suspicion and even in his 
 most expansive moments he might turn and rend 
 you. I have never seen a man who could be so 
 friendly and so severe in the same lesson. I think 
 he was always having to recollect that he was a 
 schoolmaster moreover he would stand no direct 
 impertinence. 
 
 I knew nothing of his personal affairs at that 
 time. Boys don't think of that kind of thing. They 
 look upon a master either as a fool or a hero I 
 mean an English master and they look upon a 
 French master as an obvious butt. What else is he 
 there for? . . . 
 
 Monsieur Clavel had been at the school a great 
 many years when I came, and he was still there just 
 the same when I left five years later. The younger 
 boys were still " having him on " about La Fontaine 
 but we elder boys used to read Moliere with him in 
 an atmosphere of genial intellectuality. It was in 
 these later years that I first began to get a glimpse 
 of his true self. This fat, ugly little man had some- 
 
 204
 
 Monsieur Clavel 
 
 thing in him which I had seen in no one else. I don't 
 think I could have explained it then but I felt in- 
 stinctively that it was some rare quality which ridi- 
 cule would not touch. The impression was a half- 
 unconscious one built up by a hundred trifles. I re- 
 member waiting behind one day to tell him that I 
 had heard from my father saying that he had been 
 in sight of Guadeloupe on his way from Martinique 
 to Porto Rico. Monsieur Clavel was vastly pleased. 
 He took me by the arm as though I were a man of 
 the world. 
 
 " So he saw my home I'm very glad. I mean to 
 go back there one of these days for always. You 
 are a good fellow. You must come and have tea 
 with me one afternoon." 
 
 He let go my arm and went quickly over to his 
 desk with his short, podgy steps. 
 
 *' I will show you a picture of my home," he said, 
 and he produced from underneath his papers a faded 
 photograph of a white-washed, verandahed house set 
 amidst tropical palms. 
 
 He didn't say another word but held it up to me 
 in triumph. I hardly looked at it because I was 
 thinking of the way in which he had said " for al- 
 ways." Even to a boy of eighteen there can be hori- 
 zons in the sudden tone of a voice. I remember mut- 
 tering some words of admiration and leaving the 
 room. As I went out of the door I saw him standing 
 
 205
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 by his desk, a grotesque gargoyle of a figure in the 
 severe dreariness of the class-room. It has stuck 
 in my memory ever since. He looked out of place, 
 forlorn, lonely, and, yes, would you believe it, almost 
 romantic. I wonder whether I really thought that 
 then or whether I've built it round his name since. 
 Hard to say. Impossible to say. 
 
 I did not go to tea with him because it was then 
 nearly the end of my last term, but from that day 
 onwards I thought a good deal about Monsieur 
 Clavel. He seemed full of possibilities. I found 
 myself repeating the word, " Guadeloupe," as though 
 it had some mystical significance. Wasn't he going 
 back there to live " for always " ! What a curious 
 old fellow! 
 
 You must not suppose that these ruminations out- 
 lasted the term. That's not the way a young man 
 is made. Once I had left school I promptly put it 
 all out of my mind didn't think of Monsieur Clavel 
 once in six months. In fact, I'm not sure whether I 
 ever thought of him again till nearly two years later 
 when I had a letter from my young brother telling me 
 that " Old Clavel is not here this term ; he's gone 
 off to Guadeloupe on a visit the old fool." By 
 George ! old Clavel at Guadeloupe ! How it brought 
 it all back ! I sat down there and then and thought 
 about him for five minutes. But he had passed too 
 completely out of my life for long remembrance. I 
 
 206
 
 Monsieur Clavel 
 
 even forgot to ask my brother what Monsieur Clavel 
 had said when he returned. I should probably have 
 got nothing out of him because he had the profound- 
 est contempt for the French master. He was a new 
 boy. 
 
 Two years after this, when I had been four years 
 away from school and was just beginning to talk 
 like a man of fifty, I went to stay for a week-end 
 with my old house-master. I alighted at the station 
 in a very exalted mood, resolved to impress every one 
 back there to live " for always ! " What a curious 
 article on The Pleiad which was, of course, shock- 
 ingly bad, and of which I was ridiculously proud. I 
 had brought a copy with me, not to show to my 
 old house-master (who had a sarcastic way with him 
 that I remembered clearly) but to show to Monsieur 
 Clavel that lover of the French Classics. I was 
 too deeply interested in myself to think of Monsieur 
 Clavel apart from what he would think of me, so 
 it was with a purely selfish emotion that I knocked 
 at his door that Saturday afternoon. I had had 
 lunch with my old house-master and his air of polite 
 raillery had rather damped my ardour. But after 
 lunch he had left me in his garden while he went to 
 attend to his own affairs, and in the cool of the eve- 
 ning I had strolled down the long avenue of pines 
 into College itself and through the deserted, ringing 
 quadrangles and up the silent staircase to Monsieur 
 
 207
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 Clavel's door. As I pressed the bell all my self- 
 importance swelled up again. What would Monsieur 
 Clavel have to say to my paper? Wouldn't he be 
 greatly astonished? Wouldn't he think I was a 
 wonderful person? I heard his quick, short steps 
 within and in another second the door was opened and 
 he stood before me greyer, perhaps, and fatter, 
 but the same Monsieur Clavel as of old. He did 
 not recognise me at once and I had to explain who 
 I was. But when he recalled my name he expressed 
 delight at seeing me. He made me come in he 
 was just sitting down to tea. He resembled a grunt- 
 ing badger as he trotted to and fro through his 
 queer little warren of chambers getting the tea things. 
 His sitting-room looked out upon the distant play- 
 ing-fields and we could watch the boys running about 
 in their white flannels, and hear, through the open 
 window, their far-off shouts. It was a soft, clear 
 evening of late June. I had time to glance round 
 me while Monsieur Clavel was attending to his kettle 
 in the next room. The walls were lined with bound 
 volumes of the French Classics, there was a piano 
 in the corner, and several big chairs were dotted 
 about. A smell of flowers and of scented tobacco 
 filled the air. Monsieur Clavel came running in pres- 
 ently with the steaming kettle, and proceeded to 
 make tea. 
 
 " Sit down, sit down," he murmured, giving me 
 208
 
 Monsieur Clavel 
 
 just that knowing and satisfied look which I remem- 
 bered well. 
 
 It was this expression, suggesting old times so 
 vividly, that made me suddenly recall the affair of 
 Guadeloupe. 
 
 " Must pump him," I thought. So when we had 
 finished tea and were sitting smoking together, I re- 
 marked all at once, " I hear you've been back to 
 Guadeloupe, Monsieur Clavel." 
 
 " Hum, yes, I went back," he muttered quickly, 
 frowning as though at some disagreeable idea. 
 
 A chill seemed to be cast over the room for an 
 instant. He got up with a bound and seating him- 
 self at the piano played three or four bars of a 
 rather sentimental tune by Rameau. Then he came 
 back with a sigh and began to roll a cigarette. All 
 this astonished me, but I had the sense not to press 
 my questions further. 
 
 " Come, tell me what you have have been doing 
 with yourself? " he asked eagerly. 
 
 He had quite recovered his spirits. 
 
 " I've begun to write lately," I answered in an off- 
 hand and trembling voice. 
 
 " Yes ? why, this is news indeed ! " 
 
 He clapped his chubby hands, beaming at me, his 
 great face working with pleasure. 
 
 " I fancied you would be interested," I continued ; 
 209
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " in fact, I brought a little thing to show you an 
 essay on the Pleiad." 
 
 I produced it from my pocket and handed it to 
 him as though it had been no more than a box of 
 matches. 
 
 " Phew ! " he said, nodding his head very rapidly 
 and turning up his eyes. 
 
 I felt deliciously happy, and my calmness became, 
 consequently, almost abnormal. 
 
 " Might I be allowed to call to-morrow and hear 
 what you think of it ? " I observed. 
 
 " I should say so," replied Monsieur Clavel, get- 
 ting up and pinching my ear, " I should say so ! 
 Come to tea come early, at three o'clock. We'll 
 have a walk afterwards." 
 
 He gave a satisfied smile and patted the manu- 
 script. " One of my pupils," he murmured. 
 
 " Tell me, Monsieur Clavel, are you surprised ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " No, my dear friend," he said, " I always knew 
 you would do something." 
 
 I felt a new thrill of pleasure. Such is the vanity 
 of youth. I knew perfectly well that he had not 
 given me a single thought from the day I had left 
 school to this very afternoon and that his remark 
 was a mere ebullition of momentary enthusiasm (very 
 characteristic of him, too), and yet I said to my- 
 
 210
 
 Monsieur Clavel 
 
 self over and over again, " What insight, what 
 knowledge ! " 
 
 I went on to talk about all I intended to do in the 
 future. Monsieur Clavel drank it all in. 
 
 " You will be a great man," he said in a tone of 
 complete sincerity and conviction. "As for me, 1 
 have done nothing, nothing." 
 
 He stopped for a second to ponder sadly. 
 
 " Do you know," he proceeded all at once, " that 
 I am only living for one thing? " 
 
 I looked as sympathetic as I could. 
 
 " Yes, only for one thing to make a home for 
 my niece and nephew." 
 
 " Your niece and nephew? Tell me about them, 
 Monsieur Clavel." 
 
 A shade of reserve crossed his face. Then, after 
 a short hesitation, he continued, " I have bought a 
 little villa in Normandy; we are all going to live 
 there together. . . . They are orphans," he added. 
 
 He gazed at me with anxiety. 
 
 " You are thinking of resigning? " I asked as 
 tactfully as I could. ("There goes Guadeloupe," 
 I said to myself.) 
 
 " I have to," he muttered ; " the new superannu- 
 ation rules. I hope to get a pension." 
 
 This was a side of schoolmastering which had never 
 presented itself to me before. T was interested to 
 get at the bottom of it.
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " Well, but " I began, and remembered that I 
 had better keep off the subject of Guadeloupe. 
 " Well er when have you to resign ? " 
 
 " In four more years," he answered slowly, " when 
 I'm sixty. The thing is, I'm not quite sure of my 
 pension. I joined too early. But I'm depending on 
 it. I've got to depend on it." 
 
 It was a notion which seemed to distress him. He 
 rose and walked rapidly up and down the room sev- 
 eral times. At last he stopped in front of the 
 window and stood quite still there for nearly five 
 minutes, with his back to me. When he turned 
 round his face had regained its calm and was lit up 
 by an expression of joy and happiness. 
 
 " How I love to see all this life about me," he said. 
 " Thirty years now . . ." (he sighed) " well, time is 
 bound to pass it is a good place." 
 
 I did not answer. 
 
 ("Will he remember to read my article?" I 
 thought rather anxiously.) 
 
 " In four years," said Monsieur Clavel dreamily, 
 " I leave all this." He nodded his head, pursing up 
 his lips slyly as he used to do in olden days. 
 " Perhaps I shall live twenty years longer. My 
 dear niece and nephew ... an idyllic spot. You 
 never saw such a cherry orchard ! And the hens ! 
 You know, I spend all my holidays there." 
 
 He sat down beside me and lit another cigarette;
 
 Monsieur Clavel 
 
 " An acre of cherry orchard," he went on. " I 
 think I made a good bargain. But I haven't been 
 fortunate with my money. What you call these 
 gild-edged investments very bad ! I've had some 
 losses. And your English breweries, too. I'll tell 
 you " (he leant confidentially forward) " I'll tell 
 you. I had three thousand pounds. I had saved 
 it here a pound at a time almost. My broker 
 kept advising me * put it into so and so.' Alors" 
 (he hunched his shoulders dramatically) "down, 
 down, down ! Beastly ! Beastly ! " he repeated, 
 looking at me as though in fury. 
 
 " So you sold out and bought this house ? " I 
 ventured. 
 
 " Precisely. But you see, I must have my pen- 
 sion now. Of course you won't say a word. Great 
 many intrigues here not the sort of men I care 
 for at all. I like meeting people of talent, inter- 
 esting people. All these schoolmasters bah ! 
 Narrow-minded. I don't mix up with them more 
 than I can help. But you ah, ha ! Fancy your 
 being so distinguished already ! Phew an essay 
 on the Pleiad! I shall read it." 
 
 He smoked silently, nodding his head. I got up 
 to leave. 
 
 " Remember to-morrow," he shouted after me 
 as he showed me out of his door. 
 
 I walked back, much pleased with myself. I had 
 213
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 evidently impressed Monsieur Clavel. I began to 
 think of him with real interest. What was the truth 
 about his visit to the West Indies. Funny old boy ; 
 rather pathetic too! I felt indulgent to old age. 
 Poor Monsieur Clavel ! I wondered what his nephew 
 and niece were like. A cherry orchard it sounded 
 all right ! 
 
 That evening after dinner when I was sitting with 
 my old tutor in his garden I brought up the subject 
 of Monsieur Clavel. " What was it, I asked, about 
 his visit to Guadeloupe that had so entirely changed 
 his mind ? " 
 
 " Monsieur Clavel idealises things," murmured the 
 old man. 
 
 And in the darkness of the garden I felt the soft 
 breath of the night touch my cheek and ripple 
 through the creeper behind me. 
 
 " Reality sometimes kills romance," he added. 
 
 I did not ask him any more questions because I 
 felt sure it would be no use. Schoolmasters have 
 a malicious dislike of one another as a rule. I've 
 often noticed it. I was the more astonished, there- 
 fore, when after a few minutes' silence he began of 
 his own accord to talk about Monsieur Clavel in his 
 ironic and weary old voice. 
 
 " He was always telling us in the Common Room 
 he meant to settle finally in where was it? 
 Guadeloupe? Every day for years. I used to say
 
 Monsieur Clavel 
 
 to him, * You haven't been there since you were a 
 boy go and see it first.' Sound piece of advice. 
 Humph! He didn't think much of it. Between our- 
 selves, I understand his type quite well. Very 
 reserved in some ways, but incurably romantic. 
 Frightened of being laughed at. I must say he be- 
 came a great bore. Some of the younger men took 
 up my line. Humph! As you know, he did go at 
 last. He's never said a word about it to me, but, 
 of course, he's disillusioned. What could you ex- 
 pect? This is all confidential, mind. We have to 
 cultivate the Olympian manner. Clavel was never 
 meant for a schoolmaster. An excellent man in his 
 way, most conscientious. But too romantic, my 
 dear fellow, too romantic." 
 
 He got up slowly, his white shirt gleaming in the 
 dusk. 
 
 " Must be going in," he murmured in a different 
 voice, " getting old. Don't let me disturb you." 
 
 I heard his feeble steps on the gravel, and then 
 once again complete stillness reigned in the garden. 
 It seemed strangely suitable to my thoughts. At 
 twenty-two one has these moments of exquisite 
 silence when the mind rests, as it were, amidst the 
 babel of its thoughts. I did not purposely think of 
 Monsieur Clavel, but gradually the image of him pos- 
 sessed my brain. I seemed to comprehend him with 
 a wonderful and deep illumination. I cared no 
 
 215
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 longer for my intellectual pose, any more than the 
 voyager sighting his promised land cares for the 
 game of cards. The sweet, rare stillness of the night 
 had a mysterious significance for me. Beyond the 
 garden boundary, in the wooded heath, a night- jar 
 had begun to whirr. The image of Monsieur Clavel, 
 more august and moving at every instant, flooded 
 my mind. " I alone understand him," I thought. 
 (O romance, greatest and most perfidious of illu- 
 sions !) I did not go to bed till very late. 
 
 By the next day I had, of course, entirely recov- 
 ered my equilibrium. I tried to shine at breakfast 
 with no particular success. This made me all the 
 more anxious to meet Monsieur Clavel. 
 
 " He'll be reading my article this morning instead 
 of going to Chapel," I said to myself. I was much 
 perturbed. Could it really be true that I was a 
 genius? Well, Monsieur Clavel ought to be able to 
 say ! I began to have hideous doubts that even such 
 momentous questions were decided more by the tone 
 in which one asked them than by anything else. It 
 was like doctors and illness. Yet, in reality, it must 
 either be " yes " or " no." I was a genius or I was 
 not. Certainly. (I avoided my old tutor's mock- 
 ing eyes.) Admitted. But which . . . 
 
 I excused myself from Chapel and went for a walk 
 through the woods. It was at three o'clock punctu- 
 ally that I rang Monsieur Clavel's bell. I had quite 
 
 216
 
 Monsieur Clavel 
 
 come to the conclusion by then that I must be a 
 genius and that my paper on the Plei'ade was one of 
 the most astonishing things ever written. Conse- 
 quently I was not in the least taken aback at being 
 greeted by a cry of pleasure. 
 
 " I told you, I told you," exclaimed Monsieur 
 Clavel excitedly ..." marvellous ... a master 
 . . . you will go very far ! " He searched closely 
 into my face, nodding his head with great approval. 
 " Very far," he said again. 
 
 " I am so glad you approve of it, Monsieur 
 Clavel," I replied in a rather mincing voice. " In 
 your opinion what is best about it? " 
 
 Monsieur Clavel spread out his hands. 
 
 " Ah, it is the tone, the manner, the how shall 
 I call it? the temper. Very fine. So you are 
 going to be a great man? This is a proud day for 
 me." 
 
 As I say, I had already a first-rate opinion of my- 
 self when I got to Monsieur Clavel's that afternoon, 
 but the warmth of his remarks put me into the 
 seventh heaven. I felt already to give him my closest 
 confidences. I could hardly conceal my exultation 
 under a patronising smile. 
 
 " Come, Monsieur Clavel, you will make me quite 
 conceited," I simpered. " Let us talk about you for 
 a change. Tell me more about your plans." 
 
 217
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 We were sitting in his room, the sun filtering upon 
 us through the Venetian blinds. 
 
 " My plans," cried Monsieur Clavel, " you really 
 take interest in my plans ! " 
 
 There was something touching in his tone. He 
 was looking eagerly at me, his eyes were dimmed with 
 tears. 
 
 " Indeed I do, Monsieur Clavel," I replied in my 
 natural voice. 
 
 He sighed deeply before answering. 
 
 " You don't know the atmosphere here," he said 
 at length. " If one didn't have another life outside 
 one would stifle to death. Not once in a year does 
 any one speak to me as you have done. You come 
 here and you ask me about my plans. You are not 
 laughing at me, I know. You are in earnest." 
 
 My embarrassment caused me to murmur some un- 
 intelligible remark. 
 
 " What, and you have often thought of your old 
 French master," he continued rapturously, " you, 
 the best of all his pupils. This is what is balm to 
 me. This is what I shall never forget. I came here 
 when I was young like you, but I have grown old, 
 I have grown hard, perhaps. I have had bitter dis- 
 appointments why think of them ? I feel that 
 they are of no more account. Do you know that it 
 is three years now since the greatest happiness of 
 
 218
 
 Monsieur Clavel 
 
 my life has begun? It was at a time of sorrow." 
 He stopped for a minute to stare intently at the 
 wall. " As you grow old," he added softly, " you 
 want to think of youth. I have found my great 
 happiness in my nephew and niece. They are wait- 
 ing for me. Twice a week I hear from them. They 
 tell me every detail. I have only to shut my eyes 
 and I can see them sitting under the cherry trees. 
 I can never be lonely again." 
 
 He jumped up briskly from his chair and stood 
 facing me with his fat little legs wide apart and his 
 finger cocked. 
 
 " They think me an old fool here but they forget 
 that I've laid my foundations deep," he muttered 
 angrily. " What do they intend to do in the future? 
 
 they don't know. Live in Clapham, I daresay. 
 Clapham! That's your schoolmaster all over! I 
 
 I am the winner ! " 
 
 He set about preparing tea and as he ran in and 
 out of the room he kept referring to my article. I 
 told him that I should pay him a visit some day in 
 his Normandy cottage. He beamed on me. He was 
 extraordinarily elated, almost like a boy on the first 
 morning of the holidays. Our tea had the happy 
 informality of a picnic. We laughed and joked, 
 catching from each other the infection of high good 
 humour. When it began to get cooler Monsieur 
 Clavel suggested a stroll and we sallied forth through 
 
 219
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 the Great Gate of the College. The sun was glint- 
 ing low upon the distant river and its long, level 
 rays threw a kind of yellow mist across the fields. 
 Monsieur Clavel looked about him with a complacent 
 glance. Nature herself appeared to sympathise with 
 his hour of peace. He recited a few lines from 
 Racine in a sonorous voice. We reached the bank 
 of a small pond and sat down on the grass and talked 
 of old times and faces. Twilight overtook us at 
 last. Away behind us the College bell began to ring 
 for evening chapel. Gnats eddied in clouds over the 
 pond, bats flitted in the pale evening air, and the 
 busy hum died out of the meadows. With the fall 
 of light Monsieur ClavePs thoughts seemed to revert 
 once more to the happy future that awaited him so 
 surely. 
 
 " The ground is all prepared," he murmured, " I 
 have left nothing to chance. In my old age I will 
 live again in the lives of my nephew and niece. No 
 more false hopes. ..." 
 
 He stopped suddenly, lost in thought. ..." No 
 more false hopes," he repeated gently, getting up 
 and looking at the dark, gleaming water. 
 
 I had no words then to meet such sentiments. We 
 walked back side by side through the stillness with-: 
 out speaking. 
 
 (" He has forgotten me altogether," I thought to 
 myself.) 
 
 220
 
 Monsieur Clavel 
 
 I felt slightly awed as though in the presence of 
 some grand and tragic figure. Curious that a man 
 so unheroic of appearance as Monsieur Clavel should 
 have aroused this emotion in me. But the conceit 
 of youth hides an impressionable heart. 
 
 I parted from Monsieur Clavel outside the Great 
 Gate. We had a few last minutes of conversation 
 and he told me again that I had " a great future 
 very great," and made me promise to come and see 
 him next time I was down. He bade me farewell, 
 clapping me on the shoulder and nodding his head 
 wisely. But I could see that his mind was elsewhere 
 amidst the trees of his cherry orchard. I had an 
 odd sensation that I had found him only to lose him 
 again. I felt constrained and was glad to get 
 away. . . . 
 
 I did not see Monsieur Clavel again for a year. 
 He was not the sort of person one would exchange 
 letters with. But when next I was at the College 
 I went to call on him at once. It was just such 
 a Saturday afternoon as before. Again I walked 
 across the empty quadrangles in a mood of bland 
 expectancy. For this time I carried with me a 
 whole volume of essays on French literature. If I 
 was hailed as a genius before, what now? I glowed 
 all over. 
 
 As I reached the staircase what was my surprise 
 and delight to see Monsieur Clavel going up in front
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 of me. There was not mistaking that back. I 
 called out to him in glee, " Hulloa, Monsieur Clavel, 
 I'm just coming to you! " 
 
 He appeared to hesitate as though uncertain 
 whether he had heard a voice or not, and then, slowly 
 turning, he threw on me a long, blank stare. There 
 was no recognition in it, nothing but gloomy indif- 
 ference and absorbed vacancy. 
 
 " Monsieur Clavel," I gasped, " Monsieur Clavel ! " 
 
 He gave an irritable shake to his head, as if to dis- 
 pel some unpleasant dream, and without taking any 
 more notice of me he continued stolidly to mount the 
 stairs. I don't think I ever experienced a greater 
 shock. Something very bad had evidently hap- 
 pened ! I did not try to follow him but hurried back 
 to my old tutor's house. 
 
 " What's the matter with Monsieur Clavel ? " I 
 said, bursting into his study. 
 
 He raised his eyebrows as though deploring a 
 painful subject. There was just the very faintest 
 suggestion of sarcasm in his pose. 
 
 " Melancholia," he answered ; " a very sad affair. 
 He does no more work. They have been keeping 
 him out of pity. Quite hopeless. After this term 
 well, he will have to go." He half -turned away, 
 his sane, mobile old face bent forward as though 
 listening politely and incredulously. " Very, very 
 sad," he mumbled in his beard. 
 
 222
 
 Monsieur Clavel 
 
 " But why ? " I cried impetuously. " Is it recent ? 
 Why has he become like this ? " 
 
 The old man shuffled uneasily in his seat. 
 
 " He was an idealist," he said wearily. " He made 
 plans and they came to nothing. That is all." 
 
 " Do you mean that something happened to his 
 nephew and niece ? " I almost shouted. 
 
 The flicker of a smile passed over his face. 
 
 " Yes, they both married," he answered drily. 
 
 It was as if a thunder clap had sounded in my 
 ear. After a moment of insane staring I burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 " Married why, of course ! What more natu- 
 ral," I stammered. " Then his foundations were in 
 the sand after all." 
 
 My former tutor regarded me with grim disap- 
 proval. I went up to my room and in another hour 
 had left the College. 
 
 I will confess that this affair upset me very much. 
 It was too painful, too painful altogether. Indeed,, 
 it was an actual relief when, only a few weeks after- 
 wards, I heard that Monsieur Clavel was no more. 
 
 " I am writing to you," wrote my old house- 
 master, " because you were always interested in Mon- 
 sieur Clavel. He is dead. He went out like a 
 candle, slowly flickering, without a struggle. Poor 
 old man! I am told that he had begun to weep a 
 great deal and to talk once more of Guadeloupe as 
 
 223
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 though he might find happiness there after all. He 
 seemed to recognise no one. It is very pitiful. 
 They say he had given all he had to his nephew and 
 niece. They have not been communicated with be- 
 cause nobody knows their address. He is to have a 
 fine funeral. I shall not attend as I am getting too 
 old. Besides, what is the use? I shall wait till I 
 play a more important part it won't be 
 long. . . . 
 
 When I got this letter I half-thought of going my- 
 self. But, after all, I didn't. It really did seem too 
 ironical. What a finish for an idealist !
 
 DEEP DOWN
 
 DEEP DOWN 
 
 ON the first day of the term Mr. Burgess, 
 the new master, took the boys a walk they 
 had never been before. About a mile 
 from home they suddenly left the road and skirted 
 along the side of a big field by a muddy footpath. 
 
 " We'll see where it leads to," said Mr. Burgess, 
 who felt that he ought to do something to break the 
 universal air of gloom. 
 
 The small boys, who had been walking alongside 
 of him in a despondent cluster, visibly brightened. 
 
 " Come on, then," said Mr. Burgess heartily ; 
 " we'll go on a voyage of discovery. I haven't the 
 least idea where it will take us." 
 
 Nobody said a word, though everybody except the 
 new master, knew exactly where it would take them. 
 It would take them right to the mouth of the tunnel 
 and then along the edge of the cutting to Dakin's 
 Farm, and so out to the Well Road. They knew it, 
 not because they had ever been there, but because, 
 being a notoriously forbidden place for a walk, its 
 every feature was a sort of school tradition. Old 
 Glossop would no more have allowed a master to 
 take boys along that path than he would have al- 
 
 227
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 lowed him to give them cigarettes. That was a com- 
 monplace; and yet here was one of them doing it on 
 the very first day ! The boys looked at one another 
 and at Burgess with a fearful joy. " He's forgotten 
 to tell him," ran from mouth to mouth. It was true : 
 he had forgotten to tell him. The excellent Mr. 
 Burgess was striding ahead with as clear a con- 
 science as though he were still upon the dreary high 
 road. 
 
 He was an eccentric man, rather kind, who re- 
 garded boys as inhuman, and whose only interest in 
 life was the study of the Patristic writings. He 
 had been engaged for years upon a commentary on 
 the Fathers which was to astonish the theologians 
 and scholars of Europe. He considered school- 
 mastering, into which he had been driven by poverty, 
 as a bore, and he tried to get through the terms with 
 as little worry to himself as possible. Indeed, he 
 lived in a world of his own and was seldom properly 
 aware of what was going on around him. That was 
 why headmasters did not care to keep him for long, 
 and why he had drifted from one small preparatory 
 school to another during the last seventeen years. 
 He was invariably popular with boys because he in- 
 terfered little with them and because he used, now and 
 then, to tell them stories about marvellous fish he 
 had caught in Tasmania where he had once lived 
 for a short time on account of his lungs. 
 
 228
 
 Deep Down 
 
 " Now then, boys, hurry up," he cried, Jooking 
 round and beckoning to the stragglers. 
 
 The thirty small boys or so who had been hanging 
 back, whispering excitedly, quickened their steps, 
 and the whole party began to trudge along the nar- 
 row path. Mr. Burgess walked silently, with down- 
 cast eyes, not looking where he was going, lost in 
 an abstruse point of early Christian theology. At 
 such moments he seemed to feel himself present at 
 one of the great councils, and would, as it were, take 
 sides, sometimes even aloud. Suddenly he was 
 startled out of his reverie by hearing a voice at his 
 elbow say, " Look, sir, there's the railway." 
 
 Mr. Burgess sighed. The splendid phantom of 
 the past dissolved like a breath, and, slowly raising 
 his eyes, he stared at the speaker. 
 
 " What is it, my boy ? " he asked. 
 
 " It's the railway, sir," answered half a dozen 
 voices. 
 
 And sure enough the path had led them almost up 
 to the edge of a deep cutting, just at the point 
 where a tunnel emerged from under the rise. The 
 boys ran forward to gaze down at the black mouth 
 of the tunnel. 
 
 " Isn't it fine, sir? " said one of them to Burgess, 
 who had come up. 
 
 But Mr. Burgess was irritated. 
 
 " None of that ! " he shouted angrily. " Don't let 
 229
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 me catch any of you loitering again. Under no con- 
 sideration must you leave the path." 
 
 " But there's a train coming, sir ; we can hear it," 
 urged one of the boys, as if this were a quite irre- 
 sistible explanation. 
 
 He looked so extremely earnest that Mr. Burgess 
 laughed. 
 
 " Well, just for this once," he said good-humour- 
 edly. 
 
 He shivered. It was one of those chill, damp, and 
 windless afternoons of late January when the very 
 sky looks sodden and little twigs can be heard snap- 
 ping in every copse. Before him the row of boys 
 stood motionless with craning necks; overhead the 
 rooks were flying stealthily homewards one by one, 
 and all around the bare fields stretched like an ocean 
 of brown mud. The cutting, which lay across them, 
 resembled a clean slice carved out of the earth by a 
 gigantic knife. It had a repugnant and desolate 
 appearance. The rank grass upon its slopes was all 
 wet and withered, a smell of decay and vitiated air 
 hung over it, and a steamy mist was rising from the 
 bottom. Down there darkness was gathering very 
 fast. The sound of dripping could be heard from a 
 hundred directions. 
 
 Mr. Burgess took in the whole landscape at a 
 glance. 
 
 230
 
 Deep Down 
 
 " I don't hear any train," he said all at once ; 
 " really, I think we had better be going on." 
 
 " Listen, sir; there it is," said a boy. 
 
 He heard it then, a strangled sound deep within 
 the hill like a monster roaring in a cave. A shudder 
 of delight passed over the row of heads. 
 
 " It's coming nearer, sir," gasped some one. 
 
 And suddenly there rushed out of the tunnel an 
 engine dragging a long string of open wagons. The 
 boys shouted with glee, and the echo of the passing 
 train clashed from side to side of the cutting, with its 
 thunderous repetitions dying away right down the 
 line. No one moved for a minute. Smoke was coil- 
 ing out of the tunnel, blurring the sombre outlines 
 of the hollow and clinging to the grimy archway 
 above. 
 
 " We can't stand here all night," said Mr. Burgess 
 at length; " come along, boys." 
 
 They followed him all except one. Gilbert, the 
 biggest boy in the school, had remained behind gaz- 
 ing down at the tunnel. But Mr. Burgess, who was 
 beginning to slip back into another age, did not 
 notice his absence. He heard a lot of small boys 
 chattering round him, and he smiled instinctively. 
 It made a not unpleasant chorus muffled, dream- 
 like to a strange argument he was having with the 
 Bishop of Hippo. The question turned on whether 
 
 231
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 children who died in infancy could be saved without 
 baptism. " Pelagius was right," mumbled Burgess ; 
 *' there is no heresy in his doctrine. Augustine, if I 
 could but meet you upon your own burning African 
 sands ! You call yourself orthodox, but it is a vain 
 delusion because, in your pride, you forgot that 
 Christ alone is the Fountain-head. I see you start. 
 But what did Christ say : * Suffer little children, 
 and forbid them not, to come unto Me : for of such is 
 the Kingdom of Heaven.' Your lips move. Ah, 
 serpent, I know your wiles ! You whisper, * He that 
 believeth in Me and is baptised shall be saved.' Yes ; 
 they are are Christ's words, but they are metaphor- 
 ical. For how does the sentence end : ' But he that 
 believeth not shall be damned.' There is no word 
 here of baptism. Christ most manifestly meant by 
 baptism the putting-on of a new spirit : * Except a 
 man be born again he cannot enter the Kingdom of 
 Heaven.' Born again do you hear? He must 
 recover the lost innocence of his childhood through 
 the grace and mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ. Lis- 
 ten, O learned one. Mankind is vile, but his villainy 
 is instilled into him afresh in each generation by the 
 machinations of the sleepless Devil. It is not inher- 
 ent in his nature. Do not Christ's own words hint 
 at this great truth? The bull, Ineffabttis Dens, was 
 unnecessary, for original sin is a mere figment. 
 Moreover, it arises from the errors of the Apostles, 
 
 232
 
 Deep Down 
 
 of Justin Martyr, and of Tertullian, who were unable 
 to comprehend the verbal images of our Master. 
 No ; throughout His earthly life Christ was ever call- 
 ing upon us to make our hearts even as the heart of 
 a child. Now, therefore, if He did not reject upon 
 earth, but called to Him, the unbaptised children of 
 Galilee, how gladly will He welcome all His children 
 to His Eternal Mansions! You sneer. I care not, 
 scoffer I But remember that there is more pleasure 
 in heaven over one repentant sinner than over 
 ninety and nine just persons that need no re- 
 pentance. There is divine irony in that sentence, 
 O Bishop. It is as much Christ's judgment upon 
 the formalist as upon the Pharisee. A pure and 
 contrite heart is more to Him than a sea of in- 
 cense. Out upon you ! It is you you, Augustine 
 who are heretical, and with you the whole Catholic 
 Church." 
 
 He rubbed his hands, walking with rapid strides 
 along the path. The boys, almost running to keep 
 pace with him, were astonished to see the smiles and 
 frowns come and go on his face. They nudged one 
 another. Unlike Burgess, they knew that Gilbert 
 had stayed behind; but, also unlike Burgess, it was 
 not their business. He could hear just as well as 
 they could besides, Gilbert was Gilbert! There 
 was no accounting for him. They turned, they saw 
 him standing there by the edge, and they merely
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 shrugged their shoulders. After all, it was Gilbert 
 the strongest boy in the school, who had once 
 kicked a goal from nearly half-way, who never took 
 sides, who was always quite uninterested about every- 
 thing; who was, in fact, entirely mad, and who in- 
 variably insisted on walking by himself far behind 
 every one else. 
 
 " I bet you he's waiting till we get on a bit," said 
 presently a small boy called Simpson to his friend 
 Butterworth. 
 
 " I know that," snapped his companion, and they 
 relapsed into silence. 
 
 The other boys, in the interest of watching the new 
 master, had soon forgotten all about Gilbert; but 
 Simpson and Butterworth were still thinking of him. 
 He was their hero. They never discussed him openly, 
 but each knew that the other considered him the most 
 wonderful person in the world. That was why, on 
 walks, they tried to keep behind in the hopes that 
 one day Gilbert would notice them and would let them 
 accompany him. So far it had been completely un- 
 successful, but it made no difference. So now grad- 
 ually they found themselves falling back. Without 
 saying a word to one another it occurred to them 
 both to watch what Gilbert would do. The rest of 
 the school had passed the corner by Dakin's Farm 
 and were out of sight. Simpson and Butterworth 
 suddenly stopped, turned round, and uttered at the 
 
 234? 

 
 Deep Down 
 
 very same instant a sort of stifled exclamation. Gil- 
 bert had disappeared ! . . . 
 
 Alone of all the boys in the school Gilbert had felt 
 no particular exultation when Burgess led them on 
 to the forbidden path. He was sunk in gloom at the 
 memory of the holidays now so fatally over, and he 
 followed the others mechanically. He did not like 
 school. It worried him; worried him perpetually. 
 But he loved his old home in the Lincoln fens with a 
 passionate love. If Burgess regarded terms as a 
 bore, Gilbert regarded them as a nightmare. Be- 
 tween these so dissimilar natures there was this un- 
 guessed bond of an inner and secret life. They were 
 true egoists. They lived for an idea that was the 
 expression of a personal want. 
 
 Gilbert, behind the rest, padded along like a tired 
 old dog, with head bent and a look of profound mis- 
 ery on his face. " If only I were back at home," he 
 kept thinking bitterly. All at once he noticed that 
 the other boys had stopped and were staring down 
 over the bank of the cutting. Gilbert stared too, not 
 because he felt interested, but because every one else 
 was doing it. He saw beneath him two sets of rail- 
 way lines glistening like the trail of slugs after a 
 shower, and the great black mouth of a tunnel yawn- 
 ing at him in the dusk. It was all very tremendous. 
 And suddenly he thought with fear, " Suppose I saw. 
 some one standing down there." Maybe he had 
 
 235
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 heard the sound of the approaching train. Who can 
 say? As soon as it had passed he looked again at 
 the tunnel. " Yes ; and suppose a train had been 
 coming," he added to himself very slowly. 
 
 He did not notice the departure of the other boys. 
 For several minutes afterwards he remained there, 
 quite motionless, his eyes riveted on the tunnel, like a 
 person deep in thought. As a matter of fact only 
 one thing filled his mind; one thing which, in a mo- 
 ment, had driven everything else out, and that was a 
 strange sensation. It was as though the whole world 
 had dwindled and the single real thing in the universe 
 was that cavernous mouth. He started suddenly and 
 gazed round at the ploughed fields. They appeared 
 insignificant, veiled, part of another life. It was a 
 weird effect, but it did not surprise him somehow, and 
 as he turned his eyes once more on the tunnel it 
 seemed to him that only there, there in the hollow, 
 was there anything real. Without thinking what he 
 was about, he took a few steps down the slippery 
 zigzag path. 
 
 He was startled at hearing above his head a loud 
 cry. " What am I doing here? " he thought instan- 
 taneously, and, looking up, he saw two small boys 
 bending over the cutting. " Why, it's these kids ! " 
 he muttered in an astonished voice. 
 
 " Who are you shouting at ? " he cried back, and 
 he began to clamber up the bank. 
 
 236
 
 Deep Down 
 
 Simpson and Butterworth regarded him in con- 
 fusion. 
 
 " We we thought we'd tell you," blurted the lat- 
 ter ; " you know every one's miles ahead. We'll get 
 into an awful row. What were you doing? " he 
 added hurriedly. 
 
 " Oh, don't bother me," answered Gilbert. " Come 
 on, let's run for it." 
 
 Simpson and Butterworth swelled with pride. 
 Fancy, running with Gilbert! The whole school 
 would see them ! 
 
 The three of them began to race along the path. 
 They overtook the others just as they were emerging 
 on to the Well Road. Luckily for them Mr. Burgess 
 was still buried in the abstruser phases of his imagin- 
 ary duologue, and their absence had not been officially 
 noticed. 
 
 Simpson and Butterworth smiled with content at 
 the inquisitive glances cast on them by the others; 
 but, as for Gilbert, he looked more dismal than ever. 
 What on earth had happened to him? Something 
 beastly ! He thought of his home, and it seemed to 
 him as though a slight mist had risen over it, and as 
 though it had receded very far. It filled him with 
 grief. Never before had he felt such utter, cold de- 
 spair ; and the image of the cutting rose up, immense, 
 significant, very silent. " I'm glad I saw no one," 
 he muttered. 
 
 237
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 That night he had a sinister dream. It was like 
 this : He seemed to be standing upon the top of the 
 cutting once more, gazing down almost with anguish 
 at the mouth of the tunnel. He didn't know why he 
 felt such anguish, because it was all just as he had 
 seen it that afternoon. And yet, surely, it was not 
 quite the same. The hollow, instead of being dark, 
 was filled with a subdued light. He could make out 
 every little detail quite plainly. And this was the 
 more remarkable as up above the earth was in pitchy 
 blackness. Yes ; he could see every detail, and all was 
 as he had expected. All? Why, then, did he feel 
 such anguish? He couldn't have said, but he kept 
 peering down as if there was still something to be 
 made out. And all at once, as he looked, he saw the 
 figure of a youth standing by the tunnel. He could 
 have sworn that it had not been there a moment since, 
 but he was not astonished. The youth was bending 
 forward, gazing in at the mouth. He stood very 
 still. He was listening. And Gilbert himself was 
 also listening. " The train is coming," he thought. 
 He would like to have shouted, but he was unable to. 
 And suddenly it seemed to him that he knew the fig- 
 ure it was himself. Again he was horrified, but 
 not astonished. He thought quick as lightning. 
 " When the train comes he will lie down." Ah ! he 
 must give a shout. He made a tremendous effort, 
 and suddenly his lips were unloosed and he uttered a 
 
 238
 
 Deep Down 
 
 cry. It woke him. He sat up in bed, trembling all 
 over. He rubed his eyes. "Was I dreaming? " he 
 muttered. Then he did a singular thing. He got 
 out of bed and slipped into his clothes. He knew 
 that he must go at once to the tunnel. He didn't 
 argue about it it was impossible to resist. He 
 had never broken bounds before. No matter. It 
 was quite simple. Nothing easier. He would be 
 there in less than half an hour. . . . 
 
 There were ten boys in Gilbert's dormitory, but 
 only one of them had been awakened by the cry of 
 the dreamer. In the dim light of the lowered gas- 
 jet Simpson saw his hero sit up, get out of bed, and 
 begin to dress. Finally he saw him go softly out of 
 the room carrying his shoes. He cautiously woke 
 Butterworth, who slept in the next bed, and the two 
 small boys remained whispering for nearly an hour 
 and a half. At the end of that time Gilbert re- 
 turned and got back into bed. It was yet a long 
 time till dawn. In the morning Simpson and But- 
 terworth avoided speaking of the subject. Each 
 had determined, however, that he would be awake 
 on the following night. . . . 
 
 Gilbert had found no difficulty in escaping from 
 the school. He had run the whole way to the cut- 
 ting. In the disordered state of his mind he felt no 
 fear of detection, no guilt, nothing but an over- 
 powering impulse. The moon was at the full, and its 
 
 239
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 pale light glowed upon the desolate scene. All was 
 silent. Gilbert did not hesitate. He ran sideways 
 down the path on to the line. And he stood there, 
 bending forward, looking into the black abyss of the 
 tunnel. It was frightfully thrilling. And down 
 there the dripping sounded louder, seemed to fill the 
 dark air with a thousand murmurs. And on each 
 side the steep banks towered like solid walls, high as 
 the heavens, shutting out the world and everything 
 he knew; shutting out his home on the fens, the fa- 
 miliar faces, the very emotions of joy and gladness. 
 Yes, it was frightfully thrilling. Suddenly he heard, 
 far off in the tunnel, the rumble of a train. He lay 
 down flat between the rails. And without stirring, 
 hardly able to breathe, he allowed the train to pass 
 over him. At last he got up. " I dared to do it," 
 he thought deliriously. And before him all his past 
 life seemed to crumble, blurred and indistinct as an 
 old memory. . . . 
 
 The next afternoon Mr. Burgess, still unwarned 
 by the forgetful Glossop, took the boys for the same 
 walk. He realised that it had been a success. 
 " But," said he, " there will be no loitering to-day, 
 and no stopping to see trains or things of that sort. 
 You understand? " 
 
 Simpson and Butterworth threw a rapid glance at 
 Gilbert, who was standing in the rear, taking no no- 
 tice of anything. All the other boys declared in a 
 
 240
 
 Deep Down 
 
 loud voice that they understood perfectly. Mr. 
 Burgess smiled benignly on them. He foresaw that 
 this school was going to be a sort of haven to him. 
 Such an idea charmed his fancy. For he was wres- 
 tling just now with an important chapter, and, of all 
 things, he needed peace of mind. He was greatly 
 put out therefore when, after having negotiated the 
 danger spot of the cutting without any bother, he 
 found, simply by the chance of turning his head, that 
 one boy had not obeyed his command. They were at 
 least a hundred yards past the tunnel when he made 
 this discovery. 
 
 " Who's that boy ? " he asked sharply. 
 
 " Gilbert, sir," answered a score of voices. 
 
 For a few seconds the whole school, with Mr. Bur- 
 gess in their midst, started at the motionless, bent 
 figure of the absorbed Gilbert. " What's the boy up 
 to? " muttered Mr. Burgess to himself. He felt, un- 
 interested though he was in the psychology of boys, 
 quite uneasy at that appearance of strained immo- 
 bility. And aloud to the school he added, " You all 
 wait here I'll go and fetch him myself." He went 
 hastily back. Gilbert did not hear him coming 
 he was as truly in another world as was Burgess when 
 he used to imagine himself at the Council of Nicaea. 
 
 " Look here, didn't I say there was to be no loiter- 
 ing? " said Mr. Burgess gruffly, tapping him on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 241
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 The boy turned and gave him a stare. 
 
 " Yes, sir," he answered in a low voice. 
 
 " Come, my boy, this won't do," continued the mas- 
 ter ; " if you heard me you should have obeyed me." 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Gilbert again. 
 
 Mr. Burgess looked at him. Certainly an odd 
 type! 
 
 " Your name's Gilbert, isn't it? " he inquired. 
 The other nodded. " Well, remember, Gilbert, if I 
 catch you disobeying me again it'll be the worse for 
 you. Is that plain enough? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," repeated Gilbert once more. 
 
 Mr. Burgess was fidgeted by the meek and, so to 
 say, impersonal behaviour of the boy. 
 
 " That's all very well," he went on, " but any one 
 can say, * Yes, sir,' when they've been found out. 
 What I want to know is, why did you stay behind ? " 
 
 Gilbert looked sheepishly at him. 
 
 " I don't know, sir," he replied at length. 
 
 " Don't prevaricate, my boy. It's a thing I dis- 
 like. I repeat, why did you stay behind? " 
 
 He would have said more, but he saw suddenly 
 upon the boy's face a strange look, a look of suppli- 
 cation and of despair. 
 
 " All right, I won't go into it just now," he added 
 quickly ; " but come to my room this evening after 
 prayers. We can thrash it out there." 
 
 " Very good, sir," answered Gilbert with reluc-
 
 Deep Down 
 
 tance, and the two of them rejoined the wondering 
 school. . . . 
 
 Although Simpson and Butterworth had been, of 
 course, quite unable to hear a word of what had been 
 said, they had watched the whole scene with intense 
 interest. Like most small boys they could hide much 
 cunning under an air of utter indifference. Without 
 ever mutally hinting at such a thing, both had come 
 to the conclusion that Gilbert's behaviour in the 
 night had had something to do with the tunnel ; and 
 now, again, they saw another phase of the same thing 
 opening from this conversation with the schoolmas- 
 ter. Both resolved that nothing should escape them. 
 After prayers that night they saw Gilbert go off 
 towards Mr. Burgess's room, and they realised at 
 once that here was still a further link of the chain. 
 They waited impatiently for developments. . . . 
 
 When Gilbert entered Mr. Burgess's room he 
 found him studying a big Latin book. It was a vol- 
 ume of Tyrannius Rufinus. The master looked up, 
 nodded to the boy to be seated, and continued to read. 
 He was lost in the arid pages of the " De Adultera- 
 toine Librorum Origenis." He felt sympathy for 
 Rufinus in his attack upon the famous Origen. 
 " Yes,'* he thought, " the Pope himself condemned 
 Origen. The devout Anastasius was not likely to 
 err. And even Jerome turned from his writings at 
 last. But the glamour of great reputations has in- 
 
 243
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 variably been fatal. The name of Origen was all- 
 powerful to the Christians of those days. Men like 
 Rufinus, the reformers of abuses, run their heads 
 against the eternal snobbishness of the world. They 
 are the true conservatives. The suspicions of the 
 Orthodox in every age are the mere reflection of their 
 cowardice. What could be more absurd than to 
 question the fundamental Tightness of this saintly 
 Father? " 
 
 He suddenly glanced up, saw Gilbert there before 
 him, and remembered everything. He closed the 
 book with a sigh. More trouble! He should never 
 have ordered the boy to come. He had done it in a 
 moment of curiosity, but he repented it. The whole 
 episode jarred on him. 
 
 " So here you are," he began awkwardly. 
 
 " You said I was to come, sir," muttered Gilbert. 
 
 " Let me see what was it ? Oh, about this aft- 
 ernoon. Well, what have you to say? " 
 
 Gilbert shuffled his feet. 
 
 " What I mean is, have you anything to say ? " 
 continued the master kindly. " Are you unhappy 
 about anything? " 
 
 Gilbert bit his lips and frowned. 
 
 " No ; I won't ask you if you are unhappy," said 
 the other, looking closely at Gilbert, " but I'll ask 
 you why you're unhappy. Is it home-sickness? I 
 used to be like that." 
 
 244
 
 Deep Down 
 
 " Oh, sir, I wish it was ! " burst from the boy. 
 
 Mr. Burgess raised his eyebrows in astonishment. 
 
 " That's a very odd remark," he observed. 
 
 " Is it, sir? " replied Gilbert bleakly. 
 
 " Very odd. You should explain yourself. For 
 instance, what was it made you stay behind this aft- 
 ernoon? " 
 
 " I was looking at the tunnel, sir." 
 
 "Yes, yes; I know. But what's the matter? 
 What's worrying you? You can speak to me quite 
 frankly." 
 
 " I feel that everything's changed, sir," said Gil- 
 bert almost in a whisper. 
 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 " I don't know, sir." 
 
 Mr. Burgess made a gesture of hopelessness. At 
 the same time he felt there was something here it was 
 his duty to investigate. 
 
 " And certainly / don't," he responded testily. 
 " Can't you tell me in plain English? " But seeing 
 once more upon the boy's face a look of terror and 
 supplication, he added in a friendly voice, " I prom- 
 ise to help you if I can." 
 
 Gilbert, for the first time that day, felt a tinge of 
 human warmth about his heart. Dare he confide in 
 him and could he ever make him understand? He 
 rose from his chair and came right up to where Mr. 
 Burgess was sitting. 
 
 245
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " I feel that I've lost everything I cared for, and 
 and I don't know whether I mind," he stammered. 
 
 " Sit down and tell me all," said Mr. Burgess in a 
 firm voice. 
 
 And, at length, in broken sentences, Gilbert told 
 him his trouble. He told it with such vehemence 
 that his listener could feel the stir of his mixed and 
 passionate emotions like invisible tentacles touching 
 him all over his face. But there was one point 
 the most important of all on which Gilbert was 
 silent. He said nothing about his midnight adven- 
 ture. It simply would not pass his lips and, 
 think, think, suppose he wanted to go again! Ah! 
 cursed thought but how could he be sure, how 
 could he see clearly ? 
 
 Mr. Burgess listened without saying a word. He 
 would like to have been able to laugh at that gro- 
 tesque recital, but he did not feel at all like laughing. 
 " It's a regular story from the Thebai'd," he said to 
 himself. And yet what was there really in it all? 
 Nothing ! The silly fancies of a nervous boy ! Why 
 had he ever been such a fool as to bother about him ? 
 But he needed his help he had promised it. Be- 
 sides, he needed it. 
 
 " I tell you what it is, Gilbert," he said in a confi- 
 dential voice, " you've got too vivid an imagination. 
 I'm very glad you spoke to me. You'll find that once 
 having shared this with some one else it'll all melt. 
 
 246
 
 Deep Down 
 
 Don't let things like that weigh on your mind. Your 
 feelings will take care of themselves. Just go on 
 with your life as usual. There's nothing really the 
 matter. And now, my boy, we won't talk any more 
 about it. That's much the best." 
 
 He got up, smiling, and held out his hand to Gil- 
 bert. 
 
 " Good-night, and remember I understand," he said 
 cordially. 
 
 Gilbert went out of the room, concealing his de- 
 jection as well as he could. The master's words, so 
 blind to all the subtle agony and indecision of his 
 heart, had only deepened around him his sense of 
 dreadful isolation. . . . 
 
 In the middle of the night, Simpson and Butter- 
 worth, watching breathlessly, saw Gilbert rise, dress, 
 and leave the room. No sooner had he gone than, in 
 a twinkling, they, too, had risen, thrown on coats 
 and trousers, and run after him. All was quiet in 
 the house of the respected Mr. Glossop. Shadows 
 could hardly have made less sound than did the three 
 boys; and, indeed, they resembled shadows as they 
 flitted out into the moonlight, one ahead, two behind, 
 and all running under the lee of the house. Gilbert 
 made straight for the cutting, and the two small 
 boys, from a distance, saw him turn the corner of the 
 field into the muddy path. When they reached the 
 embankment he was not to be seen. 
 
 247
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " Down there ! " whispered Simpson. 
 
 " Yes; look at him, look at him!" exclaimed But- 
 terworth. 
 
 He was standing on the line, very close to the tun- 
 nel, and staring into it. All at once they saw him 
 take a step forward and disappear within its mouth. 
 
 Simpson and Butterworth did not wait for any- 
 thing more. They were frightened. They turned 
 and ran homewards as fast as they could. . . . 
 
 Gilbert had left the presence of the schoolmaster 
 feeling not only isolated from all the world, but very 
 unwell. A strange, gnawing pain was beginning to 
 stir in his mind. He did not try to analyse it. He 
 had only one wish, and that was to fall asleep and 
 not to wake till morning. But in the middle of the 
 night he suddenly started up. The pain in his head 
 was worse: it had taken the form of a voice which 
 kept repeating, " Get up and go to the tunnel." 
 " Oh," thought Gilbert, " that was it, was it? " and 
 without resisting for a second he put on his clothes 
 and escaped from the house. His awful isolation, in 
 which even the memory of his home appeared dim and 
 meaningless, made him hasten to reach the only real 
 place remaining on the earth. The cutting, the tun- 
 nel how safe they were, like a rock in the middle 
 of the ocean! He would hold on to them and not 
 let go. Firm and solid, they seemed to rise before 
 him in the still and vast expanse of nothingness. 
 
 248
 
 Deep Down 
 
 " Never, never let go," he thought, hurrying forward. 
 
 And here he was at last ! He felt a new man so 
 secure, so free from pain. He looked at the mouth 
 and he said, " I'll walk into the tunnel, into the very 
 middle, and then I'll lie down and the train will go 
 over me, and I shall know that I've dared to do it." 
 It was a great idea and very thrilling. Oh, it was 
 splendid to have the protection of something real! 
 He was not afraid. He began to walk boldly into 
 the heart of the blackness. " Won't it roar ! " he 
 thought, laughing inwardly. He was surprised to 
 find that he was singing. He sat down on the rails, 
 singing and shouting with joy. How happy it was 
 to have something real to lay hold on ! Apparently 
 the approaching train was not real at all, for Gilbert 
 never heard it. There was a hammering in his ears, 
 making a much louder noise. He was given no con- 
 scious chance of testing his bravery again. . . . 
 
 After Gilbert's departure, Mr. Burgess had tried 
 to dismiss the matter from his mind and to continue 
 his study of Rufinus. But the boy's story or 
 rather the way he had told it had left a curious 
 impression on him. " I do hope I did right," he 
 thought. He felt angry with himself, humiliated, 
 and oppressed ! Ah ! these schoolboys, they were al- 
 ways coming between him and the fulfilment of his one 
 desire! How could he work, how could he finish his 
 huge undertaking if his soul were troubled? He be- 
 
 249
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 gan to walk up and down his room. He tried to 
 conjure up the august scenes of the past, those im- 
 ages which had never failed to comfort his lonely 
 hours. It was in vain. Gilbert's story protruded 
 itself at every moment. " What could I have said 
 to him? " he argued. He was deeply disturbed. " I 
 have lived in myself too long ; the slightest thing up- 
 sets me." He felt more and more uneasy. " Wait," 
 he muttered desperately, " before he came I was 
 thinking of old Rufinus. I was going into the ques- 
 tion of his attack upon the writings of Origen. 
 Poor Rufinus ! he, too, had his peaceful time 
 broken in upon, and forever. O Alaric, you have 
 much to answer for! Pinetum might have kept its 
 honoured guest for many a long year but for your 
 invasion. Presumptuous man, how little you real- 
 ised what you were doing! But, alas, you were only 
 one of the Church's innumerable foes ! It was men 
 like Rufinus, like Cassian, like Prosper, and like Si- 
 donius Apollinaris who, obscurer Fathers as some 
 consider them, steered the Church through many a 
 crisis of its history. They are as the distant stars, 
 shining minute through the immensity of stellar 
 space, but in reality of the first magnitude, burning 
 with fervent heat, and glorious beyond the timid 
 reach of our imaginations." 
 
 He stopped in the middle of the room and suddenly 
 scowled. "Ah, that Gilbert!" he cried. "I can't 
 
 250
 
 Deep Down 
 
 think of anything," he added nervously ; " it all seems 
 so remote, so remote." He went to the table, sat 
 down, and rested his head in his hands. " Yes ; I 
 shall never finish it," he pondered. " How many 
 years now ten, eleven? And Migne's texts are so 
 corrupt. O Lord ! I am weak ; my courage fails me ! 
 Desert me not. What I do is all to Thy honour and 
 glory." 
 
 He was unspeakably dismayed. The visit of the 
 boy had served to upset the balance of a mind al- 
 ready overwrought. It had shown him a sombre and 
 hidden glimpse of life where he had least expected to 
 find it. The early Christians, he knew, were often 
 possessed, encompassed as they were by an army of 
 fiends, but it was too ghastly to think that the Devil 
 had come again upon earth to torment the growing 
 generation. For a long time he remained bowed over 
 the table. " No ; I shall never finish it," he mur- 
 mured, and at the mere idea the whole work of his 
 lifetime seemed to lie shattered at his feet. He was 
 a solitary man. He had no friends. If this were to 
 fail him, what then would remain? He did not dare 
 to frame the answer because he knew that the answer 
 was " nothing." " I'm not well to-night," he whis- 
 pered. He got up and went to the window, through 
 which the moonlight was streaming. " Not at all 
 well," he whispered again. 
 
 It was at that instant that he caught sight of two 
 251
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 small boys stealing along the corner of the house. 
 His window was on the ground floor; he opened it, 
 jumped out, and had caught them before they could 
 take alarm. 
 
 " Here, let me see you by the light," he said 
 sternly, and he dragged them back with him into his 
 room. 
 
 Five minutes later Mr. Burgess was tearing down 
 the road. He knew all that the boys had to tell 
 him. He ran as he had never run before, stumbling, 
 sobbing for breath. He reached the cutting, he 
 slithered down on to the line, and he darted into the 
 tunnel, calling out Gilbert's name as he went. The 
 only reply was a sort of mad, ringing echo of his 
 own voice. He stopped and he called again, once, 
 very loudly, " Gilbert, where are you? " And the 
 confused clamour of his voice broke round him in the 
 tunnel like a clap of thunder. Mr. Burgess waited 
 till all was still. He was shaking. " Answer, an- 
 swer ! " he shouted in frenzy ; then, knowing suddenly 
 that he would never get any answer, he rushed out 
 of the tunnel. He was in a panic. He ran home, 
 locked himself into his room, and began tearing up 
 his manuscript as though he had not a moment to 
 spare. " It was this kept me from understanding," 
 he thought frantically ; " it's all meaningless, waste 
 paper, the work of a fool. It's I who am responsi- 
 ble. I and only I." All at once he stopped, looked 
 
 262
 
 Deep Down 
 
 with horror upon the wreck of his life's work, and 
 went tottering into his bedroom. During the whole 
 of that night he law, with his eyes wide open, staring 
 up at the ceiling. . . . 
 
 When the boys trooped into the dining-hall for 
 breakfast the next morning they noticed that old 
 Glossop was in one of his bad moods. He watched 
 them enter without a smile. He had just received a 
 note from his new master to announce that we was so 
 unwell that he must resign forthwith. What an end- 
 less trial they were, these masters of his ! He gazed 
 gloomily round at the boys, and as he did so he per- 
 ceived that one was absent. 
 
 " Where is Gilbert? " he demanded ominously. 
 
 Nobody answered, but in the deathlike silence that 
 supervened Simpson and Butterworth looked fixedly 
 at one another. 
 
 258
 
 NINETEEN
 
 NINETEEN 
 
 WE were sitting, Ted Brownlow and I, 
 under the apple trees of his little or- 
 chard. A deal table had been brought 
 from the house and we were having tea in the long 
 grass. Beneath us, starting from our very feet, 
 the slope of the hill showed the long valley of the 
 Severn and the river glinting here and there until it 
 disappeared in haze towards the Bristol Channel. 
 Not a breath of air stirred the apple leaves above 
 us, and the sky, without a cloud, had lost its deeper 
 blue in the hot stillness of the afternoon. 
 
 We had been talking about old times and had 
 gradually fallen silent. That's what usually hap- 
 pens. One cannot really talk about the past. Too 
 many faces begin to crowd upon one's memory, too 
 many intimate, moving and forgotten scenes. " Do 
 you remember so and so? " some one asks. Remem- 
 ber so and so ! Good gracious ! Remember him in- 
 deed ! And all you can do is to answer, " Yes I re- 
 member him. Wasn't it he who took us to see those 
 girls at Blunt's Cottage? " Phew . . . One can so- 
 
 257
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 liloquise about the past that's different one 
 can't discuss it. 
 
 So we had been sitting silent like that for perhaps 
 five minutes when my friend, rising abruptly, said 
 that he must go in and see " How Ada was getting 
 on." (Ada is his sister an invalid these last ten 
 years.) 
 
 I nodded. I watched his tall, thin figure go 
 through the wooden orchard gate, across the lawn, 
 into the house, and all of a sudden my wayward 
 thoughts fixed themselves on him. After all he was 
 part of my past, too. I had known him for nearly 
 twenty years, ever since he had returned from his 
 wild travels and had settled down for good upon this 
 little Cotswold farm. " And this is the life he leads 
 now ! " I muttered, amazed, even then, after all these 
 years. For it was amazing. You had only to think 
 of his past. Not, indeed, that he had ever told me 
 much about it. He kept the memory of his wander- 
 ings locked in his own bosom. Occasionally he would 
 mention them by way of reference (" That was the 
 
 year I was in island " or " It would be about 
 
 then I discovered that tributary of the "), or 
 
 just occasionally he would tell me some strange an- 
 ecdote (how fantastically he could conjure the wil- 
 derness before me!), but, on the whole, he was not 
 given to reminiscence. Not at all, I assure you. 
 He would much rather have discussed the latest 
 
 258
 
 Nineteen 
 
 batch of French Memoirs from the London Library. 
 Reading, farming, and the care of his sister made 
 up the daily round. 
 
 No, it was not from anything he had said that I 
 knew about his wanderings. It was from that little 
 book he wrote in the first months of his return to 
 civilisation. Do you know it? It is called " Coral 
 Reefs and Unrecorded Bays." Nowadays I never 
 see a copy about and I suppose it must be very rare. 
 It fell flat at the time, I remember, which doesn't sur- 
 prise me but which does assure me in my opinion of 
 public taste. For if ever there was a singular and 
 beautiful book it is the " Coral Reefs and Unrecorded 
 Bays " that my friend, Ted Brownlow (under the 
 pseudonym of " Southward Ho "), wrote so many 
 years since. The very title fascinates me and as for 
 the contents, I have read them, I think, a hundred 
 times. The glow of tropical sunlight falls upon 
 these pages. As you read you can see the lagoons 
 opening from the sea with their ring of dark forest, 
 you can hear the frogs calling in their pools drown- 
 ing the surf upon the sand. A strange book and 
 utterly unknown! It's author never alludes to it. 
 But how often have I taken it up on these quiet sum- 
 mer evenings and, after reading a few pages, closed 
 it and sat looking towards the Bristol Channel and 
 imagined how I, myself, might sail outwards and 
 " down under " to the South. I shall never do it, of 
 
 259
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 course; I am too old. But I am glad to have this 
 fancy and to feel that there is still something left, 
 some secret delight, and that destroying time has not 
 destroyed the most precious of all its gifts, has not 
 destroyed romance, the breath of joy and life. . . . 
 
 And so, as I watched Ted Brownlow disappear 
 into his house, I began to wonder whether he, too, 
 had such thoughts or whether age had, at last, with- 
 ered the fire within him. Did he think of his past 
 life with vain regret or was it no more to him than the 
 peaceful present? Had time, which evaporates the 
 ardour of most men's desire, left him like old, old 
 port which, long ripening to maturity, becomes, at 
 length, thin, acid, without a history, or had it only 
 deepened, as does occasionally happen, the passion- 
 ate longings of youth and memory. . . . 
 
 It seemed a long time before he came out again. 
 If anything the day had grown still more breathless. 
 The bees were drowsily buzzing, and the hens, having 
 covered their backs with dust, were crouching be- 
 neath the trees. The sun shone a little mistily and 
 the glare was leaving the sky. How pleasant to sit 
 in the orchard and let these vague questions filter 
 through the brain ! The slight sadness of my mood 
 harmonised with the declining day. I could have 
 waited there contentedly till darkness had come, but 
 just then my friend emerged from the house. With 
 his stoop and his slow, shuffling gait he resembled 
 
 260
 
 Nineteen 
 
 the imaginary professor of a novel. And this was 
 the great traveller of old! I was seized with 
 a sudden and more intense curiosity. I must 
 know. . . . 
 
 On rejoining me he made some casual, apologetic 
 remark. I smiled as though I had taken it in and 
 I asked him quickly, " Do you never feel a wish to go 
 back to the Tropics ? " 
 
 He gave me rather a startled glance. 
 
 " I ? no, never. What a question ! That's to 
 say, not now. Why should I? " 
 
 "Well, but what do you mean exactly?" I in- 
 sisted. 
 
 He got up, fidgeted with his hands, and sat down 
 again. 
 
 " My dear fellow," he said, " you don't know what 
 a change twenty years has made out there. I should 
 feel like a fish out of water. Almost every one of 
 my friends ... it would be ghastly. Besides be- 
 sides I might be quite disillusioned." 
 
 He looked jeeringly at me. 
 
 " Just think, suppose I were disillusioned ! " he 
 added. 
 
 " But you know what to expect." 
 
 " On the contrary," he remarked drily, " I know 
 nothing at all about it. Material facts yes. On 
 such and such a day after leaving the Channel you 
 will make such and such a landfall. Quite right. 
 
 261
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 But it's not material facts that count, it's the atti- 
 tude. How could I go out there as I went at nine- 
 teen?" 
 
 He appeared irritable (an unusual state with him), 
 but suddenly shook his head, smiled and stared 
 dreamily at the grass. 
 
 " Do you know how I came to leave England first 
 of all? " he murmured. 
 
 " No, tell me about it," I replied at once ; " you 
 haven't put that in your book." 
 
 "In my book? of course not. It's not the 
 sort of thing you put in books. It was an odd busi- 
 ness. I went out with my uncle." 
 
 " But how was it ? " I asked, noticing that he 
 seemed uncertain whether to speak or not. 
 
 " Why, it was like this. I had an Uncle Joe who 
 used to turn up now and then from the most out- 
 landish places. He was a jolly fellow, a great hero 
 with us, but a bad lot really. Went about swindling 
 niggers and so on. Well, we didn't care! So one 
 morning he appears quite unexpectedly at my moth- 
 er's farm in Yorkshire. And what do you think? 
 he announces his intention of carrying me off with 
 him to Peru next week. He was going out to sell 
 filters and get concessions all sorts of things. By 
 Jove, can you imagine my excitement? We twisted 
 my mother round our fingers in no time. She was 
 completely bewildered. By the evening it was all 
 
 262
 
 Nineteen 
 
 arranged. I was to go up to London with my uncle 
 at once. Fancy I had never even been in London ! 
 Why, never even out of Yorkshire. That night I 
 got hold of our old copy of Prescott. It couldn't 
 be too bloodthirsty for me. ... I imagined Peru as 
 one mass of gold gold and parrots. You know 
 the old stamps one used to collect. ... In three 
 days we were off to London. 
 
 " We stayed at a hotel somewhere behind Hoi- 
 born. My uncle used to spend his days in the city 
 I explored. Sometimes he would bring back one 
 or two of his friends men with clipped moustaches 
 and hats at the back of their heads, who smoked 
 cigars, drank whiskey and water, and were inces- 
 santly writing in notebooks. My uncle told me that 
 they were his business friends and that I must always 
 show them great consideration. ' They are impor- 
 tant men,' he would say in a confidential tone, * very 
 important; you can't be too polite to them.' Cer- 
 tainly they were the only people I had ever set eyes 
 on who could make my uncle keep comparatively 
 quiet. I respected them accordingly. 
 
 " The days passed like lightning. A week went 
 by. On the following morning we were to leave 
 Waterloo for Southampton at ten o'clock. We had 
 made all our purchases from toothpowder to drill 
 suits. Or rather, I had made them all. My uncle 
 had produced a bag of sovereigns and long paper 
 
 268
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 lists. I went about with them buying and ticking off. 
 A huge lark I had 10 for myself over and above. 
 . . . The business friends were in great evidence that 
 night, champagne flowing, and every one very jovial. 
 As usual, no one took much notice of me. I went to 
 bed early but I couldn't sleep. I lay awake all 
 night. . . . 
 
 "And the next day how can I describe it? 
 Have you known what it is to go on board a liner 
 for the first time, to see the white decks towering 
 above you and the passengers lolling over the 
 rails, to jostle and push up the gangway, to feel 
 the ship beneath you, clean, busy, ready for her 
 voyage, to dive down and along the alleyways till a 
 steward opens the cabin door before you, to sink 
 upon the couch beneath the closed port-hole, with 
 that hot, airless ship's smell in your nostrils ? Then 
 that first argument with a shore-porter (a villainous 
 breed with husky voices ) and the first lunch all 
 cold beef, salad, pickles and jam-puffs, with the gera- 
 niums on the table, and the turmoil of people rushing 
 in and out. And the first glimpse of the drawing- 
 room where some clergyman or other is sure to be 
 trying to write fifty letters before the steamer sails 
 can all that ever be felt properly but once? Well, 
 I mustn't moralise. . . . 
 
 " We had hardly got on board when some typical 
 friends of my uncle appeared from nowhere (it was a 
 
 264
 
 Nineteen 
 
 habit they had) and, being thirsty, as usual, took 
 him along with them to the smoking-room. I had 
 lunch by myself and after seeing again that every- 
 thing was safely in the cabin I went on deck and 
 strolled up and down. We were just preparing to 
 cast off. The last whistle had blown, several women 
 were weeping on the quay, a postman stared up at 
 us with pale, bulging eyes. He was an old man. 
 Perhaps his only son was leaving England. ... I 
 remember it all. I heard some one call out an order, 
 the gangways were swung clear, the engine-room bell 
 clanged, and slowly, under the guidance of her tug, 
 she edged sideways from the shore. I looked down- 
 wards upon the crowd of upturned faces. People 
 were waving, a girl kissed her hand, a cat mewed 
 piteously from a basket, cries of farewell were grow- 
 ing fainter outward bound at last ! 
 
 " It was the middle of June. An afternoon like this 
 but clearer. Blue wavelets ruffled the smooth sur- 
 face. Inshore the paddle-steamers were plying along 
 the Isle of Wight and yachts skimed in every direc- 
 tion. We passed through the Needles, with the low 
 Hampshire coast fading in the distance, dropped the 
 pilot and, turning, headed down Channel. Already 
 I began to feel at home. I walked about a little 
 and then, going below, found my uncle on the couch 
 calmly reading a French novel. He had opened the 
 port and a delicious breeze filled the cabin. The 
 
 265
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 throb of the engines, the swish of the tiny waves 
 against the ship, the sight of the blue sky and spar- 
 kling water filled me with unspeakable elation. I 
 could have shouted aloud. . . . 
 
 " But it didn't continue like this. About five in 
 the morning we ran into the tail-end of a storm. It 
 was the rolling of the ship that awoke me. The 
 steward had come in in his bare feet and was screwing 
 up the port. (He was a wonderful fellow, this stew- 
 ard of ours, Carrington, a pure black from Nevis, 
 with the most imperturbable manners and as silent as 
 a ghost.) In spite of all my forebodings I didn't 
 feel one tinge of sea-sickness I never have. It 
 was broad daylight, of course, and I was only anxious 
 to be up and on deck. My uncle was asleep, and the 
 sea, growing heavier from minute to minute, was 
 beating in great, blinding smashes upon the port. 
 After bearing it as long as I could I got out of my 
 bunk and stumbled across to the bath-room, where a 
 sleepy steward had just come on duty. He was more 
 than surprised to see me. However, he got a bath 
 ready at once and for the first time in my life yes, 
 believe me, it was so I plunged into salt water. I 
 must have gone up in the estimation of that steward. 
 If you can stand a cold, salt bath the first morning 
 of a voyage when the boat is rolling twenty degrees 
 well, you can stand anything. Take it from me. 
 They have a smell of their own these ships' bath- 
 
 266
 
 Nineteen 
 
 rooms, a mixture of brine and steam pipes and soap 
 and hot oil. It does for a good many people. 
 
 " When I got on deck there was not a passenger 
 in sight. I received a draught of air such as had 
 never entered my lungs before. And all round the 
 green-white waves were tossing and up above fleecy 
 clouds were scudding across the sky. The wind whis- 
 tled overhead. The ship rolled so violently that I 
 had to keep making frantic runs half across the deck. 
 Presently from below two people made their appear- 
 ance, two of the very people I had noticed at our 
 table the night before. One was a dissipated, elderly 
 man with a red nose, red lumps on his forehead, and 
 a protuberant stomach, and the other a girl of seven- 
 teen or thereabouts such a beauty. I was quite 
 taken aback and was beginning to slink round (that's 
 a euphemism) to the other side of the deck when the 
 fat man called out lustily to me 
 
 " ' This is a grand morning, young sir.' 
 
 " I blushed quite unnecessarily and, taking advan- 
 tage of a favourable roll, almost collided with them. 
 
 " * Isn't it ? ' I gasped. And, turning to the girl, 
 I added, ' Please forgive me ; I couldn't help it.' 
 
 " She laughed, nodding her head. 
 
 " * Take care, father; don't fall,' she cried, as the 
 fat man tried to steer his way down the deck. 
 
 " * We haven't got our sea-legs yet,' she added 
 gaily- 
 
 267
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " I seemed to be growing more speechless every mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " * I say, excuse me ; I must go and see how my 
 uncle is,' I blurted out suddenly. 
 
 " She smiled in a friendly way ; the fat man, bal- 
 ancing himself precariously, half-turned and shouted 
 against the wind, ' Meet again later,' whilst I, hardly 
 knowing what to do, waved my hand and darted down 
 the companion-ladder. I found my uncle still asleep. 
 The cabin was in semi-darkness from the water 
 streaming down the glass and the atmosphere was 
 appalling. But, being an ass, I didn't dare to show 
 my face on deck again before breakfast. I got onto 
 the couch and tried to doze. It was quite unsuccess- 
 ful. ... I felt very happy. 
 
 "You smile but what did you expect? At 
 nineteen it's very simple. Why, I could have shown 
 you the whole world in a nutshell. Look, just like 
 this ! Do you know that I haven't thought of that 
 voyage for years and years. Yet I see it now as I 
 speak, see the faces turned to me and the breaking 
 waves, hear the voices. . . . And that girl, Pris- 
 cilla Priscilla Goodenough ! I made great 
 friends with her in a few days. It happened 
 like this. My uncle couldn't bear her father 
 no one could and always treated him with icy 
 politeness. This wasn't at all like him, for he was 
 the best-natured man on earth. Still there it was 
 
 268
 
 Nineteen 
 
 and it was very marked. It appears that old 
 Goodenough wanted to join a poker party which my 
 uncle had got together in the smoke-room and that 
 my uncle wouldn't have him. Not at any price. 
 There had been words of some sort nothing much. 
 The old man had positively wept he was never 
 quite sober and had made a speech in which he 
 said that he hoped he had always behaved like a gen- 
 tleman and always would. 
 
 " A silly business ! Unfortunately his daughter 
 had got wind of it and came to me for the full story. 
 (You know, I had tried at meals and so on to show 
 that I didn't share my uncle's dislike. As a matter 
 of fact, I did however, you can understand.) Her 
 father was in very low spirits, she said. He would 
 only tell her things in fragments but she gathered 
 that there had been some unpleasantness between him 
 and my uncle. She wasn't excusing her father. It 
 was easy to blame him nobody was perfect, he 
 least of all but he was getting old. * He is not 
 what he was,' she murmured. I was terribly em- 
 barrassed. Should I speak to my uncle? I asked. 
 She looked at me with liquid eyes. Oh, if only I 
 would! Her father was so easily upset, it was so 
 hard to know what to do, etc., etc. I felt that I 
 had her confidence. 
 
 " * All right ; I'll speak before lunch,' I assured 
 her, looking away. (This was the fourth day out.) 
 
 269
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " But now something very odd happened. As I 
 was going down the deck towards the companion- 
 ladder I ran into old Goodenough, who was lying in 
 wait for me outside the door of his cabin. He beck- 
 oned to me with elaborate secrecy. I could do noth- 
 ing but approach. 
 
 " * Will you oblige me, young sir, by coming in 
 here for an instant ? ' he asked in a whisper. 
 
 " He looked solemn. Of course, I thought at once 
 that he had seen me talking to his daughter 
 (' Prissy, 5 as he called her) and meant to read me a 
 lesson. Very uncomfortable for me. . . . 
 
 " His cabin was a single-berth one. As soon as 
 we entered he carefully closed the door, pulled the 
 curtain across the window, and struck a light. 
 (He'd have made his fortune in a melodrama.) All 
 this time my knees were knocking together. He 
 placed a chair for me and asked me to be seated. 
 
 II 
 
 " * Young Mr. Brownlow,' he began, * my dear 
 young friend, you can help me with your good ad- 
 vice.' (He was obviously rather drunk and smelt 
 of spirits.) 'My dear friend my dear friend 
 but first tell me what you think of this rum the 
 finest Jamaica, very old ! ' He produced a bottle 
 from somewhere and poured out two glasses. * Come, 
 
 270
 
 Nineteen 
 
 I drink to you I know you are going to make a 
 name for yourself but, my dear friend, tell me, 
 what am I to do? Your excellent uncle believe 
 me, I would do anything. I am a man of the most 
 friendly disposition. Just think! For forty years 
 yes, forty-two years back and forwards on this 
 very line and now what am I to do? " 
 
 " He was working himself up into a state of maud- 
 lin despair. 
 
 " * What am I to do ? ' he repeated, wringing his 
 hands. 
 
 " You can imagine how awful this was for me. 
 I was in utter confusion. 
 
 " * I'll I'll speak to my uncle,' I stammered, not 
 even pretending to misunderstand him ; * no doubt 
 or, rather, perhaps at any rate I'll do my best.' 
 
 " One really had to treat him like a child. He 
 didn't seem to have an ounce of pride. His red, 
 tipsy face quivered with emotion. Tears started 
 into his eyes. He murmured a few disjointed words 
 of thanks. But all the same it appeared to me that 
 there was a certain slyness about his expression. 
 He was evidently anxious for me to be gone. 
 
 " I was only too pleased to get out on deck again. 
 I was oppressed by the thought that this was prob- 
 ably a preconcerted plan between father and daugh- 
 ter. However, as there seemed no way of finding 
 that out except by direct challenge to the girl (an 
 
 271
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 impossible proceeding) I went straight down to the 
 cabin, feeling very miserable. It was half an hour 
 before lunch. My uncle was installed on the couch 
 reading his interminable French novel (full of im- 
 proper illustrations) and I tackled him at once. 
 
 <c ' Do you know, Uncle, that poor Miss Good- 
 enough is very upset about you and her father? ' 
 
 " My uncle burst out laughing. 
 
 " * Eh, my boy,' what does the poor girl say? ' he 
 replied mockingly. 
 
 "I told him. 
 
 " * Well, Ted, you give her a kiss and say that it'll 
 be all right.' 
 
 " I felt more than ever as though I had put my 
 head into a hornet's nest still, it was rather thrill- 
 ing. 
 
 " ' You mean you'll let him play, Uncle, and 
 and speak to him at table? ' I answered seriously. 
 
 " This sent my uncle into further roars of laugh- 
 ter. 
 
 " * Why, the fellow's a regular advocate ! ' he 
 shouted. * It's the petticoats, Ted. You'd better 
 take care.' 
 
 " Of course I furiously denied it. 
 
 " ' Watch me at lunch,' said my uncle in the great- 
 est good humour. * Only he mustn't get too drunk 
 I draw the line there.' 
 
 " I had to be content with that. I was very glad 
 272
 
 Nineteen 
 
 I hadn't said a word about the other interview. I 
 slipped out of the cabin and ran up on deck. I 
 found Miss Goodenough where I had left her. 
 
 " * I've seen my uncle, 5 I began hastily. ' There's 
 been some misunderstanding, but I've cleared it 
 away.' 
 
 " What a glance she gave me ! 'I knew you 
 would,* she murmured, putting out her hand. 
 
 " But at that very moment the cursed thought of 
 the whole thing being a plot surged up and dashed 
 all my pleasure. 
 
 " Despair made me suddenly reckless. 
 
 " ' Do tell me it wasn't your father who asked 
 you to ask me? ' I muttered. 
 
 " * What, has he been speaking to you ? ' she an- 
 swered quickly. 
 
 "(* That means it was,' I thought, looking at her 
 with anger.) 
 
 " ' Yes,' I replied. 
 
 " She closed her eyes and shuddered. 
 
 " * I couldn't have stood against that, could I ? ' 
 * But, Miss Goodenough, why shouldn't he? ' I added 
 gently. * I ought not to have put that question. 
 He only asked me if he had offended my uncle. Of 
 course he hadn't. It's all settled now.' 
 
 " She gave her head a mournful shake. 
 
 " * Yes, but I know him,' she insisted, sighing heav- 
 ily. * He humiliates himself it's so wretched, and 
 
 373
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 for me, too. I had no idea that he had any such in- 
 tention. I would have warned you, of course. You 
 must think badly of us.' 
 
 " Really I could have thrown myself into the sea 
 I felt such a scoundrel. I gazed at her. I was 
 speechless. 
 
 " * Never mind, never mind,' she said, frowning as 
 though to keep back her tears. . . . 
 
 " That was how our friendship began. Yes, I 
 can see her now standing there looking strangely at 
 me, tapping with her little foot on the deck. That 
 same afternoon she told me a lot about herself. 
 
 Her father was a sugar planter in , a very rich 
 
 man. His family had made their fortune in the old 
 slavery days. * We were as well known throughout 
 the islands as the Beckfords,' she added proudly. (I 
 remember giving an incredulous start at this infor- 
 mation, though, to speak truly, I had never heard of 
 the Beckfords before.) Her father, she went on to 
 tell me, was a widower and she was his only child. 
 He had come over to fetch her from a convent in 
 Milan where she had been for three years. He was a 
 kind father to her, would do anything for her, buy 
 her anything, but she hardly seemed to know him 
 after all this time. He was an altered man. Her 
 lip quivered as she spoke of him. It was being alone 
 so much, she thought, and he was getting old, too, 
 and altogether it was a bad look-out. But then, 
 
 274.
 
 Nineteen 
 
 perhaps, it would be different now. Did I not think 
 so? I nodded emphatically, but I must admit that 
 she gave utterance to the hope without conviction. 
 It was a sort of conventional aside. I listened to 
 her with the most eager sympathy. I had never seen 
 such a girl. 
 
 " WeU, you know how these things go on board 
 ship. Friendships spring up very suddenly. A 
 smile, a few polite words, an endless conversation 
 how quickly they follow one another! And as for 
 me how can I tell you what I felt ? Everything 
 seemed changed. I ran about the ship, laughing, 
 talking to all I met. My uncle was vastly amused. 
 Let him be I didn't care, not a bit ! And the sea 
 grew calm and the air warm, and every night the 
 stars glittered more brightly. Ah, that was when 
 we talked! She would fetch a light wrap from her 
 cabin and come fluttering along the deck like a moth. 
 We leant over the rail and we saw the sea phospho- 
 rescent beneath us and the undulating reflections of 
 the stars. Not a tremor shook the masts outlined 
 darkly against the sky. It was wonderful. She 
 would tell me about her home and about the negroes 
 singing in the dusk and about the frogs bubbling 
 amongst the reeds. I listened. A new world opened 
 at my feet. 
 
 " * Go on, tell me more,' I urged her ; ' tell me 
 everything.' 
 
 275
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 But all at once she would stop. 
 
 " * Wait for me ; I must go and look after 
 father.' 
 
 " I waited, cursing her father. Truly a most de- 
 testable old man! I must explain that no sooner 
 had he been received back into the fold (if you can 
 call a poker party a fold) than he began to assume 
 a distant and mysterious air. No more confidential 
 whispers, no, indeed, but only elaborate bows and 
 clearings of the throat. I need hardly say that he 
 avoided all reference to our former conversation. I 
 was thankful but rather hurt. He had evidently 
 dismissed the whole affair. Oh, yes, I can quite un- 
 derstand. After all he had not behaved in a digni- 
 fied way and it became more and more evident that 
 dignity was his chief forte. He used to irritate my 
 poor uncle almost to madness, but I must say he bore 
 it very well. (He, too, was a great admirer of Pris- 
 cilla.) Sometimes, however, when he came into the 
 cabin very late from a game of poker there would be 
 a fine to-do. Old Goodenough had been making 
 
 * personal explanations ' all the evening. My uncle 
 would tear off his clothes, fuming and stamping. 
 
 * It's poker, not parliament ! ' he would exclaim 
 wrathfully ; * besides, I wish he wouldn't breathe in 
 my face.' Then he would add sardonically, ' And 
 it's all owing to you, my son.' But at breakfast the 
 next morning he would treat the old man in that 
 
 276
 
 Nineteen 
 
 hearty way of his which endeared him to every one 
 even to the niggers he swindled, I daresay. Mr. 
 Goodenough never unbent. In courteous phrases he 
 would wish my uncle ' A very good morning and to 
 you, young sir, another day of enjoyment.' Of 
 course, it was absurd especially as he was always 
 the first to arrive at the poker table (he used to 
 carry about with him two of the greasiest pack of 
 cards I have ever seen), and even at that early hour 
 smelt of spirits to a certain modified extent. As my 
 uncle used to say, * You could tell what the time was 
 when he breathed on you.* 
 
 " Yes, it was absurd and rather pathetic. I sup- 
 pose he imagined he was regaining his dignity. I 
 would catch in his eyes occasionally that sly, watch- 
 ful look I had noticed before. And yet there was 
 another man beneath all this, beneath the drunkard, 
 beneath the bore the man his daughter used to 
 know and still love. For she did still love him. It 
 was self-evident. You could see the look of pain 
 when he made himself ridiculous. She treated him 
 with great gentleness. She would defer to him in his 
 most sententious moments. She had the gift of tact, 
 the tact which conceals pity. And even to me, after 
 that one confidence which had been, as it were, torn 
 from her, she never alluded to him with anything but 
 affection. * Dear Father,' she would say, ' he leans 
 on me a great deal.' She would smile, but without a 
 
 277
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 trace of condescension. * I have been away too long 
 I shan't leave him any more.' . . . 
 
 Ill 
 
 " But where am I ? Oh, yes, I was telling you how 
 she would go off suddenly to see what her father 
 was doing. Of course, she knew what he was doing 
 quite well he was playing poker. But she liked to 
 run into the smoking-room for an instant to give him 
 a cheery word. She was that sort of girl. Pres- 
 ently she would return and we would continue our 
 talk. We would stroll up and down or sit in a shel- 
 tered part of the deck. I would speak to her of our 
 farm, of cows, and rabbits, of bathing in the peaty 
 streams, and of tickling little trout. The sing-song 
 voice of the man in the bows would resound, the bells 
 would strike, and the late moon, rising gloriously 
 over the sea, would illuminate a phantom ship. How 
 time slipped away from us ! Soon the stars would 
 wane and the air, growing cooler, would caress our 
 cheeks as though with the breath of dawn. 
 
 " * I must go now,' she would murmur at last. 
 
 " ' No, not yet,' I would answer. ' Why must you 
 go?' 
 
 " Slowly she would shake her head and, rising, look 
 upon me for a second and be gone. 
 
 " All was still. Like a great silver ingot the 
 moonlight lay heavy upon the water. The ship slum- 
 
 278
 
 Nineteen 
 
 bered and the even beating of her heart mingled in 
 my ears with the low murmur of the sea. 
 
 " You must not run away with the idea that we 
 made love to one another not consciously. No 
 such word crossed our lips. Long after she had gone 
 below I would sit there thinking of her and of her 
 home. Only a few days more and I should be there 
 myself. A few days ... I shivered with joy. I 
 was not sleepy. I closed my eyes and before me the 
 whole, boundless world seemed to await my coming, 
 seemed to smile. ... I would be roused out of this 
 reverie by the sound of voices raised in altercation. 
 The smoking-room door would bang, glasses jangle, 
 and above the hubbub a dignified, protesting voice 
 silence an unpleasant laugh. I would get up, 
 scowling with annoyance. Old Goodenough had been 
 making another scene. . . . 
 
 " We were popular, my uncle and I. I'm sure of 
 that. I spent many an hour in the officers' cabins, 
 hearing the stories of their lives, looking at faded 
 photographs and at others not at all faded and 
 hardly respectable. They were a good set. They 
 talked about the islands and of the girls they knew. 
 They used to spin extremely long, vague, and point- 
 less yarns about spare afternoons in Southampton. 
 But then, too, they would speak of Trinidad and 
 Caracas, of warm, scented nights, and of banjo ser- 
 enades. Think of it ! 
 
 279
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " The days sped by. I knew every one on board, 
 officers and passengers alike. There were no idle 
 minutes for me. I rose early and I went to bed late. 
 I slept like a top. I had never known such a feeling 
 of health. We got down to the region of azure seas 
 and flying fish, where great flat skates leap out of 
 the ocean and the Sargasso weed trails upon the 
 water. The saloon was like an oven. We almost 
 lived on deck. In the afternoon we would play 
 cricket and make a rush for the cold baths. It was 
 useless one perspired anew before one had finished 
 drying. Trifles ! Others might care I didn't. 
 Wasn't the whole world before me? Besides it would 
 be night again soon. I would wave to Priscilla, sit- 
 ting cool and fair in her green linen dress. We 
 would meet. . . . 
 
 " In the long hour before dinner the decks were 
 deserted. The whole West suddenly flamed and the 
 sun fell, like a burning rocket, into the sea. Night 
 had come, the swift night of the Tropics, and the 
 stars, rushing out over the sky, seemed to expand 
 and glow before the breath of an invisible bellows. I 
 would watch, entranced. From beneath people would 
 emerge, one by one, and, pointing here and there, 
 would make suitable comments. But at the sound 
 of the bugle they disappeared like a flock of sheep 
 I, also, to be quite frank. We ate our dinners with 
 relish. Knives clattered; people discussed the af- 
 
 280
 
 Nineteen 
 
 fairs of the voyage, laughing good-naturedly. But 
 somehow I could never talk to Priscilla at meals. I 
 avoided her eye. I let my uncle do all the speaking. 
 He would tell us stories old Goodenough would 
 nod, clearing his throat. The doctor at the head of 
 the table invariably thought that he saw an arriere 
 pensee, and would half choke in the middle of a 
 mouthful. It was no use my uncle assuring him in 
 private that there had been none not the least 
 good. ' You'll be the death of me,' he would ex- 
 claim rapturously ; * what a man, what a man ! ' ( He 
 was one of the rarer types of ship's doctor, an obese 
 middle-aged man who had spent most of his life at 
 sea not one of your novices or land-failures, but a 
 real personality.) 
 
 " And then the nights. . . . She spoke I lis- 
 tened to her voice telling me of the South. It was 
 always of the South, never of Milan. She had intui- 
 tion. . . . 
 
 " But at length, ah, all too soon, there came the 
 time when I had to say to her, * To-morrow we shall 
 be watching for your lights.' 
 
 " * Yes,' she answered, and nothing more. 
 
 " A chill seemed to have fallen. Should I speak 
 of parting? I wondered. No, not yet. I must put 
 it out of my mind. I did fortunate nineteen ! 
 
 " I will tell you about our last night. . . . Eight 
 bells had just struck. It was very dark and warm, 
 
 281
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 and so still was the whole sea that the stars seemed 
 to hang motionless above the ship. She went on at 
 half-speed as silently as a cat, while the grizzled 
 quartermaster, who had been collecting deck-chairs 
 with an expression of profound contempt, slowly 
 stretched his arms, and, spitting over the side, 
 stumped away forward. The officer of the watch, 
 silhouetted clearly against the sky, stopped for an 
 instant to gaze downwards, and then, resuming his 
 march, disappeared leisurely behind the shadow of the 
 wheel-house. 
 
 " We had observed them from a nook of the deck, 
 screened by a boat. It was I who had been doing the 
 speaking. I felt in a strange, exultant mood. The 
 nearness of the shore, the sight of the girl sitting 
 there with downcast eyes and hands folded in her 
 lap, the stillness around, the gleam of her white 
 dress it was an intoxication. I had been telling 
 her about myself in a way I had never done before. 
 Softly and rapidly I was whispering. The silence 
 terrified me and filled me with joy. I had an ex- 
 traordinary wish to tell her every desire and thought 
 in my heart above all not to stop, but to go on 
 and on. Do you know, I felt that if I were to stop 
 I might begin to cry ! 
 
 "First love, do you say? well, perhaps. But 
 it seems to me that it was a more complicated emo- 
 tion than that. It was as though I felt the first 
 
 282
 
 Nineteen 
 
 breath of the tropics on my cheek, the first breath 
 . . . do you understand? But Priscilla she sat 
 there listening to me, not moving. She was part of 
 the spell. She was the Fairy Princess of a vision. 
 You know how young girls can sit and listen to you 
 and you see them smiling very faintly and it's exactly 
 as if they had some thought which you could never 
 understand. That was Priscilla. But at last she 
 spoke, gently and slowly, and, raising her eyes, she 
 let them fall upon me like a beam. 
 
 " * Why do you tell me all this ? To-morrow is 
 good-bye for us.' 
 
 " * But it's not true. We're not going to say 
 good-bye. I shall come again.' 
 
 " She shook her head. 
 
 " ' Listen to me,' I protested. * I swear to come 
 again.' 
 
 " But once more she shook her head as she asked 
 me, ' Are you to spend a night on the island ? ' 
 
 " * Yes, at the hotel. My uncle has arranged it.' 
 
 " * Then will you will you come and see me? ' she 
 murmured. 
 
 " At your house? Oh, may I? ' 
 
 " I simply couldn't find words. 
 
 " She had risen and gone before I knew what had 
 happened. 
 
 " ' Yes, I shall come back again,' I. repeated to my- 
 self.
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 " And suddenly I heard a shout. I sprang up 
 and, peering ahead, I saw a red light like a star upon 
 the east. Some one passed me on deck, calling over 
 his shoulder, ' Why, we're there ! ' We must have 
 slowed completely down, for we seemed to be only 
 creeping through the water. The light, growing 
 larger, appeared to swing round and hide behind us. 
 Other lights started from the sea, and in the distance 
 a dim mass of rock or forest rose and put out the 
 stars. A wind came off the land, sweet, exotic, full 
 of wild and earthy smells. 
 
 " We anchored in the open roadstead. A little 
 tug waddled out from the port, her quick, feverish 
 beats echoing over the bay, and some one standing up 
 in the bows exchanged words with our captain. 
 Then some one else, dressed all in white with a pith 
 helmet, suddenly jumped up by his side and called 
 out in a stentorian voice, ' Have you got Mrs. Greg- 
 ory on board? ' I don't know what answer was 
 given, but I know I burst out laughing. Fancy, com- 
 ing from that mysterious land to ask if Mrs. Gregory 
 was on board ! Preposterous ! 
 
 " But presently the tug steamed off and the ship, 
 riding at anchor, rested all silent and secure. I was 
 feeling sleepy at last the lights smouldered upon 
 the shore every sound was hushed. Time for 
 bed. ... 
 
 " I woke at the very hour of sunrise and, scram- 
 284
 
 Nineteen 
 
 bling out of my bunk, dressed and ran up on deck. 
 Never shall I forget that moment. The whole island 
 lay before me in the pale light of dawn. Clear, frag- 
 ile, beautiful beyond words, it was like a mirage that 
 would pass away at a breath. The sea reflected it 
 upon its cold surface and all the palms upon the j ut- 
 ting sand rose stiff and motionless as the trees of a 
 Dutch landscape. The forest had a primrose tint 
 and the red-white houses along the shore stood out 
 like painted toys. 
 
 " * A morning for the gods, young sir,' said a hate- 
 ful voice behind me. 
 
 " I spun round and saw before me the crimson 
 countenance of Mr. Goodenough. He was still in his 
 evening clothes and must have been playing cards all 
 night. I suppose that every fairy story has its 
 ogre, but there is something particularly distasteful 
 about an ogre that smells of rum in the purity of the 
 dawn. 
 
 " * The home of my youth,' he added grandilo- 
 quently, flourishing his hand, * and here I shall die, 
 please God.' 
 
 " '. . . please God,' I echoed below my breath. 
 
 " He left me with a bow, but the spell was broken. 
 The ogre had done his work. I stepped below and 
 lay down on the couch. 
 
 285
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 IV 
 
 " A few hours later, when I went up with my 
 uncle, all was changed. The day had risen in 
 splendor. Boats full of negroes surrounded the ship, 
 every passenger seemed to be on deck, people were 
 shouting, making arrangements, exchanging fare- 
 wells. Stewards were piling luggage on the after 
 deck, an old lady was loudly bewailing the loss of 
 a green purse, a parrot in a cage was screaming. It 
 was pandemonium. My uncle, who was in his ele- 
 ment in this sort of thing, went from group to group 
 cracking jokes. Then, calling on me to follow him, 
 he elbowed his way to the dining-saloon. There, at 
 our table, we found the Goodenoughs having a last 
 breakfast. Old Goodenough had got himself up in 
 a grey suit and a magnificent white topper. It gave 
 him quite a commanding presence, especially as you 
 saw a great expanse of linen waistcoat. My uncle 
 clapped him on the shoulder, full of good humour at 
 the thought of getting rid of him. Priscilla, who 
 had not looked up from her plate, suddenly rose and 
 went out of the saloon. I hesitated a moment, then, 
 seeing that my uncle and her father were talking en- 
 ergetically at one end of the table, I followed her. 
 She was waiting for me outside. 
 
 " * I wanted to give you this,' she said, quite 
 simply. 
 
 286
 
 Nineteen 
 
 " It was a scrap of paper with the name of her 
 father's plantation on it. 
 
 " * To-night,' I answered, holding her hand for an 
 instant. 
 
 " ' There is a gate opposite the very end of the 
 point,' she said, looking away. 
 
 " ' At six o'clock.' 
 
 " Yes, at six.' 
 
 " * And I shall come again, you know,' I added. 
 
 " She gave me suddenly a stern and inquiring 
 glance. 
 
 " * What are they worth, all these promises of 
 yours ? ' she muttered passionately. ' Don't make 
 them ! Only only, to-night ! ' 
 
 " She frowned and went away from me without an- 
 other word. 
 
 " I did not move till I heard my uncle calling for 
 me again. We were to go on shore at once, in time 
 for breakfast. So presently we were in a boat (I 
 carrying a little bag that held our clothes for the 
 night) and were being rowed by two darkies across 
 the bay. I let my hand ripple in the blue water. 
 The darkies jabbered, their ebony bodies glistening 
 through their cotton rags, while my uncle, lying well 
 back in the stern, drew in deep, luxurious breaths 
 and stretched himself at ease. But I I simply 
 devoured the shore. As it drew nearer it shaped 
 itself into a tiny harbour with clustering warehouses 
 
 287
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 and a crowd of gesticulating negroes upon the quay. 
 A mingling of bright colours gave an air of gaiety 
 to those dark and smiling ranks. It was the face of 
 a new world, the world of my dreams, more thrilling 
 to me than all the ruins of ancient civilisation. We 
 landed at some wooden steps and in a few minutes 
 were in a narrow, winding street full of grocers' and 
 drapers' stores. Laden donkeys walked sedately 
 upon the stone cobbles, a Chinese gentleman in gold 
 spectacles and a brown suit sat very upright in a 
 buggy driven by a negro groom, a big policeman 
 shouted at some negresses carrying baskets of wash- 
 ing on their heads. Flamboyant advertisements 
 covered every shop window, and all the chille sellers 
 on the pavement were gabbling like so many geese. 
 The face of a new world indeed ! 
 
 " * We'll go to Thorpe's,' said my uncle, as though 
 it were the most ordinary proceeding. 
 
 " We suddenly cut down to our left and emerged 
 from the street of cobbles into one of white loam, full 
 of sticky and cloying smells. 
 
 " ' Here we are,' said my uncle, entering a ware- 
 house whose subdued light showed a row of bulging 
 sacks in a far corner. We crossed it, mounted a 
 rickety staircase, and found ourselves in a big room 
 furnished with a bar, a few tables and several brass 
 spittoons. Through the green jalousies rays of 
 shimmering light fell across the floor. Behind the 
 
 288
 
 Nineteen 
 
 bar a seedy-looking Italian was dusting bottles. 
 
 " * You just wait,' whispered my uncle, as though 
 he expected me to be disappointed. Then going up 
 to the bar he roared like a bull, * Hey, Alberto, you 
 son of a gun, you remember me, don't you? ' 
 
 *' Alberto spun around and almost fell into his 
 arms with joy. 
 
 " My uncle plied him with questions. 
 
 " * Well, now, get us something to eat,' he wound 
 up ; * grill us some of those flying-fish of yours, and, 
 I say, Alberto, make us some lime-squashes, big ones 
 you know.' 
 
 " Alberto fled, while my uncle, walking like a king 
 across the room, rolled up one of the blinds and sat 
 down in the sunlight. 
 
 "< That's the way to do it, Ted,' he observed 
 calmly. 
 
 " Ah, and we had a breakfast, too ! Flying-fish 
 caught that morning seven miles from shore, soft, 
 spongy bread of the tropics and Danish butter from 
 a tin, fresh lime-squashes, sucked up slowly through 
 coarse straws, and then, at the finish, pulpy mangoes 
 smelling of pine needles. 
 
 " * We'll go for a drive now,' said my uncle. 
 * Alberto, be a good fellow ; run down and get us a 
 carriage.' 
 
 " Alberto went like a streak. 
 
 " * That man would fetch the devil for me if I 
 289
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 asked him,' exclaimed my uncle ; ' what shall I give 
 him? ' He winked at me. * There are two secrets 
 of willing service,' he added, digging me in the ribs, 
 * one's good nature and the other's good money. Re- 
 memeber that, my son.' 
 
 " Alberto got us a carriage in no time a sort of 
 ramshackle landau, driven by an old darkie wearing 
 spectacles and pulled by two yellowy-white horses 
 with all their ribs showing. Never mind, it did us 
 very well! We drove out into the country in great 
 style. We saw sugar fields and palms waving on the 
 beach and glimpses of coral reefs and shelving seas. 
 And we saw the little wooden homesteads, with their 
 swarms of startled pickaninnies, and their black pigs, 
 and their grubbing hens. And away beyond, the 
 green hills, covered with bush, rose against the 
 cloudless sky. The dust flew and the flies buzzed 
 round us in the heat. The road wound between 
 banks or like a broad highway above the fields, 
 dazzling white and glistening afar like a metal rib- 
 bon. Lizards basked upon stones and painted birds 
 flashed before us with discordant cries. 
 
 " * Drive us right out to Gunaway's,' shouted my 
 uncle at last. 
 
 " The driver grinned, cracked his whip, gave a 
 terrific whoop, and the miserable horses broke into 
 a shambling gallop. In a short time we arrived be- 
 fore a square, unadorned hotel built near the sea 
 
 290
 
 Nineteen 
 
 and looking, though not at all new, as if it had been 
 left by the workmen before it had been properly 
 finished off. A lot of little black, starling-like birds 
 were walking cheekily up and down outside the 
 veranda. They all rose together as a tall, stout 
 man with a squint came down the steps to meet us. 
 
 " ' You've arrived by the boat, gentlemen,' he an- 
 nounced, rather with the air of saying, ' Now don't 
 deny it I know everything.' 
 
 " * You're right, Mr. Gunaway,' answered my 
 uncle ; * but you haven't forgotten me, have you ? ' 
 
 " Mr. Gunaway spat with great deliberation. 
 
 " ' No, mister, I haven't forgotten you I don't 
 forget anybody but I can't er can't place 
 you.' 
 
 " My uncle went up to him, took him by the arm, 
 and walked away with him a few yards. In a couple 
 of minutes they came back smiling broadly. 
 
 " *. . . and so it was you well, I always 
 suspected through the bank, you know Port of 
 Spain a piece of luck . . .' I overheard. It was 
 Gunaway who had been speaking. Whom hadn't my 
 uncle done business with in his time? 
 
 " ' Ted,' said he, joining me again, * Mr. Gunaway 
 will give us some lunch presently.' He nudged the 
 hotelkeeper. We had a lunch once, didn't we, 
 Gunaway,' he added slyly. Both men laughed. 
 
 " * Well, gentlemen, I must leave you now,' said
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 Gunaway ; ' pray make yourselves at home till lunch- 
 time.' 
 
 " He walked back into the house. 
 
 " ' Would you believe it, Ted,' said my uncle as we 
 watched his retreating form, * that fellow's got some 
 of the finest sparkling burgundy you ever tasted.' 
 
 " We strolled about for some time and then re- 
 turned to the hall and sat on bamboo chairs and read 
 ancient numbers of The Graphic. It was the off sea- 
 son in the island and there seemed to be no visitors 
 in the hotel. ' So much the better,' said my uncle. 
 If it had been full he would have made precisely the 
 same remark. He was optimistic by nature. We 
 were favoured at luncheon by the company of Mr. 
 Gunaway and his wife a woman with enormous 
 hips and a pale, freckled face. It wasn't a bad meal, 
 though Mrs. Gunaway did nothing to help the con- 
 versation except to remark, with considerable heat, 
 that the pickled onions had been opened for too long, 
 and though Gunaway and my uncle had some joke 
 which I couldn't fathom in the least, but which I am 
 pretty certain referred to a monetary transaction 
 in the past. No, it wasn't the company I liked; it 
 was the food and the silent darkie of a waiter with 
 his pale palms and crinkled hair. We drank several 
 bottles of the famous burgundy. Heady stuff it was, 
 too! I was glad enough to lie down after lunch. 
 There, in a sort of trance, I rested on my bed listen- 
 
 292
 
 Nineteen 
 
 ing to the chatter of the tropicals. This, then, was 
 the Tropics ! Just to think of it gave me an in- 
 credulous sensation. Impossible! I got up, walked 
 on tiptoe across the room, and pulling aside a corner 
 of the blind, I saw the island and the sea lying bright 
 and still in the fierce glare. It was like a sudden 
 revelation of something I had never seen before. 
 The Tropics ! 
 
 " I dozed at last, only to wake up in a perspira- 
 tion. Some thought or other was troubling me. 
 Yes, what was it that had come like that into my 
 sleep? I sat up on the edge of the bed, staring at 
 the floor. And all at once I remembered Pris- 
 cilla. I was overwhelmed with shame. I had for- 
 gotten all about her till then. I recalled the tone 
 of her voice, the look of her eyes. Her girlish figure 
 seemed to haunt the shadowy room. ' I am to meet 
 her at six,' I thought, smiling blissfully. ' Yes, this 
 is love,' I continued to myself. ' It would be impossi- 
 ble to live without her.' The very hint of such a 
 thing made me shiver. * Good God, how I love her ! ' 
 I whispered. 
 
 " I jumped up, ran downstairs and demanded of 
 the nigger in the hall how I should get to the point. 
 He assumed a worried and dejected appearance (I 
 had come upon him in what seemed an attitude of 
 profound thought, but which was, 1 fear, the still- 
 ness of complete vacuity), but after I had repeated 
 
 298
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 the question half a dozen times he suddenly appeared 
 to wake up, and showing me all his teeth in one 
 colossal grin. 
 
 " ' Why, massa, you follow dat dere road along 
 de coast and den when you come to de point why, 
 dere you are at de point.' 
 
 " I thanked him and was turning back from the 
 veranda when whom should I see being driven towards 
 us than the ship's doctor? His fat, jolly form quite 
 filled the little seat of the buggy and he was mopping 
 his face with a huge bandana. 
 
 " * Hulloa, doctor,' I shouted ; ' have you come up 
 to have tea with us? ' 
 
 " * Tea ! Oh, Lord, in my state ! Soda-water, 
 you mean. But where's that uncle of yours ? Look 
 here, I've important news for you. I've come to 
 warn you that they've changed the sailing hour. 
 We're off to-night at ten o'clock.' 
 
 " * At ten o'clock? ' I muttered. 
 
 " He lifted himself painfully out of his seat and 
 advanced up the steps. 
 
 " ' Well, where's your uncle? * he repeated, laugh- 
 ing at my look of consternation. 
 
 " I told him that I didn't rightly know where he 
 was, as I had been lying down, but that if he would sit 
 there on the veranda I would go and search for 
 him. * All in good time,' he said, ' he'll turn up be- 
 fore long. What a man! Not letting the grass 
 
 294
 
 Nineteen 
 
 grow, I'll be bound. Ah, thank goodness ! ' he con- 
 cluded, as he sank into a chair. 
 
 " We sat there overlooking the road, a field of 
 mealies and the curving sea. I ordered drinks. I 
 was glad to see the old doctor, but I kept an inward 
 eye on the time. Well, it was only half-past four as 
 yet. He began to tell me an endless story about 
 some Roumanian Jewess he used to know in Singa- 
 pore (* What a girl she was ! '), though why he should 
 have wanted to tell me I can't conceive. He kept 
 wiping his face and puffing out his cheeks. I hardly 
 listened to him, because I was thinking to myself, 
 ' Suppose she's not there? ' It was an absolutely 
 terrible idea. The thought of having to leave that 
 night had, you know, suddenly brought parting 
 frightfully close. I felt oppressed by sadness. . . . 
 
 " The doctor meandered on about his reminis- 
 cences, covering, as you might say, the face of the 
 globe. He had known beautiful women in every 
 country and he had adored them all. * Ah, well, 
 they pass out of one's life.' (He was inclined to be 
 sentimental this afternoon. ) Gradually I found my- 
 self listening more and more attentively. There 
 was much that was extraordinarily soothing in all 
 this to my new philosophy. * Yes, one has to be a 
 fatalist,' I thought to myself. At nineteen there is 
 
 295
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 something enticing about the sadness of farewell. 
 Beautiful women whom one has loved and who are 
 but memories, the glamour of far-off lands, the 
 march of time with what exquisite melancholy the 
 image of them can fill romantic youth! I was in a 
 frame of mind (since about half an hour) to give 
 up Priscilla for the sheer luxury of remembrance. 
 
 " In a short time my uncle arrived, full of energy 
 and very thirsty. He greeted the doctor with a 
 mighty shout and heard the news of our departure 
 with complacency. Would you believe it, he had been 
 bathing! He had met there, on the beach, a most 
 incredible person in the shape of a Nonconformist 
 clergyman who had got into earnest conversation 
 with him about the * conversion ' (as he named it) 
 of the Catholic blacks in San Domingo. My uncle 
 had given him a sovereign towards the cause. It 
 sounds mere hypocrisy, of course, but it wasn't; it 
 was simply the good nature of over-bounding vitality. 
 They had parted the best of friends. You can guess 
 what a story he managed to make of it ! 
 
 " ' Well, I'm going for a walk myself,' said I at 
 last, getting up as unconcernedly as I could. 
 
 " They let me go without a question, my uncle only 
 observing, * Dinner at 7 :30. I'll keep the doc. We 
 can all go down together.' 
 
 " In half a minute I was out of their sight round 
 a corner of the hotel. I followed the road which 
 
 296
 
 Nineteen 
 
 dipped to the sea and skirted the shingly mud of the 
 foreshore. What little tide there was had ebbed, 
 and black,' spidery crabs were scurrying over the 
 slime in all directions. The first cicalas of the night 
 were waking in the cotton fields. The air, cooled 
 by the evening breeze, gave off a new fragrance. 
 Far out the sun glinted upon the unbared coral reefs, 
 and I could hear the torpid sea rolling on them with 
 a sort of suppressed, booming noise. There is no 
 real twilight in the Tropics, but the brilliance fades 
 from the upper sky and a violet glow fills all the 
 darkening world. It is a mysterious time that comes 
 with great swiftness and melting suddenly into deep 
 night. The hour for lovers, you think. Yes, but 
 deceptive like love itself, and, like love, fleeting and 
 too soon overcast. ... I won't soliloquise. . . . 
 
 " I got to the point. The jungle had been allowed 
 to grow unfettered around it. A tangled mass of 
 undergrowth bulged over the fencing and almost 
 hid the wicket gate facing the sea. In this artificial 
 reservation of Tropical nature you might have imag- 
 ined yourself in the Brazilian wilderness. I cannot 
 tell you how strange it felt to be standing there. I 
 undid the latch and passed through the gate into 
 a winding path. Beyond its further edge I could 
 see green lawns, a bamboo swamp and a long, low 
 building backed by great red-flowering trees. A 
 multitude of frogs were calling from the bamboos. I 
 
 297
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 stood and waited, quite overcome with trembling. I 
 felt that she, my beloved, was near me, though in- 
 visible to my sight. All at once, very close, I heard 
 a rustling, and, turning on my heel, I saw her before 
 
 me. 
 
 (C 
 
 So you've come ! ' she said in no friendly voice. 
 
 " I nodded, breathing quickly. 
 
 " * You took the appointment seriously, after all ? ' 
 she continued. 
 
 " I was quite dumfounded by her tone. It was 
 really too awful. I stared at her like a sheep. 
 
 " * You haven't lost your voice, have you ? ' she 
 asked. * Oh, how silly it all seems ! ' 
 
 " * But why did you ask me to come, then?' I 
 stammered. 
 
 " ' Listen to him ! He's a schoolboy. Whoever 
 hear such nonsense! Do you hear,' she added furi- 
 ously, * you're just a schoolboy! ' 
 
 " But I suddenly knew quite well that all this 
 meant nothing at all. I took her hand and I said, 
 ' Why do you talk to me like this Pr is cilia? ' 
 
 " I had never called her Pris cilia before. 
 
 " At these words of mine the cloak seemed to fall 
 from her as night from morning. 
 
 " * You you to-night your steamer,' she 
 gasped in a choking voice. 
 
 " Yes, but I shall return.' 
 
 " * No, no Ted,' she answered mournfully and 
 298
 
 Nineteen 
 
 shyly, ' the sea is too big.' She shivered. ' There 
 do you hear it? It's washing over the reef. 
 Listen to it now! Listen! It will be in my ears 
 night and day. It's desolate, desolate, like I am.' 
 
 " * Priscilla, dear, this is not the end,' I mur- 
 mured. 
 
 " She did not notice my words, but she suddenly 
 smiled. 
 
 " ' I never thought you would come,' she whispered 
 tenderly, * I had given up hope. And then, seeing 
 you like this oh, don't, don't ! ' 
 
 " She did not withdraw her hand, which I had be- 
 gun to kiss, but, bending sideways, she let her tears 
 fall upon the ground. 
 
 " It had grown dark apace, and through the 
 branches of the thicket the sky appeared deep blue 
 and crowded with stars. The whole night of the 
 Tropics was awake with thousands of stridulating 
 insects and golden flies. 
 
 " * Come with me on to the beach,' I said to her. 
 
 " And there, upon the firm sand, we sat for an 
 hour that went quickly as a minute. Oh, elusive 
 happiness! Only a minute and I was watching her, 
 lonely and white, against the blackness of the sea. 
 Only a minute. It was all over. Turning, I fled 
 blindly from her down the road. 
 
 " It was nearly eight when I got back to the 
 hotel. All distraught as I was, I ran up to my room, 
 
 299
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 threw everything into the bag, plunged my face in 
 water and rushed downstairs to the dining-room. 
 My uncle and the doctor had nearly finished. I 
 mumbled some excuse about having lost my way and, 
 as they hadn't suspected anything, they probably 
 believed me. We sat at a table opposite French 
 windows that had been thrown wide open. Two 
 blacks, dressed in spotless duck, with serious and 
 preoccupied faces, waited upon us. The murmur of 
 the night filled the room, and in the outer darkness 
 fireflies were glimmering in the poinsettia bushes. A 
 faint breeze stirred like a fan. 
 
 " My uncle was telling the doctor a breathless 
 story about how he had once interviewed the King 
 of Dahomey. I know for certain that there was not 
 a word of truth in it, though why he should have 
 been at the trouble to invent it is a psychological 
 puzzle, as he actually had done just as exciting 
 things. But perhaps it was simply a way of working 
 off superfluous energy. Anyhow, it was lucky for 
 me, as it kept them from noticing my agitation. 
 They went on talking and smoking cigars while I 
 hurried through the different courses. After a time 
 we heard the clatter of a carriage at the front steps. 
 
 " * That'll be for us,' said my uncle; * you go and 
 see, Ted, and get the bag down.' 
 
 " The doctor was so absorbed in the story that 
 he merely grunted and wiped his forehead. I'm sure 
 
 800
 
 Nineteen 
 
 he'd have been quite prepared to miss the boat. 
 When I came back in a minute to tell them that it 
 was our carriage and that everything was ready, he 
 was asking my uncle whether he had seen many hand- 
 some women in Dahomey. Incorrigible man ! 
 
 " The proprietor saw us off. His manner was 
 affability itself. ' Come again,' he shouted after 
 us, and then in a louder voice, * I'm always to be re- 
 lied on.' I was sitting beside the driver, but I could 
 hear the chuckle my uncle gave. ' Some new plan 
 or other,' I thought astutely. Well, maybe, but I 
 never head anything more. 
 
 " Contrary to the usual habit of negroes the driver 
 looked neither to the right hand nor the left. We 
 passed into the darkness at a hand-gallop and made 
 for the lights of the town. Who can forget such 
 things? The magic of the night flowed over me, 
 drowning my despair in a delicious numbness. A 
 sense of mysterious good seemed to lie upon the 
 world and to soften all our hearts. We crossed the 
 outskirts. Far drawn back from the road dim lights 
 shone in the houses of the rich and voices echoed 
 musically from open windows. Negroes were singing 
 upon the paths, marching homewards from their toil. 
 And as we drew nearer and nearer to the town there 
 arose shouts of laughter, incomprehensible cries, the 
 barking of dogs. Naked feet shuffled and forms 
 moved indistinctly in the gloom. The mad world of 
 
 301
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 an Inferno ! But all at once glimpses of the bay, 
 aglow with riding-lights and majestic in its still 
 splendour, appeared through the gaps of the houses. 
 The smell of the sea came strongly to us above the 
 sugary smell of the streets. And overhead the night 
 of the Tropics, starry, without a moon, without a 
 cloud, showed, in the deep sky, the two Southern 
 Crosses. Yes, I shall never forget it. We drove 
 straight down to the quay and, putting off from 
 shore, we reached our ship just as ten was strik- 
 ing. . . . That is all. . . ." 
 
 VI 
 
 Brownlow ceased and in the darkness which had 
 almost swallowed us I heard him sigh deeply. 
 
 " No," he continued at last, " there is no recaptur- 
 ing days like that. I see the long vista of ten years' 
 wanderings pivoted upon that little island. It trails 
 from it with a dwindling thread, never broken but 
 growing thinner and thinner. But now, if I were to 
 return, everything would snap, everything would 
 dissolve, everything, all the glow of memory, all the 
 feelings of youth and romance. I'm sure of it, I'm 
 under no delusions. But as it is, I remember isn't 
 that enough? " 
 
 He stopped again and I heard him shifting in his 
 seat. Neither of us spoke for several minutes. In 
 the far-off valley a mist had spread itself upon the 
 
 302
 
 Nineteen 
 
 low margin of the river. The young moon was ris- 
 ing above the hills, beautiful, soft, gilding the night 
 sky. The air was chilly and my feet were damp in 
 the dewy grass. I got up and stretched myself. 
 
 " That's a strange vivid yarn of yours, Ted," I 
 remarked. 
 
 " Perhaps it is," he answered, " and sad, too, as I 
 think of it. Do you realise she would be nearly fifty 
 years old? She was such a slip of a girl. Priscilla ! 
 Yes, nearly fifty. I never saw her again. Of course 
 not. If I had I wouldn't be thinking of her now. 
 But here, as I shut my eyes, I see her standing 
 against the gloomy sea, uncomforted to the last, a 
 tragic figure. What a fool I was ! She probably 
 married some beastly rum-swilling brute. A sort of 
 old Goodenough. Don't I hear her whispering for- 
 lornly to me, ' I lose you,' and my confident reply, 
 * And I I find you forever.' Good Lord ! " 
 
 He sighed. 
 
 " The most curious thing about memory," he con- 
 tinued in a musing tone, " is the thought of pas- 
 sionate hearts stilled forever. Sitting here I conjure 
 up for an instant a vanished world, dead eyes burn 
 brightly, lips smile, and an imagined scent recalls 
 the emotions of youth. But I start and, behold, it 
 has all melted away. Yet there is something fine, 
 too, in the idea of oblivion. It puts a seal upon 
 prying fingers. Who would not wish to be forgotten 
 
 303
 
 The Echo of Voices 
 
 when he is dead? Who would not rather be dust 
 with the dust of those he has cared for than be as- 
 sured of immortality with an unknown generation? " 
 
 He suddenly laughed. 
 
 " Well, there I am on my high horse again," he 
 concluded. " But don't you think it's getting very 
 cold? We had better make for the house." 
 
 And, without speaking further, we went out of the 
 orchard together. 
 
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