ii^::?f.iiliii|ii|i(i|i 
 
 
 iill 

 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 \ t /\\SA «*<■■
 
 ^'
 
 THE CITY OF REFUGE
 
 NEW NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES. 
 
 DtJLOIE EVERTON. By E. Lynn Linton. 2 vols. 
 
 THE CITY OF REFUGE. By Sir Walter Besant. 3 vols. 
 
 DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. By Mrs. L. T. Meade and 
 Clifford Halifax, M.D. i vol. 
 
 REVENGE. By Robert Barr. i vol. 
 
 PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC. By 
 
 Mark Twain. 1 vol. 
 
 DEVIL'S FORD, etc. By Bret Harte. i vol. 
 
 JERRY THE DREAMER. By Will Payne, i vol. 
 
 IN THE KINGDOM OF KERRY, etc. By B. M. Croker. 
 I vol. 
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR. By J. E. Muddock. 1 vol. 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, no & in, St. Martin's Lane, W.C.
 
 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER BESANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 'all sorts and conditions of men,' 'children of GIBEON,' 
 
 'the master craftsman,' etc. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 CHATTO 6c \\^ INDUS 
 
 1896
 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 As I have received certain questions and 
 heard certain irresponsible criticisms con- 
 cerning alleged rapidity of production, based 
 on the appearance of the ' City of Refuge ' 
 only a few months after that of the ' Master 
 Craftsman,' I think it is necessary to explain 
 that the former was written for serial pub- 
 lication in the Pa// Mall Magazine for last 
 year, 1895, and in accordance with that 
 arrangement the story occupied me during 
 the greater part of the year 1894; that it 
 was not found convenient to carry out the 
 original intention, and that the serial pub- 
 lication was therefore deferred until the 

 
 vi PREFACE 
 
 present year, viz., from April to October. 
 Again, if the matter concerns anybody, I 
 might mention that it would be to me, and 
 I believe to everybody, utterly impossible to 
 write two novels at the same time. 
 
 Certain alterations and additions to the 
 story, as it appeared in the magazine, may, 
 perhaps, be noted by any reader who first 
 saw it in serial form. 
 
 W. B. 
 
 United University Club, 
 September 1896.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME ? - - - I 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF MEDITATION. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. THE MASTER - - - - '45 
 
 IL THE MONASTIC HABIT - - "65 
 
 III. RESTORATION AND MEDITATION - - 90 
 
 IV. LABORARE EST ORARE - - - 122 
 V. A WARNING AND A PROMISE - - 148 
 
 VI. 'NOT to-day' - - - - 166 
 
 VII. A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE - "193
 
 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 
 
 ' Gilbert ! At last !' 
 
 She had been leaning forward, her hands 
 clasped over her knees, staring straight 
 before her ; her eyes were angry and hard 
 — there were black rings round them ; her 
 face was pale ; her look was set ; and her 
 lips were drawn as one who suffers physical 
 pain. 
 
 On the floor there rolled about a child of 
 a year and a half The nurse, who had 
 brought in the boy, thinking to distract 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 2 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 her mistress in this mysterious trouble, 
 stood watching at the door, for the mother 
 seemed not even to know that the child 
 was there. Great, indeed, must be the 
 trouble when even the child could remain 
 unnoticed. 
 
 She sprang to her feet with a cry. ' At 
 last !' she repeated, and gave her visitor 
 both hands — nay, she seized him by both 
 hands — the action was like the despairing 
 clutch of one who is drowning, one over 
 whom the waves are sinking for the last 
 time. ' Gilbert ! You have come !' 
 
 Then the nurse, who was an intelligent 
 young person, stepped forward and carried 
 off the child. Mr. Gilbert had come home. 
 Everybody knew that whatever was wrong 
 would be set right when Mr. Gilbert came 
 home. This belief, which was universal, is 
 almost enough by itself to explain Mr. 
 Gilbert. 
 
 ' I reached home the day before yester-
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 3 
 
 day. I received your note this morning. I 
 came on to town at once. Now, my dear 
 
 Dorabyn * 
 
 She threw up her arms. * Oh ! I must 
 tell someone, or I shall go mad.' 
 
 * Tell me, then, as much or as little as you 
 please. What you said in your note is the 
 most wonderful thing, the most incredible 
 thing ' 
 
 • Use up all the adjectives in the language, 
 and you will not find one that is adequate. 
 My husband, as I told you, is actually, 
 literally, and irretrievably ruined : nay, what 
 I did not write, he is disgraced, degraded — 
 among those few who know — sent out of the 
 country.' 
 
 ' Disgraced ? Sir Charles.^' Gilbert gasped 
 with bewilderment. * But — but — how ?' 
 Because, you see, a man may go very far 
 indeed before all these things happen to him 
 — ruin, disgrace, exile. Many doors may be 
 closed to the wicked man ; but this is a
 
 4 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 world of various standards : many others still 
 remain open to him — doors of other wicked 
 men's houses : the world is full of wicked 
 men. What could Sir Charles Osterley 
 have done so miraculously wicked as to 
 bring all these things upon his head ? 
 
 Yet the face of the woman showed that 
 she was not exaggerating. Never had 
 Gilbert seen that face, which he knew very 
 well indeed, in all its moods, betray such a 
 tumult of emotions. She was, to begin with, 
 the proudest, coldest woman, outwardly, in 
 all England : too proud to betray the least 
 sign of weakness at any possible or conceiv- 
 able disaster. But her pride was broken 
 down in the presence of disaster inconceiv- 
 able, impossible, irretrievable ; one that 
 would be felt by the children and the grand- 
 children to the third and fourth generation ; 
 unless — which seemed impossible — some- 
 thing could still be done. 
 
 ' I sent for you, Gilbert. You are my
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 5 
 
 oldest friend — at such a moment as this you 
 seem to be my only friend.' 
 
 Gilbert was one of those very rare 
 creatures who have received the gift of 
 making every woman — except the shrew, 
 the termagant, the envious, the evil speaker, 
 the liar, the slanderer, and the Devil — his 
 close and personal friend in a very surprising 
 manner and in an incredibly brief space of 
 time. I know not how the thing is done ; 
 of all the gifts and graces bestowed upon 
 man it is the most enviable : in my own 
 experience I have known but two or three 
 men who possess this gift. Mere cleverness 
 will not command that power ; by no accom- 
 plishments, arts, intellect, or worldly success 
 can any man acquire it : one must be born 
 with it ; women, in fact, are not generally so 
 very greatly moved by superiority of intellect 
 or accomplishments, or success, things which 
 they regard either as means of making 
 money, like an office in the City ; or as so
 
 6 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 many parlour tricks, like playing the zither. 
 It is a gift of the gods ; it is a heaven- 
 descended power. Gilbert had it ; there is 
 no more to be said about it. With Lady 
 Osterley, however, he was a really old friend 
 — a friend of youth : they were of the same 
 age ; they grew up together ; as a boy, he 
 received all her confidences. When all the 
 world fell in love with her for her beauty, 
 which was cold, and for her money-bags, 
 which were heavy, Gilbert did not. He 
 remained her friend and continued to receive 
 her confidences. 
 
 And now, what had happened ? 
 
 ' How, my dear Dorabyn ?' Gilbert re- 
 peated. ' I read in the paper ' he had 
 
 the Times rolled up in his hand. He opened 
 it and read : ' " The announcement made in 
 another column of the resignation and retire- 
 ment into private life of Sir Charles Osterley 
 will surprise most of our readers, and cause 
 great regret on both sides of the House.
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 7 
 
 That the nation should lose at so early an 
 age the services of a statesman who has 
 already acquired the confidence of his 
 countrymen for probity, clearness of head, 
 and a masterly grip of the problems of the 
 day, is nothing less than a national disaster." ' 
 
 '"National disaster,"' Dorabyn repeated. 
 * Go on, Gilbert: "national disaster." Is 
 there more ?' 
 
 'Yes, there is more. "It is understood 
 that the decision arrived at by Sir Charles 
 is final. Long though his life may be spared, 
 there is no hope, it is said, that he will ever 
 be able to return to the field of politics. 
 This surrender of a career is not, we under- 
 stand, suddenly forced upon Sir Charles. 
 He has had it in contemplation for some 
 time, though hitherto he has been able to 
 entertain some hope that his symptoms v^ould 
 take a favourable turn. That hope has now 
 been abandoned. While the country regrets, 
 on its own account, to lose the services of
 
 8 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 this young statesman, we must not forget 
 the sympathies which we must extend to 
 Sir Charles on the loss of most that he 
 prized 
 
 ' •' Most that he prized," ' Lady Osterley 
 repeated bitterly. 
 
 ' " We must not forget what this blow 
 means to a man in his position." ' 
 
 * Ah !' said Lady Osterley, * if only the 
 writer knew what it really does mean to 
 him ! But I should like to hear what he 
 thinks it means.' 
 
 * " Loss of place ; loss of power ; loss of 
 those higher offices — even the highest — 
 which would probably have fallen to him in 
 due time ; loss of rank, if he desired higher 
 rank 
 
 ' He desired everything, Gilbert — every- 
 thing. I hope that he will buy a copy of this 
 paper. It should be pleasant reading.' 
 
 ' " These are grievous losses," ' Gilbert 
 went on reading: '"it requires great philo-
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 9 
 
 sophy or great resignation to lose these 
 things just as they seemed within reach. 
 But there is more. It is the laudable 
 ambition of every statesman to occupy a 
 page in history : for this young statesman, 
 cut off, so to speak, at the outset, there is no 
 such place possible. And again, it is reason- 
 able to suppose that every statesman looks 
 forward with hope to the passing of broad 
 and wide measures, conducive to the public 
 welfare. The nobler part of such a man 
 survives in the services, the harvest-bearing 
 services, which in his lifetime he is privileged 
 to render to his country. All these things 
 and more have been lost by Sir Charles 
 Osterley." ' 
 
 ' You have read enough,' said the wife : ' I 
 hope that he will read it too, and that the 
 words may become to him a scourge of 
 scorpions. Oh ! Gilbert, I am becoming 
 like a railing fishwife. But you will calm 
 me. Oh, my dear Gilbert !' — she laid her
 
 10 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 sisterly head upon his shoulder — 'you have 
 come home in my direst need. You will tell 
 me what to do.' 
 
 * Well — but there is nothing in this paper 
 about degradation.' 
 
 ' Yet the man is degraded. First of all, 
 he is not stricken with any disease at all — 
 he is quite well and strong. Next, he will 
 go abroad immediately, because he must. 
 Thirdly, he will never dare to return again. 
 Give me a minute or two — to recover — 
 Gilbert.' She walked to the window and 
 looked out. Then she turned. * You are 
 looking well. That is the photograph of my 
 boy : did you know I had a boy ?' She went 
 on saying things conventional, without mean- 
 ing, as if speaking unconsciously. Then she 
 left the window and fell into silence, standing 
 on the hearthrug, gazing into the fire. 
 
 A tall and handsome woman ; something 
 reginal in her appearance ; a woman born for 
 authority and high place. Her neck looked
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? ii 
 
 as if diamonds would grace it ; her dark hair 
 looked as if it wanted the gleam of a coronet ; 
 upon her shoulders lay the queenly drapery 
 of costly lace. In ancient days she would 
 have been a queen or a countess by right of 
 her beauty ; for, of course, none but one of 
 the conquering race could produce a woman 
 so victorious. In later — say Tudor — times, 
 Dorabyn, as the Lady Imperia or as the 
 Lady Gloriana, would have led after her an 
 ever -lengthening chain of captive lovers: 
 they would have fought for her ; they would 
 have written poetry about the sunlight in her 
 eyes and the tangles of her hair and the 
 blinding splendour of her face. In the re- 
 stricted manner possible for a self-governed 
 age, which does not understand flames and 
 darts and raptures and swoonings, which is 
 comparatively passionless, Dorabyn could 
 only follow the example of Lady Imperia 
 at a distance. She had many admirers : all 
 the men admired her ; some dared to make
 
 12 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 love to her, but were speedily dismissed ; she 
 was gracious always, as becomes a gentle- 
 woman, but she did not invite the wooing of 
 the casual youth of the period. And as to 
 marriage she had her own ideas. ' I under- 
 stand very well,' she wrote in one of her 
 letters to Gilbert, * that marriage is a partner- 
 ship in which the man must have the nominal 
 command ; the woman's is the second place. 
 This must always be the case, in spite of the 
 advanced woman, unless man becomes a con- 
 temptible creature. I will accept the second 
 place when I can find a lover whom I can 
 obey without losing my esteem. He will be 
 a man whom I must respect for many qualities 
 — intellect in the first place. And I should 
 like him to be a man whom the world has 
 already learned to respect.' 
 
 Presently there came along such a man : 
 he was young ; he was in the House ; he 
 had already made something of a name ; he
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 13 
 
 was a man of practical affairs ; he could make 
 the driest subject interesting in a speech ; he 
 was a man of family ; he was a handsome 
 man. He had also the reputation of being 
 a proud and reserved man. The marriage 
 was arranged at a time when Gilbert was 
 travelling about the world. Six months 
 after the marriage Sir Charles Osterley's 
 party came in, and he was made Under 
 Secretary for the Fisheries — a very good 
 beginning on the official ladder. 
 
 And it was upon such a woman as this, 
 holding such a position, with such prospects, 
 that disgrace of the most horrible kind, shame 
 unspeakable, the ruin of ambition, the loss of 
 social position, and, worse still, a blight upon 
 the whole life of her boy, had fallen. Nothing 
 more terrible, as you shall see immediately, 
 could have happened. 
 
 As for Gilbert Maryon, for whom Lady 
 Osterley sent, he was neither her brother, 
 nor her cousin, nor her lover. He was the
 
 14 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 son of her guardian, and they were brought 
 up together. And because Gilbert was 
 strong and brave and always helped her 
 along when she was a girl, and always 
 looked up to her and thought for her, she 
 believed in him more than sisters believe in 
 brothers, or maidens believe in lovers : she 
 told him everything ; and when they were 
 separated she wrote to him about every- 
 thing. 
 
 The kind of confidential attachment — 
 neither friendship nor love, but an exalted 
 form of the former — which sometimes exists 
 between two persons not of the same sex 
 may be a most delightful thing for both 
 shepherd and nymph, provided that it does 
 not degenerate into the less exalted passion. 
 It is an education for a girl, because she will 
 not willingly suffer anything mean or base 
 to enter into her letters or her words. She 
 must rise to the situation : the height to 
 which she rises is measured by the mental
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 15 
 
 stature of the man. Now, Gilbert was taller 
 than most men ; therefore Dorabyn became 
 a girl of higher standards than content many 
 of her sisters. 
 
 Such a confidential attachment may be, in 
 fact, more satisfying than love, because the 
 girl gets all the sympathy that she needs for 
 herself. In too many cases the lover regards 
 his mistress mainly as the giver of sympathy, 
 not the recipient : he talks to her entirely 
 about himself, and expects her to listen. 
 Now, Gilbert Maryon asked for nothing for 
 himself; he gave all that he had to give, 
 which was an amazing store of sympathy, 
 interest, and counsel, to the girl, and wanted 
 nothing in return. As for love, why, of 
 course — but not in that way. 
 
 As for Gilbert, Lady Osterley's confidential 
 friend, he was, to look at, the ordinary young 
 man of this generation, which is a handsome, 
 athletic generation ; he was not quite the 
 ordinary young man, because he was pos-
 
 i6 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 sessed of large brains : he took a First in 
 something or other ; then, which is also not 
 common, he had a moderate fortune, and 
 belonged to a respectable family. He also 
 had good manners, a kindly disposition, and 
 a pleasant voice. Like many young men of 
 fortune, he travelled : he shot big game ; he 
 spent a summer among Eskimo ; he climbed 
 the Andes ; he learned that Eton, Trinity, 
 the West End, and the country house are not 
 everything ; and he acquired that attractive 
 kind of contempt for things in general, es- 
 pecially things connected with money-getting, 
 which men who roam and ramble and have 
 plenty of money for themselves do easily 
 acquire. Nobody, you see, despises money- 
 getting quite so much as the young man of 
 generous instincts who is born rich. 
 
 Now, you have heard that Gilbert made 
 every woman his friend. Yet, so far, his 
 name had never been associated with that of 
 any woman. You know the story of Petit
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 17 
 
 Jehan de Saintre : how the continual con- 
 templation of the perfections of his mistress 
 made him blind to every other woman ; his 
 case, we are told, though I find it hard to 
 believe, was common in that day. It is now 
 uncommon, yet not impossible. 
 
 Gilbert's ideal woman grew up in his mind 
 out of those letters. He found in the world 
 plenty of charming women, but not that 
 woman. Dorabyn herself was not that 
 woman. He fell, in fact, into the danger 
 connected with ideals : he found no one like 
 unto his ideal. Not that he was always look- 
 ing out for his ideal, or yearning for it. Not 
 at all. Only that smaller women did not 
 attract him. The thing is exactly like ac- 
 quiring a taste for the very finest claret : an 
 inferior vintage ceases to please, yet the lower 
 creation laps it up with avidity. Give me, 
 however, an honest liking for such wine as I 
 can afford to buy. Give me the power of 
 worshipping such a woman as I can expect 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 i8 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 to win. And since, fortunately, women do 
 not grow really more noble or finer as they 
 go up the ladder of rank, the latter petition 
 must be referred to the mental and moral 
 limitations of the lover. Put it in another 
 form. In order to ensure happiness, which 
 is contentment, let us not be too much in 
 advance of our friends or our income. 
 
 * Now,' said Gilbert, when Dorabyn had 
 been silent for two minutes, ' tell me what 
 you really mean.' 
 
 He sat down, and leaning against the arm 
 of his chair he showed the ear and the side 
 face of the listener. To look at her with full 
 face might make things more difficult. 
 
 * Tell me,' he repeated, in his gentle and 
 persuasive voice, ' all that you choose to 
 tell.' 
 
 ' It seems so dreadful that no one warned 
 me. Some one must have known.' 
 
 ' I wish I had been at home, Dorabyn — 
 though I knew nothing.'
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 19 
 
 ' Do you think a man can go on for ever 
 doing things without being found out ?' 
 
 ' I don't know. Some men do. I never 
 heard anything about Sir Charles. At the 
 same time I did not know him ; we belonged 
 to different sets. For my own part, I have 
 very little sympathy with the parliamentary 
 hand. The party politician, always angling 
 for more votes, does not interest me.' 
 
 ' You know everybody. Do you think that 
 anyone suspects — things about Sir Charles ?' 
 
 ' What should anyone suspect .'* I assure 
 you no one, so far as I know, suspects any- 
 thing at all in Sir Charles except that he is 
 ambitious. What should a traveller like me 
 know of the scandals, if there are any, of 
 the day ?' 
 
 'Then, Gilbert,' she sat upright and forced 
 herself to speak plainly, yet could not bring 
 herself to a simple statement of fact, ' could 
 you believe that this man who looks so 
 superior — this man with the cold eyes and
 
 20 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 the proud face and the austere voice — is 
 nothing better than — oh ! — all that we read 
 about ?' 
 
 * One can believe anything about any man, 
 if the thing is proved.' 
 
 * It seemed to promise so well. There was 
 everything. He was the most promising man 
 of the time ; he was good in conversation ; 
 he was a handsome man — I care something 
 about that : it is true, he did not make violent 
 love ; but he was well bred and quiet over it 
 — which was a change, after some of them. 
 And his people were pleasant. Why did no 
 one tell me ?' 
 
 * First, I repeat, no one knew anything at 
 all against him. Next, everybody thought 
 that ambition entered into that marriage. 
 Perhaps, if a woman marries for ambition 
 she has less right than other women to look 
 into the past life.' 
 
 * Perhaps you thought I was marrying for 
 position.'
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 21 
 
 'Well, Dorabyn, you wrote to me fully at 
 the time — I got your letter, I remember, in 
 British Columbia — and you allowed me to 
 believe that love had very little to do with it.* 
 
 * Love had nothing at all to do with it, 
 Gilbert,' she confessed. ' I did marry him 
 entirely for ambition. I thought I should 
 like to be the wife of a great statesman. It 
 is a very line position indeed — far better than 
 any coronet can give. But I did think I could 
 respect him. And now you see the end of my 
 noble ambition.' 
 
 ' I shall see it, I dare say, presently.' 
 
 ' Then you will tell me what I shall do, 
 Gilbert. Because I do not know. My 
 letters !' she went on. * My letters ! Oh ! 
 what things I have said to you. Gilbert, 
 you are my father confessor. I wonder if 
 any woman ever took any man so com- 
 pletely into her confidence.' 
 
 ' It seems as if I know you so well, 
 Dorabyn, that I know beforehand all that
 
 22 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 you will do under any given circumstance. 
 It would always be the best and the wisest 
 thing to do.' 
 
 She walked again to the window and 
 looked out : the rain was falling on the 
 asphalte of a London road in South Kensing- 
 ton. She turned and took up one trifle after 
 another on the table : when one is mentally 
 perturbed these trifles seem to bring relief; 
 people in great trouble always talk of things 
 irrelevant, or occupy their minds for a 
 moment with a trifle. I read, once, of a 
 murderer who, on being arrested, pleasantly 
 took up a shell from the mantelshelf and 
 called attention to the singular beauty of its 
 colouring. It was a relief from the terrible 
 tension of his mind, you see. Gilbert sat in 
 the same attitude, not moving — still with the 
 side face. 
 
 'You were married,' Gilbert reminded her 
 quietly. 
 
 ' Yes. Yes, I was married. I was going
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 23 
 
 to be proud of him. Proud ! Oh ! Heavens ! 
 Things began directly upon our marriage.' 
 
 ' What things ?' 
 
 * You shall hear. The honeymoon was 
 tedious, and we came back to town after a 
 week or two. Then Things began. Oh ! it 
 was line upon line, and precept upon precept. 
 The first blow fell the day after our return. 
 His solicitor called. You must know that 
 we have never had any vulgar quarrels. 
 Charles was not that kind of man. Every- 
 thing has been most politely managed by 
 an aged, bland, respectable old gentleman. 
 Never was a woman led into the Valley of 
 Humiliation more politely. Nobody could 
 be more polite, more religiously polite, than 
 this old solicitor. I always think of him as 
 an Archbishop.' 
 ' Well ?' 
 
 ' The first thing he broke to me — oh ! 
 with the utmost kindness, and as if it was an 
 unexpected, sudden disaster, which nobody
 
 24 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 could understand — was that Sir Charles had 
 already gone through the whole of his pro- 
 perty. He had married me simply for my 
 fortune : this was a pleasing discovery for a 
 woman who thought something of herself. 
 Well, I had enough to carry on the house, 
 and it didn't seem to matter very much. 
 Speculation on the Stock Exchange, this 
 dear old man called it. I accepted the state- 
 ment. As my husband was going to be 
 Prime Minister some day, I accepted it 
 without a murmur.' 
 
 ' I fear it pains you to tell me these things, 
 Dorabyn.' 
 
 ' Not so much as to brood over them in 
 silence. The second blow fell when the 
 Archbishop called again. He came to tell 
 me, with sympathy most profound, that my 
 husband had lost a large sum of money — 
 many thousand pounds — which must be paid 
 for him, in order to escape dishonour. Stock 
 Exchange, he sweetly called it, again. When
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 25 
 
 I refused to listen to any talk about Stock 
 Exchange debts, he confessed that it was a 
 gambling debt. And then the whole thing 
 came out. The old man warned me plainly 
 that one of two things would certainly happen. 
 Either I should ruin myself in paying Charles's 
 gambling debts, or he would fail to pay them 
 and be expelled from his clubs, which would 
 be social extinction. He has been, all the 
 time, in spite of his austerity and his hard 
 looks, a gambler acharnd : there is a club to 
 which he belongs where there is an inner 
 circle : they play constantly ; they play very 
 high ; they never talk about their play.' 
 
 * You paid that money ?' 
 
 ' He was going to become Prime Minister. 
 One would give a great deal to become the 
 wife of the Premier. Yes, I paid it. But as 
 he had married me for my money I let him 
 understand that henceforth he would get 
 nothing but the money. So we parted, yet 
 he remained under this roof. Was that right T
 
 26 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 ' It seems right. Did you have to give 
 more money ?' 
 
 * Yes. Much more money. My once 
 large fortune, Gilbert, has been seriously 
 impaired. The man is insatiable : he would 
 drink up all the money in the world. I 
 made up my mind, at last, that even to 
 become the wife of the Premier one might 
 pay too high a price. And besides, there 
 was the boy to consider. I sent him word 
 by the Archbishop that I would not give him 
 another penny. That message, I suppose, 
 was the cause of what has happened.' 
 
 ' Yes ?' 
 
 ' I let the child go out just now because I 
 could not bear to think that, even at his 
 tender age, he should hear this terrible and 
 shameful thing.' 
 
 She could not, still, bear to tell it ; she 
 kept approaching the thing — talking about 
 it — going away from it. 
 
 * It is the final blow,' she went on, once
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 27 
 
 more fencing with it. 'It is, I do believe, 
 the most terrible thing that has ever happened 
 to any woman. Gambler or not, I could still 
 take pride in his success. I could endure 
 even to be ruined if it were not for the boy. 
 Many most honourable men have ruined 
 their wives at the green table Even then 
 I could still be proud of him for his eloquence 
 and his intellect. But this — this — oh ! who 
 can bear it ? — who can bear it ?' She wrung 
 her hands — her cheek was hot and flushed 
 — there were no tears in her eyes. ' Who 
 can bear such a blow, Gilbert }' 
 
 * Again, Dorabyn, do not pain yourself to 
 tell me.' 
 
 ' I tell you it is worse to be silent with it. 
 And nobody knows except you and me and 
 the man to whom it happened. Oh ! let me 
 try to tell it exactly as it happened. It was 
 two or three days ago — I don't know when. 
 He sat down to play at this club with his 
 gambling friends. He had no money at all ;
 
 28 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 there was nothing at his bank ; to play at 
 all was worse than madness ; yet he played. 
 He knew that I would give him no more 
 money ; he could not possibly pay the smallest 
 loss ; he knew that, for the sake of the boy, 
 I was inflexible. Yet he played. And he 
 lost. When they left off he had lost over 
 three thousand pounds.' 
 
 * Yes — over three thousand pounds.' 
 
 ' Next day he paid his debts in full, as a 
 man of honour must.' 
 
 * His cheques were refused ?' 
 
 ' Not at all : the cheques were honoured. 
 Because, you see, a letter with a cheque for 
 jC3>500 had that morning been received at 
 his bank ; and the cheque was for the account 
 of Sir Charles Osterley.' 
 
 ' Well ?' 
 
 ' The cheque and the letter purported to 
 come from my cousin, Lord Richborough.' 
 
 ' And they did not ?' 
 
 ' No. They were forgeries. My husband 
 forged them.'
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 29 
 
 'But — Good Heavens! Was he stark, 
 staring mad ?' 
 
 * I suppose that he reasoned this way. 
 " No one will know who forged the cheque 
 and sent the letter. I will say that I know 
 nothing about it. My wife will give back 
 the money to her cousin." But I don't 
 know how he reasoned, A ofambler is a 
 madman.' 
 
 ' Was the fact proved ?' 
 
 * Yes. Beyond the possibility of any doubt. 
 The handwriting was his — it was impossible 
 to doubt this ; there was the fact that, a day or 
 two before, he had sent for his bank-book, so 
 that he knew there was nothing to his credit ; 
 and yet that morning he drew cheques for 
 over three thousand pounds. And the forged 
 cheque was torn out of his own book ; for 
 Lord Richborough and he had the same 
 bank. The thing was quite simple as soon 
 as the handwriting of the letter was dis- 
 covered.'
 
 30 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 ' Well ?' 
 
 * My cousin called upon him, and charged 
 him point-blank with the fact. At first he 
 expressed astonishment. Then my cousin 
 explained the evidence of the case. And 
 then he confessed.' 
 
 'Confessed? Good Heavens!' Gilbert 
 was no longer listening with an impassive 
 side face, like a father confessor ; he was 
 sitting upright in his chair facing the un- 
 happy woman, with amazement written all 
 over him. ' He confessed ?' 
 
 * My cousin anticipated this confession, 
 and he had made up his mind what to do. 
 He said that he would honour the cheque, 
 so as to save a scandal : this he would do for 
 my sake ; but on conditions. Sir Charles 
 must go away and kill himself as the price of 
 silence. He pointed out that in this way 
 Charles's honour, and my honour, and my 
 son's honour would be preserved, and no one 
 would ever know the real reason of the
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 31 
 
 suicide. Would you believe it? He re- 
 fused ! Coward ! — Coward ! — Coward !' She 
 wrung her hands passionately. 
 
 ' Coward !' Gilbert echoed. 
 
 ' Then my cousin, again for my sake, gave 
 him another choice. If he would, that very 
 day, resign everything — his post, his political 
 career, his seat, his clubs — and leave the 
 country never to return, he would not pro- 
 secute. He left the wretched man to find 
 his own excuses ; for his own part he 
 promised — for my sake — silence. If he re- 
 fused this offer he would be prosecuted in a 
 court of justice.' 
 
 ' A dreadful alternative. And then i^' 
 
 ' He accepted. He went out of that room. 
 Oh ! Gilbert, much as I loathe and hate the 
 man, I cannot bear to think of it ; he went 
 out of that room, I was told, with — what 
 shall I say .'^ — the white despair of a man dis- 
 graced stamped upon his face. I try not to 
 remember his agony at that moment, for fear
 
 32 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 of pitying the man. My cousin, who brought 
 me the story, told me that the sight made 
 him tremble. The tears came into his eyes 
 while he told me. Oh, the horror of it ! 
 Oh, the shame of it ! Gilbert ! Think of 
 it! He went out fallen — changed from a 
 gentleman into a detected rogue, with the 
 full knowledge of what detection meant to a 
 man in his position ! Oh ! think of it — think 
 of it! How could he?' 
 
 'Indeed — how could he?' What more 
 could Gilbert say ? There are no words of 
 consolation in such a case as this. Nothing 
 can console. 
 
 ' In the morning — yesterday morning — his 
 solicitor came — the Archbishop. He assumed 
 a face of deep sympathy : I had no doubt 
 heard from Sir Charles of this sudden break- 
 down — ''long threatened, dear Madam, long 
 expected, borne with fortitude." I wonder 
 how much he knows of the story. Sir 
 Charles, he said, was ordered, as his only
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 33 
 
 chance, to go abroad Immediately. As he 
 said nothing, not even by way of keeping up 
 appearances, of my going to see the man, I 
 take it that he knows, or suspects, a good 
 deal. But he will not talk. Meantime, on 
 the subject of money. It was for no 
 gambling debt, he explained, that he asked 
 for money ; but when a man smitten by 
 sudden sickness — this old Pecksniff never 
 even smiled — is told that his one chance is 
 to go abroad, why, he must have some 
 money to go with. "I do not say," he 
 admitted, "that my client has behaved well ; 
 however, forgiveness is the act of a Christian; 
 he must have money, and perhaps under all 
 the circumstances " — I think he guesses pretty 
 well what they are — " it will be best for you 
 to give him what he wants." So I gave 
 him a cheque for ^^500, with the firm 
 assurance that nothing in the world would 
 ever induce me to give him any more ; that 
 he might starve — and so on. I spare you 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 the rest, Gilbert. Then I heard that you 
 were at home, and I wrote to you. And 
 you have come. There, Gilbert ! you know 
 all — and a very pretty whole it makes.' 
 
 ' Yes,' he said : ' this is the most miserable 
 business I have ever heard. My poor 
 Dorabyn ! But the man has gone out of 
 your sight. That is something.' 
 
 ' But not out of my life. Oh, Gilbert — 
 help me to drive him out of my life. All the 
 world is told that Sir Charles has been sent 
 away hastily — smitten with some sudden 
 disease. That fiction will have to be kept 
 up, I suppose, till people begin to forget 
 him.' 
 
 ' People forget very easily nowadays. In 
 a week it will be as if Sir Charles had never 
 existed.' 
 
 ' How can I go about — meet my friends — 
 with this guilty knowledge ?' 
 
 ' Not guilty, Dorabyn.' 
 
 ' Shameful knowledge, then. I am a wife,
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 35 
 
 but not a wife ; a widow whose husband is 
 still living : my husband is a guilty and 
 shameful wretch of whom all the world 
 speaks well. Why am I not abroad with him 
 in his illness ? Why have I deserted him ?' 
 
 * Where is he now ?' 
 
 ' I don't know. He must go to America, 
 I believe. Gone to take another name in 
 some place where his face is not known. 
 He can never come back here again. He 
 could never bear to face that story. Mean- 
 while, I remain ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 He used the word as indicating reflection. 
 
 * I remain. Do you understand what that 
 means ? He goes away, stricken down by 
 disease, followed by the sympathy of the 
 world. I — his stony-hearted wife, the only 
 one who does not feel for him — remain.' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Another thing. He vanishes. He wan- 
 ders about the world. Whether he lives or
 
 36 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 dies I know not. I shall never know, for he 
 will be too proud — he has that one quality 
 left of his birth and education — to tell any- 
 one who he is. I am therefore bound to 
 him, perhaps, for more than his life ; for 
 years after he may have gone to gamble 
 and to commit foro-eries in the other world.' 
 
 o 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Still another thing. On every side there 
 are difficulties. There are his own people : 
 he has any number of people. They will all 
 be wanting to know every day where he is, 
 how he is. Good Heavens! There is his 
 mother, there is his sister : they must never 
 know — any more than my boy. And there 
 are my own people as well. Of course they 
 will want to know what it all means — where 
 he is and how he is. And his political 
 friends, they have already begun to send 
 letters and messages : his private secretary 
 came this morning, and the newspaper people 
 are besieging the house. Good Heavens,
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 37 
 
 Gilbert! I believe I shall go mad with 
 it all.' 
 
 ' You would not call a few of his friends 
 together and let them understand in general 
 terms something of the truth ?' 
 
 *No — no — no!' she cried vehemently. 
 ' No one must ever suspect. My boy must 
 grow up to respect his father, whom all the 
 world respected, as well as his mother, who 
 cruelly suffered him to go away alone — per- 
 haps to die.' 
 
 ' Perhaps to die. Dorabyn — if he were to 
 die!' 
 
 ' He will not. He is too strong.' 
 
 ' If you were to go to your country house 
 and fall ill — shock to nerves — and remain 
 ill ' 
 
 * No. They would all run down to see 
 me.' 
 
 ' You might send round a paragraph to 
 the effect that Sir Charles had mysteriously 
 disappeared '
 
 38 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 * He would most certainly be discovered.' 
 
 ' Then, Dorabyn, there seems only one 
 thing to do. Go and live abroad — or travel 
 abroad where English people do not resort.' 
 
 Dorabyn broke down. She sank into a 
 chair and burst into tears. 
 
 ' Oh !' she cried, * there is nothing but con- 
 tinual deception ! And the thing so hope- 
 less !' 
 
 ' Nay, after a year or two you can return. 
 You can tell his people that you have had to 
 separate from him.' 
 
 ' But there is the boy. What am I to say 
 to him ?' 
 
 ' We might advertise the death of the 
 man.' 
 
 ' And he would be seen the next day in 
 the streets of Paris. Oh, Gilbert, cannot 
 even you help me ? I have always thought 
 you were so clever and so strong.' 
 
 * If you were free from this man.' Gilbert 
 rose slowly — his face was very troubled : he
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 39 
 
 bent over the weeping woman, and his eyes 
 became humid — he could have wept with her. 
 It was terrible to see this queenly woman 
 broken down with shame that seemed hope- 
 less, except on one chance. 
 
 When the valiant knight of old rode out 
 to deliver the helpless maiden from monsters, 
 giants, dragons, and loathly worms, it was 
 not because he was in love with that maiden. 
 Not at all. Occasionally, it is true, love 
 came after rescue ; but not always, nor, 
 indeed, as a rule. 
 
 Gilbert was not in love with this belle 
 Dame — not at all : but she was his sister 
 and his friend ; she was in sore trouble ; and 
 only one thing could help her. 
 
 There was in Gilbert something- of the 
 knight errant : he might become on occasion 
 like the noble-hearted hidaloo, Don Quixote ; 
 he could rise to the height of throwing away 
 his own life, even for a woman whom he did 
 not love in earthly fashion : the power of
 
 40 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 throwing away one's life seldom survives the 
 age of one-and-twenty, in the world of society. 
 But Gilbert was a traveller ; in the lonely 
 woods and mountains, among simple folk, the 
 ancient virtues still survive : that Is one way 
 of explaining what follows. 
 
 ' If you were free from this man,' he 
 repeated. ' If you were free from him ! 
 You cannot get a divorce from him. There 
 Is only one. . . . Why ' — his face cleared ; 
 he smiled ; he looked cheerful and confident 
 again — ' of course !' he added. ' Dorabyn — 
 dear Dorabyn — a little patience ; and — 
 Courage ! You shall be free. A little 
 patience. I will set you free.' 
 
 He stooped down and kissed her bowed 
 head. Then without a word more he walked 
 out of the room. 
 
 Had Lady Osterley looked up she would 
 have been struck with the resemblance of 
 Gilbert Maryon to the gallant youth Perseus 
 when he started off on that adventure of his,
 
 WHO SHALL RID ME? 41 
 
 the rescue of Andromeda. She might, per- 
 haps, have reflected, at the same time, that 
 there was but one way, in both cases, by 
 which that freedom was to be effected. Only 
 one way. But this she did not, at the time, 
 understand. 
 
 It was with somewhat Hghtened heart— did 
 Gilbert ever fail ? — that Dorabyn packed up 
 her things, and, with her maid, her nurse and 
 her boy, went abroad — to join, they said, her 
 interesting husband. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Extract from the Morning Post : — 
 
 ' The circumstances which have caused the 
 resignation of Sir Charles Osterley are still 
 partly unexplained. It appears that he is 
 not acting by the advice of the learned 
 practitioner who has the care of his house- 
 hold, either in town or the country, nor does 
 that gentleman know anything of the case. 
 He has never been consulted by Sir Charles, 
 who, according to those who knew him, 
 always seemed to enjoy the best of health.
 
 42 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 The fact, however, remains that Sir Charles 
 has been ordered abroad immediately : it is 
 now certain that he was suddenly taken ill 
 while on a visit : the case was so urgent that 
 on a partial recovery he was hurried away 
 under charge of a medical man without even 
 going home ; nor did her Ladyship, who was 
 at the time out of London, know what had 
 happened till he was gone. The shock 
 proved almost too much for her. She is 
 quite unable to see anyone. It is under- 
 stood that she will at once join him. Sir 
 Charles is reported to have shown some 
 signs of improvement, but very little hope 
 is entertained of a speedy or a permanent 
 recovery. His physicians have not thought 
 fit to inform the world as to the precise 
 nature of the attack ; but the rumour is 
 persistent as to disorder of the brain. We 
 fear that Sir Charles Osterley is lost to 
 politics and to the House of Commons. Mean- 
 while, we believe that a house has been taken 
 for him in the South of France. We venture, 
 as political enemies, to hope that the time 
 will come when we may again measure swords 
 with an antagonist so worthy — so courteous 
 — and so honourable.'
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF MEDITATION
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE MASTER. 
 
 'You desire, you say, to stay with us,' said 
 the Master. ' Are you merely anxious to 
 study our Community ? You can only stay 
 with us in obedience to our common Rule. 
 Do you understand what that is ?' 
 
 ' Not very well.' 
 
 The new comer, or novice, was none other 
 than Gilbert, and the Community was seised 
 or possessed of a house and land in the State 
 of New York. 
 
 ' Why do you come here, young man ? 
 Are you disappointed with Outside ? We 
 have such among us who come, bruised and
 
 46 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 broken, to find, if they can, peace and calm. 
 Have you, perhaps, committed some crime ? 
 We have some who come to us, thus dis- 
 graced, to recover self-respect beneath this 
 roof. Do you come in the pay of some 
 newspaper, to pry into our lives and make 
 " copy " out of things sacred to us ? Some do 
 that, also, pretending other reasons.' 
 
 * It is not for any such reason that I come 
 here. I am neither disappointed in ambition, 
 for I have none ; nor am I a criminal ; nor 
 am I a journalist. I would stay here for a 
 while : receive me as a paying boarder if you 
 will.' 
 
 ' I would rather that you came for Eleva- 
 tion. It is for Elevation that the Community 
 exists. It is for Elevation that we have left 
 Outside. Well, you may stay with us ; but 
 if you stay you must work like us for your 
 living : we take no money. You look like 
 an honest man. Stay as long as you please 
 on that condition. You will find refreshment
 
 THE MASTER 47 
 
 for your soul in our simple life if you choose 
 to take it. Perhaps you will remain with 
 us altogether if you lose the recollection of 
 Outside.' 
 
 • By " Outside " you mean, I take it, the 
 world ? Well, I thank you for your permis- 
 sion. I will obey your Rule of Work, and I 
 will stay.' 
 
 The place was a large and very ugly hall, 
 built of wood, bare and plain, with not the 
 least attempt at decoration. The roof was 
 open, showing the rafters ; the walls were 
 painted a bright yellow ; there were three 
 large square windows on each side. These 
 windows were provided with green blinds as 
 a protection against the sun ; the blinds were 
 partly drawn down. Along one end stood a 
 low platform raised about twelve inches ; a 
 pianoforte stood in the corner of the platform. 
 The body of the room was occupied by three 
 parallel rows of narrow tables, along which 
 were common wooden benches ; the tables
 
 48 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 were bare ; the room was empty. This was 
 the refectory, the common room, the calefac- 
 tory, the chapter-house, the cloister, all in 
 one, of the Community. 
 
 The Master sat at the end of the middle 
 table in an armchair : he was the only 
 member of the Society who was allowed a 
 chair ; the new comer stood before him look- 
 ing, it must be confessed, ill at ease, on 
 account of a certain difficulty in explaining 
 his motives for craving admission. 
 
 The Master was an old man, probably past 
 seventy years, but still tall and erect. His 
 long white hair hung down upon his shoulders, 
 and his long white beard flowed over his 
 chest. In appearance he was truly patriarchal. 
 His face was handsome still ; his features 
 not yet, despite his age, exaggerated by the 
 graving tool of time : it was like the face that 
 they used to show in the so-called spirit 
 photographs, which always represented a 
 long face, rather a handsome face, yet a
 
 THE MASTER 49 
 
 weak face, a conventional face, supposed by 
 believers to represent great possibilities of 
 intellect : a high square forehead, straight 
 eyebrows, a long straight nose and an air of 
 self-satisfaction. The Master's eyes, however, 
 were his most remarkable feature : they were 
 large and limpid, of a soft dark blue ; they 
 were full of light ; sometimes the light was 
 soft and steady, kindly and benevolent; some- 
 times it glowed and burned like a flame : it 
 waxed and waned according to his mood. 
 They were the eyes of the Prophet — 
 Mohammed himself, I am sure, had such 
 eyes — though his were black and Perhaps 
 almond shaped. They were also the eyes 
 of the Visionary, the Crank, who thinks 
 himself entrusted with a message never 
 before delivered to an expectant world. 
 
 'Whatever your motive,' the Master went 
 on, ' whatever your history, you are welcome. 
 Here you will receive the Discipline of 
 Labour, the Discipline of Silence, the Disci- 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 pline of the Simple Life. Here you will be 
 freed from care, from ambition, from jealousy, 
 envy, strife : all that stands between yourself 
 and the Higher Life shall fall away and 
 vanish.' 
 
 Gilbert opened his lips as if he would like 
 to inquire further into the Higher Life, but 
 changed his mind. 
 
 ' What other rules are there,' he asked, 
 * besides the Rule of Work ?' 
 
 • There are no vows of admission. If you 
 desire to go, you can go. Some have grown 
 tired of our discipline, or they have longed 
 again for the outer world, and so have left 
 us. As for our rules, they are only such 
 as are necessary in a Community ; designed 
 for order and for the carrying out of our 
 principles. Take down that card ' (he pointed 
 to a large card hanging on the wall). Gilbert 
 obeyed, and read the rules. 
 
 * 5.30, Rise and dress ; 6 to 8, Fatigue ; 
 8, Restoration; 9 — 12.30, Fatigue; i, Res-
 
 THE MASTER 51 
 
 toration ; Afternoon, Rest and Recreation ; 
 6, Restoration ; 7, Meditation ; 9, Repose. 
 
 * Fatigue ? Restoration ?' asked Gilbert. 
 
 ' Fatigue is work, which is necessary for 
 the health of the body. Restoration is food. 
 Outside, it is called breakfast, dinner, or 
 supper.' 
 
 ' Is this all the Rule ?' 
 
 ' This,' said the Master, ' is our life : we 
 work together ; we take Restoration together ; 
 we take Recreation as we choose ; we 
 meditate.' 
 
 ' You meditate?' 
 
 * Meditation, of which you know nothing 
 as yet, is the handmaid of the Higher Life. 
 Meditation has for ages past formed a part 
 of the Higher Life among the Orientals. It 
 is our especial service to the Western world 
 that we have restored the Rite of Medita- 
 tion. You do not yet, of course — how should 
 you ? — understand what this means. Young 
 man, if you stay here, like the rest of us you
 
 52 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 will presently find that our evening Medita- 
 tion crowns the day and glorifies it. Wait : 
 wait till you, too, can fall into Meditation 
 when you please. To return. There are 
 no vows, yet we must obey each other ; we 
 live in common, yet there is no need to share 
 our property, because we want no property : 
 most of us have none. I do not ask you 
 whether you are rich or poor ; we live by our 
 labour : rich or poor, you must live by your 
 labour ; rich or poor, you will live with us, 
 fare as we fare, dress as we dress ; give to all 
 and receive from all.' 
 
 Said the novice tentatively, 'It is your 
 scheme that each should work for the other ; 
 give to him, and receive from him ?' 
 
 ' Remember that man is always alone, 
 although with a companion at his side,' 
 continued the Master, not replying. * Every 
 individual soul is in space, alone, with nothing 
 but itself, rising higher or sinking lower. The 
 loneliness of the soul demands frequent Medi-
 
 THE MASTER 53 
 
 tation : that means absolute absorption ; but 
 for purposes of work, or even of Recreation, 
 we want association ; so we live together. 
 We do not encourage, at any time, not even 
 in the hours of Recreation, idle talk ; and we 
 do not encourage too much interest in our 
 work — that is to say, we must not make work 
 the chief subject of our thoughts. Work 
 must be a servant, not a master. Many of 
 us, I have found, are hindered by their de- 
 votion to work, especially when it is artistic 
 work. I teach that work once done should 
 be put away and forgotten.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' said the inquirer, ' reading and 
 writing belong to the afternoon ?' 
 
 ' No. We never read at all. We have 
 no books. We have been uplifted into the 
 understanding that all reading is foolishness. 
 What should we read ? History ? What is 
 it but a record of man's iniquities and 
 cruelties ? Science ? It is the mind groping 
 after things which, when they are discovered,
 
 54 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 are made the engines of more iniquities. Man 
 is not one whit the better for any discovery 
 of science. Poetry ? It is at best a quick- 
 ener of emotion — some Communities use It 
 in the singing of hymns. At Its best It may 
 help to Elevation ; at its worst It fills the soul 
 with damnable witcheries. Novels ? They 
 are for the most part idolatrous offerings to 
 Love, of whom they make a god — yea, and 
 far above all other gods. With us Love 
 takes the place which nature Intended for It, 
 and no more. What else should we read ? 
 There is Theology. It is the worship of the 
 Word. We want no Theology here. Or 
 there Is Philosophy. We have already all 
 we want.' 
 
 ' How can one live without reading ? It is 
 like breathing : one imtst read.' 
 
 The Master laid a hand on the visitor's 
 arm. ' You are new among us,' he said. 
 * You bring with you the habits of the world. 
 In order to calm your ever-present disease of
 
 THE MASTER 55 
 
 restlessness you must be for ever reading or 
 writing when you are not talking. You begin 
 by thirsting after books as a drunkard thirsts 
 after strong drink. Your restlessness demands 
 the usual sedative. Presently, if you stay 
 here long enough, the disease will vanish ; 
 you will gradually become, like myself, 
 absolutely calm,' His eyes began to be 
 filled with light ; his rich, persuasive voice 
 began to swell like an organ, crescendo. 
 ' Your mind will float like a vessel on a calm 
 sea ; you will altogether forget Outside ; you 
 will soar upwards, free from earthly ambitions, 
 free from human passions ; you will have no 
 hopes, no fears, and no attachments to this 
 earth ; one by one the ropes will break which 
 now connect you with Outside. To you, as 
 it has long been to me, this House will be- 
 come the whole universe. To you, as to me, 
 the unhappy beings who struggle and suffer 
 Outside will cease to exist. But you must 
 first forget the Past.'
 
 56 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 ' But this Meditation ?' he asked. 
 
 * The power of abstraction does not arrive 
 all at once, or readily. But there are helps. 
 Some of the younger members dance. You 
 look astonished ? Dancing has always proved 
 a stimulus to Meditation. For myself, I know 
 not by experience how dancing affects one.' 
 
 ' In the chapel.^' 
 
 ' We have no chapel ; we have no collective 
 prayers, praise, singing or preaching. We do 
 not keep any days, seasons, feasts or fasts. 
 Remember that our Rule is no new thing. 
 We have been here twenty years. It has 
 proved salutary to many. Doubt not that 
 it will give you the peace and calm which 
 perhaps you want.' 
 
 * Peace and calm,' the visitor repeated, with 
 doubt or misgiving in his eye. He had not 
 come to this place in search of either. 
 
 ' In our Community,' continued the Master, 
 * there is no working for private profit, no 
 desire for gain ; there are no offices to be
 
 THE MASTER 57 
 
 filled, no ambitions to be gratified. Think. 
 With the abolition of wealth and ambition 
 vanish half the temptations of the world. 
 With anxiety about the future, with the fear 
 of want, vanish half the hindrances of life. 
 And then there is the passion of love.' 
 ' Of love,' repeated the listener. 
 ' Think of the happiness of living without 
 love.' 
 
 ' Ah !' said the novice, but doubtfully. 
 * We do not advocate that exclusive friend- 
 ship called love ; each soul should feel that it 
 stands alone ; we do not foster the passion of 
 love in this house ; single attachments we dis- 
 countenance : yet if man or woman wish to 
 marry, we suffer it, but after warnings. With 
 the greater part nothing binds a man to 
 the earth more than the love of wife and 
 children. Here, at least, you will be spared 
 the temptation that assails the young con- 
 tinually Outside. But you must first forget 
 the Past.'
 
 58 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 Gilbert sat down on the bench opposite to 
 the Master. * You are,' he said, ' more serious 
 than I understood. I thought that this was 
 a Community principally for the purpose of 
 followinof the common life — a kind of co- 
 operative brotherhood.' 
 
 ' To Outside it is little more. To us — 
 how much more ! My son, you are, as yet, 
 perfectly ignorant. But fear not : you will 
 learn. And first, you will have to learn the 
 elementary lesson, that there is nothing in the 
 whole world to desire — nothing worthy of any 
 man's efforts — except Elevation.' 
 
 He rose — a tall and stately figure— and, as 
 he stood over his disciple, Authority fell upon 
 his face and upon his figure and upon his 
 garments. As much Authority wrapped him 
 round as if he had been in lawn sleeves and 
 silk instead of an old tweed jacket and a 
 flannel shirt. And his dark blue eyes 
 kindled, and his voice rose. 
 
 'We have been created — we know not
 
 THE MASTER 59 
 
 when. Man, who will have no ending, 
 never had a beginning. Let me speak to 
 you a little. I am old, and I have medi- 
 tated much ; I know a great deal that 
 you cannot know, and many things that I 
 cannot explain to you — you would not under- 
 stand.' 
 
 His voice was full and musical ; if it rose 
 but a little it became sonorous ; if it fell it 
 was like the rolling of an organ softly played. 
 Never had Gilbert heard so wonderful a 
 voice. It held him — just as the music of an 
 organ will seize and hold the soul and sway 
 it this way and that as the musician wills. 
 The words that he spoke, as you read them 
 on this cold printed page, mean little. As 
 they were spoken they were words which the 
 soul could not choose but receive — words not 
 to be questioned ; words of new wisdom ; a 
 new revelation. 
 
 ' We pass from life to life,' he went on ; 
 ' from age to age, from a^on to a:ion, through
 
 6o THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 all the countless years. We never die ; we 
 cannot die ; death is but a short sleep — there 
 is no time in death — and birth is but a 
 renewal of the former life ; through all the 
 births man's soul mounts — mounts — mounts ; 
 or falls — falls — falls. Oh ! We who stand 
 upon the higher levels, where you will soon 
 join us — we can look around and behold 
 heights invisible to those below ; nay, we can 
 even look above — through the veil — beyond 
 the veil, and have glimpses, and see visions. 
 How can I tell you what we see ? How can 
 I express the things which the mind of man 
 cannot conceive nor his words paint ? How 
 can I repeat the things that no voices say to 
 us ?' His eyes suddenly flamed — they became 
 balls of fire — he gazed outwards as one who 
 hath a vision. ' Voices invite us, hands press 
 ours, fingers beckon us into the next world — 
 the next step in our ascent. Believe me, it 
 will be a far, far nobler, a far, far lovelier 
 world, than this ; everything that we have
 
 THE MASTER 6i 
 
 here we shall have there, but far, far more 
 perfect. F'or even in the highest heaven 
 itself the things will be those that we have 
 here, but made perfect inconceivably. There 
 are others in this house beside myself to 
 whom the voices come ; these are those who 
 lead the perfect life. Yet this next world 
 itself is but a stepping-stone to the next. 
 Oh, happy, happy brother !' he took the 
 novice by the hand, ' you have left Outside. 
 Do not seek to go back to it ; find peace and 
 rest amongst us.' 
 
 The voice, the eyes of the man moved 
 Gilbert more than the words. His brain 
 reeled ; he would have lost command of 
 himself, but for a thought which returned 
 to him — the disturbing thought which stood 
 between his soul and the influence of this 
 magnetic voice — he remembered the reason 
 why he found himself in that house. 
 
 The words, to repeat, mean little. It 
 would be easy to scoff at them : one might
 
 62 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 ask where the speaker found all this wonderful 
 knowledge ; but the words were spoken with 
 so much authority, with a voice so rich and 
 sonorous, with such magnetism In his eyes, 
 that the newly - arrived brother, who ex- 
 pected nothing but a commonplace religious 
 quackery, was moved to the depths. Yet 
 he was a man of West-End London, a man 
 of the world, a man of society. 
 
 The preacher ceased ; he sat down ; the 
 Authority went out of his face ; the light 
 went out of his eyes ; he was again a clean, 
 nice-looking old man, with white hair and 
 dark blue eyes — a gentle-looking person, 
 probably a favourite with old ladles at the 
 tea-table — dressed in a rather shabby tweed 
 jacket, with a black felt hat on the bench 
 beside him. Then he spoke In quite a 
 different voice : 
 
 * You come to us, Gilbert Maryon, for some 
 reason or other — I know not what ; but I 
 perceive clearly that It is not the desire of
 
 THE MASTER 63 
 
 the Higher Life. Nor is it the desire to 
 escape the consequences of crime— a thing 
 which has brought us pretended converts. I 
 perceive also that you are an EngHshman, 
 apparently of better station than many that 
 you will find here ; you are further, as is 
 apparent from your manner, one of educa- 
 tion and refinement. You will find some 
 things among us that you will not understand, 
 or perhaps approve : do not mock at these 
 things, even in your heart ; do not laugh at 
 us, even secretly. Say to yourself, " Such- 
 and-such are their ideals ; in some unknown 
 way these things are found helpful by the 
 Community ; I will wait." Promise me so 
 much, Gilbert.' 
 
 ' I will promise so much, at least. You 
 have greatly moved me. I expected nothing 
 like it ' 
 
 * Enough. Now, it is already past five 
 o'clock. I will send one of your new sisters 
 to take you round the house and show you
 
 64 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 the workshops. You will choose your own 
 work. And your sister will show you your 
 room. And, my brother, you must resolve 
 at once, and from this moment, to forget the 
 Past.'
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT. 
 
 Gilbert sat down and waited while the 
 Master went off to find that sister. * This,' 
 he said, * is a very remarkable Community ; 
 I must see something of it before I complete 
 the job. If the Prophet knew why I have 
 come here !' He felt horribly guilty, be- 
 cause, of a truth, it was not at all the kind 
 of job to suit the House. Yet it had to be 
 done somehow, and that speedily. ' I sup- 
 pose he won't know me ; if he does, I must 
 settle it at once. I don't think he knows 
 me ; I have never seen him, and I don't 
 think he has ever seen me. Yet he is here 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 and I am here, and Dorabyn must be set 
 free,' He took a letter from his pocket- 
 book and opened it. * There can be no 
 mistake possible ; he put the fact into words 
 plain and clear ; the information is certain — 
 he is in this house. A pretty reason, truly, 
 I could give the Prophet for joining this 
 Community of men who are rising to other 
 worlds !' 
 
 He read the letter over again, for the tenth 
 time. It was from a private detective of 
 New York. 
 
 * I am pleased to report that I have at last 
 discovered the hiding-place of the man you 
 want. He has changed his name so often 
 and has worked with so much secrecy that it 
 has been extremely difficult to trace him ; I 
 have only done so by following up from place 
 to place the mischief which he and his com- 
 pany have caused. 
 
 * What I have learned is this. He came 
 over in April, 1893, under the name of Charles 
 Lee. Whether this was an assumed name or
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT 67 
 
 a true name I cannot tell ; nor have any 
 inquiries in Scotland Yard been answered 
 satisfactorily. He does not seem known to 
 the London detectives. He went first of all 
 to a French hotel of doubtful reputation ; 
 and he was received in certain gambling clubs, 
 where he seems to have lost a considerable 
 sum of money in a very short time. Pre- 
 sumably it was all he had, because he was 
 next seen in the streets of New York in a 
 destitute and miserable condition. This was 
 changed, however, before long ; for we find 
 him again in a first-class hotel, living as 
 an English gentleman of fortune. The ex- 
 planation is simple : the men among whom 
 he lost his money — a ring of sharpers — 
 wanted a confederate whose manners and 
 appearance would command more confidence 
 than their own ; he joined them. He has 
 been with them ever since. They travel 
 about — but singly, not together : they never 
 own each other. They go from town to 
 town ; sometimes they pretend to rook the 
 rich Englishman, in order to disarm sus- 
 picion. Always the rich Englishman is 
 drawn into the gambling den, and loses
 
 68 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 money ; then the men of the place have a 
 turn or two with him, and the luck miracu- 
 lously turns. They appear to have done 
 very well. At Chicago, in the summer of 
 1893, they made quite a pile, and lived on 
 the best of everything all the time. They 
 added to their gaming certain operations of a 
 "long-firm" character. What broke up the 
 gang was the death of a young Mexican at one 
 of their haunts. I do not know the particulars. 
 Mr. "Charles Lee" was present, certainly; 
 but very little is said about it, and nothing 
 gets into the papers. The ring is broken up 
 and dispersed ; the police are picking up the 
 members here and there. As for your man, 
 he has found a hiding-place where they are 
 least likely to look for him. It is in a quiet 
 Community of Cranks — one of the many 
 Communities which have been tried in this 
 country. They admit anybody who conforms 
 to their Rule ; they are only a small body ; 
 they are said to be quite harmless ; they live 
 about four miles from the city of Alderman- 
 bury, N.Y. There your man is at present 
 hiding ; he will stay there, if he is wise, a 
 long time.
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT 69 
 
 ' I learn further from my informant, who 
 was one of them, that "Charles Lee " is the 
 ablest as well as the best-mannered man in 
 the gang. It is he who devises new combina- 
 tions and novel methods. He is a devil for 
 ingenuity and ruthlessness. His only weak- 
 ness is that he goes mad over gambling. 
 They let him play as much as he pleases, 
 but he is always made to play with one of 
 the gang. For the rest, he is full of resource 
 and always devising new schemes — a most 
 dangerous man. He would do well, I repeat, 
 to stay where he is as long as he can.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Gilbert, folding up the letter, 
 ' I am here, and he is here. Dorabyn, the 
 day of your redemption draweth nigh. He 
 is here, and I am here, and — he shall fight 
 me. It shall be a duel to the death.' 
 
 He sighed with relief; he replaced the 
 pocket-book, and he returned to the con- 
 sideration of the House. 
 
 ' One expected,' if we may put his thoughts 
 into words, ' to find on the religious side of
 
 70 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 the Fraternity a smug and self-satisfied 
 sectarianism. One thought the Master 
 would have been something like a Primitive 
 Methodist minister, but more narrow and 
 more cock-sure ; instead of that, one finds 
 a Prophet with eloquence, persuasion and 
 nobility. He has interesting views ; he has 
 constructed an entirely new scheme of the 
 universe and of humanity ; and he apparently 
 enjoys a private revelation of his own. On 
 the practical side one expected there would 
 be futility and pretence : on the other hand, 
 there is solid work. What the Master 
 actually teaches in matters of doctrine will 
 be ascertained in good time ; at present it 
 appears that they have no creed, no articles, 
 no chapel, no services. It is a religious . 
 house without any religion ! As for myself, 
 I am ashamed, thinking of my mission. The 
 reason of my coming is not in the least the 
 elevation of my soul, as the Master hopes. 
 It is — what? Justice or revenge? I know
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT 71 
 
 not. As for the Rule, there is none ; or, if 
 any, it is comprised in the simple law, " Thou 
 shalt do no reading." No chapel, no re- 
 ligious services, no sacred books, no preach- 
 ing — a religion, therefore, without doctrines ; 
 everybody to believe what he pleases ; no 
 
 priest, no mysteries, no ' 
 
 At this point Gilbert's speculations were 
 disturbed. The disturbing influence was a 
 girl, who came into the hall with the evident 
 intention of speaking with him. She was 
 quite young — not more than nineteen or 
 twenty ; she was bare-headed, but carried 
 her hat in her hand. Gilbert sprang to his 
 feet. Good heavens ! was this a sister of 
 the Community ? Were all the sisters like 
 this girl .-* Was he, in sober reality, in a 
 paradise peopled with veritable angels .'* 
 Because, you see, this girl possessed a face 
 which few artists could ever imagine, invent, 
 or find— a face of such purity, holiness and 
 unworldly beauty, with so much tranquillity
 
 72 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 in it, so much virginal sweetness in it, so 
 much innocence in it, that she might have 
 been standing behind the Master and whisper- 
 ing in his ear while he discoursed upon the 
 voices and the unspeakable glories of his 
 vision. Such a face as Dante saw in 
 Beatrice, such a face as Petrarch saw in 
 Laura — such a face was that which met this 
 new brother of the House. The features of 
 her face were perfectly regular ; her head 
 was shapely, her hair fine — and it would have 
 been abundant too, had it not been ruthlessly 
 cut short just below the ears ; her eyes were 
 gray, touched with blue, and very, very 
 serious : her face was composed and grave ; 
 her mouth was set. It was an oval face, a 
 Greek face, with a somewhat low forehead. 
 Her stature was tall, and her figure slight. 
 This was a girl born in the House : she had 
 never been outside it ; she had never even 
 spoken with anyone out of the Community ; 
 she had never heard anyone laugh ; she
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT 73 
 
 knew nothing of the outer world, except that 
 it mostly belonged to quite the lower levels ; 
 she had an unbounded belief in the Master 
 and in the Community ; and she lived for 
 the greater part of her time in a world of 
 dreams. 
 
 ' Brother Gilbert,' she began with a pretty, 
 maidenly blush, ' the Master has sent me to 
 look after you.' 
 
 * It is very kind of the Master — and of you.' 
 
 ' I generally receive new comers to the 
 House. My name is Cicely.' 
 
 ' My Sister Cicely,' he repeated gravely. 
 ' There is no tie more delightful than the 
 brotherly and sisterly bond. I hope I shall 
 prove worthy of it.' 
 
 The appearance of this interesting maiden 
 was another reason why the completion of 
 the business in hand must be made to wait 
 for a day or two. 
 
 'You are an Englishman, the Master said. 
 My father was English, too. 1 hope you
 
 74 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 will stay. I think you look as if you could 
 rise. Some who come here go away again 
 very quickly.' 
 
 ' Oh !' the latest comer repeated. ' It is 
 good of you to say so. They go away. 
 Why do they come ? Why does anybody 
 come here ?' 
 
 * I don't know. Sometimes they come 
 crying and weeping — they are the sisters ; 
 they cry for the wickedness they have left 
 Outside. Sometimes they are bad people, 
 who come here to repent. You will find it 
 a beautiful place for repentance — but I hope, 
 Brother Gilbert, that you are not that kind. 
 We have had burglars here.' 
 
 ' I have not done anything, Cicely, I assure 
 you — not even a burglary.' 
 
 ' Then you begin at once, like me, on the 
 higher levels. I have never been in the 
 world at all, so that I never had the oppor- 
 tunity of doing anything. Otherwise I 
 might have been a burglar too.'
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT 75 
 
 ' Very likely indeed,' Gilbert replied, with 
 a little laugh. ' At least ' he remem- 
 bered the very serious views of the Prophet, 
 and was ashamed of laughing. * That is — 
 I mean — well — I shall be pleased to fall in 
 with the customs of the House. And you 
 can tell me who the members are — all of 
 them ?' 
 
 ' Yes. But it is nearly half-past five : 
 Restoration bell will soon ring, and you are 
 not even dressed yet.' 
 
 He was surprised at this objection. He 
 had not expected such refinements in a 
 monastery. 
 
 ' Do you dress for Restoration here, then ?' 
 
 She looked puzzled. ' I mean,' she said, 
 ' that you have not yet put on the dress of 
 the House.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but I haven't got the dress of the 
 House.' 
 
 ' I will show you presently where you can 
 get one.'
 
 76 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 ' Oh !' He now observed that she wore a 
 curious kind of uniform. ' Is that the sisters' 
 dress ?' 
 
 * Of course it is.' 
 
 She was such a very lovely, dainty and 
 ethereal maiden that she even rose superior 
 to her costume. The full dreadfulness of 
 the dress did not burst upon him all at once 
 — such a thing requires time ; it grows upon 
 one ; its ugliness cannot be realized by the 
 human imagination at the first aspect. There 
 are enormities in ugliness as there are 
 enormities in figures, fortunes, distances, 
 which have to be slowly approached and 
 gradually appreciated. The sisters of that 
 Community were clad in a uniform pro- 
 foundly ugly. I cannot believe that the 
 Master, black and dark as is that prophetic 
 soul as regards art and aesthetics, could 
 possibly have invented it. Respect for the 
 memory of his mother would have forbidden 
 him to invent such a dress. Alas ! even
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT 77 
 
 respect for their mothers could not restrain 
 the sisters of the Community from inventing 
 this dress. And they designed it, treacher- 
 ously and wickedly, of set purpose to make 
 (but no one can) a lovely woman unattrac- 
 tive ; and (which any one can do) a plain 
 woman hideous. 
 
 One is ashamed to write down the details. 
 However, if it must be done — the dress con- 
 sisted of a bodice, made of some gray stuff, 
 and of a short, scanty skirt of the same 
 material ; the skirt reached just below the 
 knee, and then there became visible loose 
 trousers, also of the same material and also 
 short. Stout boots completed the costume 
 at that end. At the other the hair was cut 
 below the ears and pulled back. There was 
 no bright ribbon either for hair or for throat. 
 One small, very small concession to feminine 
 vanity was, that the sisters were allowed to 
 wear a brooch and to exercise their own 
 taste in choosing it. It is astonishing that a
 
 78 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 brooch was allowed at all when a common 
 safety-pin would have answered equally well. 
 The scantiness and the brevity of the skirts 
 forbade any sense of drapery : you cannot 
 get folds, or curves, or any grace of falling 
 drapery with only three feet in length to 
 work upon. 
 
 ' A truly wonderful face,' Gilbert observed. 
 ' It must indeed be sweet not to be spoiled 
 by such a hideous dress. Poor child !' 
 
 He shouldered his portmanteau and 
 followed his new sister. She led him out 
 of the hall into the grounds of the House. 
 This monastery did not follow the usual 
 disposition of a Benedictine house. There 
 was in it neither cloister, nor cloister garth, 
 nor chapel, nor scriptorium, nor misericordia, 
 nor library, nor chapter-house. There was 
 no beauty in the buildings ; no picturesque 
 effect in the grouping or in the gardens. 
 The House consisted simply of the central 
 hall, with a gaunt, wooden erection of four
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT 79 
 
 stones at either end. These contained the 
 sleeping-rooms for the members ; those of 
 the women at one end, and those of the men 
 at the other. Nothing could be simpler 
 than these buildings, or more hideous than 
 the square structures of wood painted a dull 
 yellow ; there were no creepers over the wall 
 to relieve the monotony ; there were no 
 flower-beds along the wall ; the houses rose 
 gaunt and hideous out of the bare ground. 
 Along the side of the hall, which had a 
 porch in the middle, ran a deep verandah, 
 and at the back of the verandah was a low 
 bench with a sloping back. 
 
 In front of the House stretched a broad 
 lawn, not too carefully kept, but still a 
 pleasant breadth of green ; a few flower-beds 
 were set at the edges ; a shrubbery or two 
 at the corners ; the flowers were chiefly roses 
 and lilies— in the month of May both roses 
 and lilies are beginning to put forth blossoms. 
 On the grass a small party were playing
 
 8o THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 croquet, but languidly, perhaps because the 
 sun, now sloping westward, was still hot ; 
 perhaps because they took little interest in 
 the game. Along the back of the lawn was 
 planted a fine avenue of shade trees, limes 
 and elms ; under these trees were benches. 
 On one side of the lawn was a vast garden 
 full of flowers, acres of flowers ; not planted 
 singly, as in a private garden, where each 
 rose bush is an object of solicitude, but in 
 patches and squares : here a square of roses 
 and there a square of lilies, and so forth — 
 evidently a flower farm. On the other side 
 stretched an equally large garden planted 
 with strawberries, raspberries, and all berries 
 that grow for the delectation of man, with 
 the vegetables which correct his carnivoracity 
 and keep him gentle — evidently a kitchen 
 garden. 
 
 All this, with the orchard, the pasture-land, 
 the coppice for firewood, the cornfield and the 
 rest of the fraternity farm, Gilbert discovered
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT 8i 
 
 gradually, not at that first view from the 
 porch. 
 
 On the other side of the House were the 
 offices — kitchen, scullery, pantry, dairy — a 
 huge place ; evidently a dairy which made 
 great quantities of butter and cheese and 
 cream ; some women were at work still, for 
 one cannot clear off dairy work every day by 
 twelve o'clock ; there were also the farm 
 buildings — barns, yards, sheds, implements 
 and machines ; pig-sties, cattle-pens, turkeys, 
 geese, ducks, and fowls ; beehives, ponds, 
 ricks — everything. And all well kept and 
 in order. The Community knew how to 
 farm, if they could do nothing more. One 
 can farm, we may remark, without books. 
 
 Besides the farm there were workshops. 
 These were now closed. Gilbert looked into 
 the windows. There was the carpenter's 
 shop, the blacksmith's shop, the shoemaker's 
 shop, and so on. The Community, there- 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 fore, made everything that they could for 
 themselves. 
 
 He remembered the words of the sage : 
 ' We must not think too much about work. 
 It is man's servant, not his master.' It was 
 the true monkish idea of work. One must 
 labour, not to produce fine work, artistic 
 work, not as if good work is an end in itself, 
 but in order to subjugate the body. For 
 this purpose, a walk over a ploughed field, 
 an hour's exercise with a spade, the digging 
 of a hole in order to fill it up again, is 
 sufficient and laudable. But since people 
 must eat, why not utilize the labour and 
 make it productive ? Nothing, therefore, 
 can be more highly recommended for 
 monastic purposes than a farm, an orchard, 
 and a garden. In the Carthusian Order 
 every monk had his own garden to himself. 
 The Master knew what was wanted when 
 he provided the House with a farm. 
 
 The place was very quiet. There was
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT 83 
 
 no sound of voices, yet women were at 
 work in the kitchens and in the dairy. 
 Did even the women refrain from conver- 
 sation ? 
 
 ' This,' said Cicely, opening the door of a 
 large wooden barn, ' is the wardrobe. If 
 you will go in there, you will find all you 
 want. I will wait for you.' 
 
 ' Strange,' Gilbert thought, as he looked 
 round the shelves in the wardrobe. * This 
 is the practical side of the monastery. Even 
 a monk must have a place to keep his things. 
 Did the Eremites in the desert have shelves 
 where they kept their Eremitic things ? Was 
 St. Francis particular about the folds of his 
 gray gown ? Was there a Monmouth Street 
 in the Solitudes ?' 
 
 He reserved further speculation on this 
 point, and proceeded to select the robes of 
 the Order. In a few minutes he emerged in 
 his new costume, which was simply a suit 
 of gray tweed, useful for working purposes.
 
 84 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 He carried the habits of Outside rolled up in 
 his portmanteau. 
 
 ' Now,' he said, ' I have taken the vows, 
 and been received, and I wear the robes. 
 They are convenient, if not beautiful. What 
 next, O my sister ?' 
 
 ' Now I will take you to your room.' 
 
 She led the way to the men's wing, and 
 ran lightly up the stairs to the top of the 
 house. There was a narrow passage on each 
 floor, with doors standing open on either 
 side. On the third floor the girl walked 
 along the passage to the very end. ' Num- 
 ber forty-one,' she said: 'that is your room. 
 Do not forget the number.' 
 
 Gilbert found himself in a little room about 
 ten feet square. It was simply furnished with 
 a small camp-bed, one chair, a washing-basin 
 with taps for letting in and letting off water, 
 a towel, two or three pegs on the wall for 
 hanging clothes, and a small cupboard with 
 shelves. No carpet ; no curtain ; no blind ;
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT 85 
 
 a single gas-jet without any glass. The 
 lower part of the window was painted over, 
 so as to avoid the necessity of a blind. There 
 was no lock or bolt on the door. On the 
 wall was hanging a card with the words, 
 ' Make your bed. Sweep out your room. 
 Brush your boots.' 
 
 ' Humph !' he said ; * it is small — it is like 
 a cell ; yet a monk has no reason to complain 
 of his cell.' 
 
 ' They are all exactly alike,' said the girl. 
 ' Ours in the other building are just the 
 same. What can one want more }' 
 
 ' Am I to give up my money and watch 
 and things ?' 
 
 ' Give them up ? Why ? They are of no 
 use to you or to anybody else. You may 
 throw them away if you like. We have no 
 use for money among ourselves.' 
 
 ' I think I will keep them. No one knows 
 of what use they may be some time or other.' 
 
 She began to turn over the things which
 
 86 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 he laid on the chest of drawers. ' Let me 
 look at them. What a pretty ring ! Is that 
 your coat-of-arms ? I have my father's coat- 
 of-arms, and a box full of rings and jewels 
 and things that belonged to my mother. I 
 keep them all because they were hers. Some 
 of us have things which we keep — some have 
 nothing. We do as we please. Some of 
 them say that rings are a hindrance, but I 
 don't think they matter.' 
 
 ' Not much, especially if you never wear 
 them.' 
 
 ' The brother who sleeps next to you keeps 
 things in a box. He is a bad man.' 
 
 She spoke like a child who reckons up a 
 king in history as a bad king or a good king, 
 without further discrimination. To the child, 
 as to Cicely, all wickedness is alike. 
 
 ' You look like a good man,' she said. ' If 
 you are, perhaps we may meet in the Hour 
 of Meditation. We often talk of meeting 
 each other in upward flights ; but I have
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT 87 
 
 never met with anybody yet except my dead 
 parents.' 
 
 Gilbert listened, and marvelled. The girl 
 gazed upon him, not boldly, but with clear 
 and candid look. ' You are not like any of 
 them,' she said. 'Your eyes are different. 
 You look good. I like your face and your 
 voice. But there is a burden upon your soul. 
 I do not know what kind of burden. Shake 
 it off, Brother Gilbert, and try to meet me in 
 the Hour of Meditation.' She laid her hand 
 upon his arm. ' Shake it off, I pray you. 
 Leave it behind you. Forget the Past — 
 forget the Past !' 
 
 Always the same refrain. He must for- 
 get the Past. How can a man forget the 
 Past? 
 
 He evaded the point. There was a burden. 
 Most likely the girl thought he had ' done 
 something' Outside. The burden he bore 
 was not, however, that which she meant or 
 could understand. He returned to the other
 
 88 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 man, the bad man, the man of the next 
 room. 
 
 * About the man who is bad. How do you 
 know that he is bad ?' 
 
 ' One can tell by looking at him. Besides, 
 he does not try to improve. He lives in the 
 Past always. We have no Past. It is all 
 present and future. Presently he will grow 
 tired of us and go away.' 
 
 ' What is the name of this bad man ?' 
 
 ' Charles — Brother Charles. He is an 
 Englishman, like you.' 
 
 ' Charles ! Charles ! Is his name Charles 
 Lee ?' 
 
 ' I do not know anybody's name. I dare 
 say he had some name Outside. He has 
 only been here a few weeks.' 
 
 ' Next to me ! He sleeps next to me ! It 
 must be the man.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' For he changed 
 colour, and showed signs of excitement. 
 
 ' Nothing. I may, perhaps — who knows ?
 
 THE MONASTIC HABIT 89 
 
 — be the humble means of making this bad 
 man feel sorry for certain things. He sleeps 
 next to me.' Gilbert looked into the next 
 cell. It was exactly like his own ; a port- 
 manteau, also like his own, stood in one 
 corner. ' Good !' he said : * we shall perhaps 
 find opportunities of conversation.'
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION. 
 
 At that moment Cling — clang — clash — broke 
 out the most discordant bell possible to 
 imagine — certainly the worst bell even in 
 this wide world of bad bells. 
 
 ' Good Lord !' cried Gilbert, ' what instru- 
 ment of torture is that ?' 
 
 * It is our bell. It rings for Restoration — 
 at eieht o'clock and one o'clock and six 
 o'clock. And it wakes us up in the morn- 
 ing.' 
 
 ' I can well believe that,' said Gilbert. 
 'This bell would wake the Seven Sleepers.' 
 
 ' Let us go in to Restoration, then. Your
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION 91 
 
 place will be next to me — I have you on one 
 side, and the other Englishman ' 
 
 ' Him of the badness ?' 
 
 * Yes — on the other side.' 
 
 ' Oh, I shall have to meet him — sit opposite 
 to him at Restoration — three times a day, 
 shall I ? Curious ! For how many days, I 
 wonder !' 
 
 The three long, narrow tables, which were 
 the principal furniture of the hall, were now 
 spread with tablecloths, not too white, for it 
 was near the end of the week, and laid with 
 dishes and plates. The Fraternity — brethren 
 and sisters — were all assembled in their 
 places ; they filled the benches, and were in 
 number about a hundred and twenty. There 
 was no grace or formality of any kind — 
 never was a monastery more free from rules, 
 not even the famous House of Thelema, on 
 the Loire. Each one as he arrived took his 
 seat, seized knife and fork, and without 
 further ceremony began to eat and to drink
 
 92 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 with zeal. Already, though the bell had 
 only just stopped, there was audible from all 
 parts of the hall the musical tinkle of knife 
 and plate. 
 
 On the platform one of the Community 
 played the piano. By his long fair hair, by 
 his blue eyes, by his beard, by his glasses, 
 he proclaimed himself a German. He played 
 extremely well ; soft, pleasant music, that 
 dropped upon the ears with soothing, not 
 stimulating, effect ; he improvised, he played 
 continuously : it was the pleasing custom of 
 the House to take this soft music with even- 
 ing Restoration, by way of preparing the 
 mind for what followed after. 
 
 'This is my place,' said the girl, taking 
 the end of the middle table nearest the door. 
 ' Sit here, Brother Gilbert, on my right. 
 This is Brother Charles, the only other 
 Englishman in the House.' 
 
 Gilbert started. He ought to have known 
 what to expect ; but the thing startled him.
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION 93 
 
 Imagine, in a Community full of country- 
 people, rustics, sitting down to a rude and 
 coarse supper of pork and steaks and other 
 such preparations, the arrival of a guest with 
 the manners and appearance of an aristocrat 
 of the finest and most finished and most 
 exclusive. In such a case one feels that it 
 is not always dress that makes the man. 
 This man — this Brother Charles — was 
 dressed like all the rest in the gray tweed : 
 the difference lay in his face and his manner. 
 All the West End was recalled by that face 
 and by that manner. 
 
 He came in last of all : he looked round 
 the room coldly, as a French noble would 
 look upon the canaille, as if they did not 
 exist ; his appearance, his manner, were 
 those of the ideal duke ; he bowed slightly 
 to Cicely, as one would acknowledge the 
 presence of a woman who is just not one's 
 servant ; and he stared in the customary in- 
 solently fixed gaze upon the new-comer.
 
 94 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 Then he took his seat and contemplated the 
 steak in front of him doubtfully. 
 
 'Brother Charles,' said Cicely, 'this is 
 Brother Gilbert — our new-comer.' 
 
 The man bowed slightly, but said nothing. 
 Gilbert changed colour. The time had 
 come, then, and the man. Before him sat 
 the man whom he had hunted for two years. 
 There he was — Sir Charles Osterley, Baronet, 
 late M.P., and sometime Under-Secretary of 
 State for the Fisheries. You have heard 
 that Gilbert had never met the man before 
 he had left the world in order to join the 
 devil. But he had heard of him, and he 
 knew the photographs and portraits of him : 
 a dark man, tall, slight and spare of figure, 
 pale, clean shaven, careful of dress, reserved 
 in manner, said to be serious in his views. 
 The man before him was tall, slight and 
 spare, clean shaven, pale, looking serious 
 and self-contained : so far there was no 
 change in him. As Gilbert looked, however,
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION 95 
 
 Brother Charles lifted his face. Then the 
 swift, suspicious glance showed that there 
 had been change : it was the look of the 
 hunted man, hiding in this home of Crankery, 
 where no one was likely to find him, asking 
 himself with sinking heart what a second 
 Englishman wanted in the place. It was 
 also the look of the hawk, relentless. With 
 the prophetic power which often accom- 
 panies a full knowledge of the circumstances, 
 Gilbert understood that searching look of 
 inquiry and suspicion ; and the hunted look ; 
 and the look of the hawk. ' They are fine 
 eyes,' he thought, ' keen eyes : they should 
 be beautiful eyes ; but . . .' He felt his 
 breast pocket. ' I have your portrait in my 
 pocket, Sir Charles Osterley,' but this he 
 did not say. ' When it was taken you were 
 supposed to be a gentleman of England. 
 Now you are undoubtedly a child of the 
 Devil.' 
 
 Then Brother Charles spoke, courteously
 
 g6 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 this time, but coldly. He had quite preserved 
 the old manner. In fact, it was his principal 
 asset. 
 
 'This is an agreeable surprise,' he said. 
 * One does not often meet with a countryman 
 in so secluded a spot. Have you been long 
 in the States ?' 
 
 ' About two years,' Gilbert replied. 
 
 ' Ah ! I have been here so long that I 
 have left off counting the years : my name 
 is Lee — Charles Lee.' 
 
 ' Mine is Maryon — Gilbert Maryon.' 
 
 'Maryon,' the other repeated — 'Maryon. 
 I have heard the name. You have the ap- 
 pearance of a gentleman.' 
 
 A dubious compliment. Perhaps he meant 
 to be insolent. 
 
 ' Why should I not have that appearance ? 
 You yourself. . . .' But remembering things, 
 he did not finish the sentence. 
 
 ' I mean only that it is unusual in this 
 House, so far as I have discovered.' He
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION g; 
 
 spoke coldly, with the manner of one who 
 converses with a secretary — that is, he spoke 
 as a master. 
 
 ' My father was an English gentleman,' 
 said Cicely, ' but we must not talk of such 
 distinctions in this House. Here we are all 
 alike ; we have nothing to think about but 
 Elevation. Otherwise we have no business 
 here. ' 
 
 She looked from one Englishman to the 
 other, comparing and wondering. One, she 
 knew, was a bad man : the other, she was 
 certain, was a good man. Yet they were 
 both gentlemen. 
 
 Brother Charles politely bowed his head, 
 with just the least, almost imperceptible, 
 sneer upon his lips, such as any courtly devil 
 might show on being invited to Elevation. 
 Then he lapsed into silence. 
 
 The supper was plentiful, but coarse ; the 
 dishes illustrated the observation of Brother 
 Charles as to the rank and station of the 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 gS THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 Brotherhood. There was pork and beans — 
 a favourite dish : Gilbert presently remarked 
 that it was exhibited at every-day Restora- 
 tion, morning, noon, and evening ; there were 
 steaks, but not exactly the kind of steak 
 which one can command in the City of 
 London : a tougher and thinner variety of 
 the delicacy ; and there was pie — pie open, 
 pie cross, and pie covered — that is to say, 
 pie in all its branches ; an abundance of pie. 
 Everything was put on the table at the same 
 time, and there were no waiters. Between 
 the dishes there were teapots and coffee-pots 
 and jugs of iced water. It never entered 
 into the head of any brother or sister that 
 one could possibly hanker after whisky : of 
 wine, probably not one in the room, except 
 the two Englishmen, had ever heard. 
 
 Gilbert looked round the hall, studying the 
 faces of his new friends. Alas ! he could not 
 disguise from himself the fact that they looked 
 common — very common. They were all feed-
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION gg 
 
 ing like cattle ; with avidity, seriousness, and 
 silence. There was neither speech nor 
 language among them. But, he reflected, if 
 you were to take all the members of the 
 House of Lords and dress them in a uniform 
 of gray tweed, and then attire their consorts 
 and their sisters and their daughters in the 
 most hideous costume ever designed, and, 
 lastly, cut off the feminine locks, you would 
 produce a common appearance, even among 
 those exalted beings. But lofty thoughts, 
 sacred thoughts, Meditation on things too 
 high for speech, ought to produce their effect 
 upon the face : they should stamp it, they 
 should refine it, however rugged may be the 
 first modelling. Except on the faces of the 
 Master and of Cicely, he could see no sign 
 of any such refining : the faces were common 
 — mostly vacuous, dull and common. Just 
 now, however, they were universally lit up 
 by eagerness after food. 
 
 They had already, as has been said, begun
 
 100 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 to break bread. Now, there is one test which 
 never fails : it is a touchstone, it is the spear 
 of Ithuriel Gilbert observed by application 
 of this test, which is that of table manners, 
 that the Community belonged apparently, 
 one and all, to what we call in this country 
 quite the lower middle class. 
 
 Well, one cannot expect an ideal Com- 
 munity such as this to attract the rich and 
 the luxurious. They would want such a 
 house to be directed by an Archbishop of 
 lenient disposition, and to contain none but 
 themselves, with a fine cellar and good cigars. 
 Among these people of the lower middle class 
 there would be gifts and graces, no doubt, as 
 yet unrevealed and unsuspected. The girl 
 who had taken him to his room, Sister 
 Cicely, was, he observed with satisfaction, 
 an exception. She possessed, apparently, the 
 refinement of a gentlewoman ; her father, she 
 said, was an English gentleman : she knew 
 how to sit, how to walk, how to speak, and
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION loi 
 
 how to approach the necessary subject of 
 food. Gilbert was never insensible to an 
 interesting person of the other sex : he 
 began to talk to her. 
 
 ' Is there,' he asked, 'a rule of silence, that 
 no one speaks ?' 
 
 'No,' she replied. 'There is no rule of 
 any kind in the House, except that we must 
 above all things respect Meditation.' 
 
 'Come,' Gilbert objected; 'you cannot 
 meditate while you are eating. Pork and 
 beans cannot possibly go with Meditation ' 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 ' You know nothing as yet, Brother Gilbert. 
 You have come from a world where there is 
 no Meditation.' 
 
 ' May I talk with you. Cicely, or are you 
 meditating ?' 
 
 ' You may talk with me if you like, but not 
 so loud, so as to disturb the others ; they may 
 be composing their minds by silence after 
 Restoration. You may go away if you like,
 
 102 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 but if you stay here you will very soon under- 
 stand that you must not talk. Nothing dis- 
 turbs the mind so much,' 
 
 * I remember the name of Maryon,' Brother 
 Charles said after a long pause. ' I have 
 heard of people named Maryon, but at 
 present I do not connect the name with any 
 person or family.' 
 
 Gilbert had given his own name boldly. 
 He thought that Dorabyn's husband must 
 have heard of him. He forgot, however, 
 that it was immediately after the honeymoon 
 of a week that the future Premier had begun 
 his depredations on his wife's property ; and 
 that the pair had then virtually separated. 
 Gilbert's name, in fact, had never been 
 mentioned between them. 
 
 ' I suppose,' he replied, 'that my name is 
 known well enough among my friends. Out- 
 side my own circle I see no reason why it 
 should be known. I have never, for instance, 
 distinguished myself in any way. Have you ?'
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION 103 
 
 The man winced visibly, and again shot a 
 glance of suspicion across the table. In this 
 frank-faced young Englishman he could see 
 nothing to warrant any suspicion. Yet, what 
 was he doing in this place ? 
 
 Gilbert turned to consider his neighbour 
 on his left. This, as he learned afterwards, 
 was a certain Brother Silas, a young man of 
 thirty or so. He was evidently a country- 
 man, a rustic of the American type, which is 
 not at all the English type ; he belonged to 
 the farming class, and was a man of Maine ; 
 his powers of working through Restoration 
 were prodigious : he uttered no words ; 
 when he wanted anything he just reached 
 across his neighbours and helped himself; 
 he drank tea with his pork and beans, and 
 coffee with his pie ; his table manners wanted 
 polish ; when he desisted for a moment and 
 raised his head Gilbert observed that his 
 features were naturally hard, but that his 
 soft and dreamy eyes took away the rugged
 
 104 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 look. In the course of a day or two Gilbert 
 learned to classify the Fraternity. There 
 was the soft and dreamy eye which belonged 
 to most ; there was the restless, unsatisfied 
 eye which belonged to some ; there was the 
 eye of sadness as for an unburied and unfor- 
 gotten Past, which was also found among 
 them ; and there was the wolfish eye, which be- 
 longed to Brother Charles and to nobody else. 
 Restoration ended, everyone rose — not to 
 say grace, but to reverse himself. They now 
 sat with their backs to the tables, and they 
 all assumed the same position ; they folded 
 their hands ; they inclined their heads slightly 
 backward — a position necessary unless they 
 wished to gaze in each other's faces ; the 
 men stretched out their feet. Then half a 
 dozen of the sisters, including Cicely — a duty 
 taken in turn — carried out the dishes and 
 cleared the tables and rolled up the table- 
 cloths. Some of the men lit the petroleum 
 lamps which hung against the wall. The
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION 105 
 
 musician ceased and silence fell upon the 
 place. Brother Charles leaned across the 
 table, 
 
 ' One is not obliged to stay,' he whispered. 
 ' I always go outside when the foolishness 
 begins. Come out and let us talk of London.' 
 
 ' I shall stay here,' Gilbert replied coldly. 
 
 Brother Charles rose and went out, and 
 came back no more. And then the Master 
 came walking softly down the lines of white 
 faces turned upward to the light of the lamps. 
 He stood beside Gilbert and spoke in a kind 
 of murmur. 
 
 * It is the hour of Meditation. It is the 
 hour which sanctifies the day.' 
 
 In these days everybody travels ; every- 
 body has seen everything, from nautch girls 
 to dervishes. But Gilbert had never seen, 
 or imagined, or heard of, or read of, anything 
 more remarkable and wonderful than the 
 thing which followed. 
 
 The bell rang, just one note and no more,
 
 io6 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 like the last note of the Angelus ; the musician 
 at the piano began to play again, more softly, 
 more dreamily. 
 
 Then, suddenly, upon the faces there fell, 
 as it were, a veil ; it wasn't really a veil, it 
 was the sudden withdrawal from nearly every 
 face of all the life and expression that lay in 
 it. The life went out of it ; the face became 
 vacuous ; it became rigid ; the people seemed 
 all to be dead, to be suddenly killed ; their 
 open eyes saw nothing ; through their parted 
 lips there passed no breath. 
 
 ' Good heavens !' cried the new-comer, 
 ' What are they doing now ?' 
 
 ' They meditate.' 
 
 ' Meditate ? They are all fallen into 
 trance !' 
 
 ' You have read, doubtless, or heard, of 
 miraculous trances and raptures of saints in 
 days gone by. You have perhaps scoffed at 
 them. It is the fashion of the day to dis- 
 believe what we cannot understand. But
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION 107 
 
 even the wisest man of science understands 
 nothing ; he only states a physical law and 
 calls it a cause. Scoff no more at these 
 stories. Here you behold a whole company 
 of a hundred and more who can, at will, fall 
 into this miraculous trance. There they sit, 
 and there, unknown to each other and to you, 
 they see visions, hear voices, and receive 
 instruction.' 
 
 'You hear voices?' he repeated, incredulous. 
 
 ' It is our miracle — our own — a special and 
 a wonderful gift, bestowed upon this Com- 
 munity alone. It is impossible to doubt the 
 blessing that rests upon us. You too will 
 presently fall under the holy influence. As 
 for me, I have reached to the level of the life 
 above, the next life. I converse with the 
 people whom I am soon to join. I see them 
 with spiritual eyes. Is not this a great and 
 wonderful gift ? But, to obtain it, you must 
 first forget the Past.' 
 
 ' It is indeed most wonderful.' Gilbert felt
 
 io8 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 himself half ready to fall into the same 
 trance. 
 
 The Master laid his hand upon the newly- 
 joined brother's shoulder. ' Join us,' he said. 
 ' Cease to think of the Past which belongs to 
 the world and to ambition. Fix your thoughts 
 upon the path that lies before. F^orget the 
 Past ; it is full of shadows : learn the realities 
 of life.' 
 
 So saying, he left him and walked back to 
 his place at the head of the central table, 
 where he occupied a wooden armchair. As 
 he sat down, immediately there fell upon his 
 face the white, fixed, vacuous look of trance. 
 Gilbert looked about him. Not all the faces, 
 he now perceived, wore this look of fixed 
 vacuity ; in a few there were signs of imper- 
 fect wakefulness. Not all of them, then, 
 possessed this strange power completely. 
 As for himself, Gilbert felt like a sleepy man 
 who cannot sleep for thinking of things. 
 He was very near unto trance. His thoughts
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION 109 
 
 were wandering beyond control. He was 
 back in his London chambers ; he was 
 listening to Dorabyn's wretched story ; he 
 was hunting down the man whom he had 
 caught at last ; he was wondering, not what 
 he should do, but how he should do it — and 
 when. He knew very well indeed what had 
 to be done. He had sworn to give Dorabyn 
 her freedom. In what way ? There is but 
 one way in such a case as this. Gilbert knew 
 very well what had to be done. Now that 
 the time for doing it drew near he felt no 
 hesitations and no fears ; he was no longer 
 anxious, but he was naturally excited, and 
 the villainous eyes of the man — the seal upon 
 his front — only strengthened his purpose. 
 
 Such reflections, however, interfered with 
 the conditions of mental repose necessary for 
 trance. So, like the sleepy man who cannot 
 sleep, he only grew more restless every 
 moment. 
 
 He got up and walked softly along the
 
 no THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 lines of sleepers ; he peered into their faces : 
 they moved not nor took the least notice ; 
 the open eyes did not blink though he passed 
 his hand over them ; the partly-wakeful ones 
 only shut their eyes impatiently. 
 
 As he passed along he became aware that 
 they all resembled each other. You know 
 that if you regard a flock of sheep collectively 
 you say that they are all alike ; when you 
 take them individually you find that they 
 are all different. Yet your first impression 
 was right, because they all have the same 
 face with little variations. So, if a man 
 dwells in a monastery he presently assumes 
 the monastic face, whatever that may be. 
 These people all had the same face, col- 
 lectively. Individually they exhibited the 
 ordinary variations : there was the oval face, 
 the round face, the square face, and the long 
 face ; there were the faces of the horse, the 
 lion, the snake, the fox, the hog, the crocodile 
 and the lamb. Somehow, no doubt because
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION iii 
 
 of the trance, Gilbert failed to find the 
 spiritual face. Yet the Master, before he 
 dropped into his rapture, had that face. The 
 face of the Community, corresponding to the 
 face of the flock, was, Gilbert had already 
 observed, a common face. Now, a man may 
 wear any expression he pleases ; he may be 
 as ugly as he pleases — no one will blame 
 him ; but he must not look common ; and 
 the collective face was undoubtedly of the 
 common type. 
 
 The German musician went on playing ; 
 he played as if he were himself in a trance. 
 His face, too, was fixed ; he played louder 
 and more inspiring music : a march ; a war 
 song ; a hymn of triumph. 
 
 Then one of the brothers — one of those 
 with the wakeful eyes — arose and stepped 
 upon the platform ; one of the sisters 
 followed ; then another brother and another 
 sister, till there were ten or a dozen of them. 
 They stood in silence ; not laughing or
 
 112 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 smiling ; in awkward and clumsy attitudes. 
 They spoke not, nor smiled ; they were 
 perfectly grave. They took places in a 
 procession two by two, and bending forward 
 with outstretched hands, an attitude as un- 
 graceful as could be well imagined, they 
 began a kind of rhythmic walk round ; not 
 that boisterous, cheerful, self-asserting walk 
 round that used to be seen in the burlesques 
 of thirty years ago, but a meek, shuffling, 
 shambling tramp, whose only recommenda- 
 tion was that it was true to time. 
 
 ' This is the exercise mentioned by the 
 Master,' observed Gilbert. ' A man can 
 lift his soul by means of music ; a little more 
 of that man's playing would carry me out of 
 myself; but to tramp with heavy boots 
 round and round a stage . . . perhaps I 
 shall do it in a day or two.' 
 
 The music grew louder and faster ; the 
 tramp of the feet grew noisier ; but the faces 
 of those who danced or tramped remained
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION 113 
 
 the same — white in the lamplight, silent, 
 expectant. They were dancing themselves 
 into a condition of complete trance. One 
 by one they dropped out and fell back into 
 their seats, and the light went out of their 
 open eyes. 
 
 A most astonishing dance. Gilbert looked 
 to see the performers fall into some kind of 
 ecstasy and whirl round like the dancing 
 dervishes whom he had seen at Damascus. 
 No, the dance was sufficient in itself, dull 
 and monotonous as it was. Presently the 
 last man left off tram{)ing round and stepped 
 off the platform. 
 
 Then the musician changed his time. 
 Heavens ! he was playing one of Strauss's 
 most delightful waltzes — a thing which made 
 the senses swim, partly with the recollection 
 of it, partly with the suggestion of it. All 
 that love contains of joy and rapture was in 
 that waltz. He knew it well, and the world 
 to which it belonged came back to him with 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 a rush. And it seemed only natural and a 
 thing to be expected when the girl Cicely 
 sprang upon the platform and began to 
 dance all by herself. Nobody saw her ; 
 nobody looked at her, except Gilbert ; and 
 of his presence she seemed unaware. She 
 danced, being self-taught, with neither model 
 to copy nor master to teach nor audience to 
 applaud, a kind of skirt-dance without the 
 long skirts. She had taken off her heavy 
 boots, and was in slippers. The sight of 
 her dancing was like the cool shadow of a 
 great rock, like a long draught to a thirsty 
 throat, like smooth water after a storm. It 
 was a marvel and a delight to mark the 
 exquisite grace of this girl's gestures, the free 
 carriage of her arms, the suppleness of her 
 limbs, the flexible movements of her figure, 
 the ordered movement of her feet. Where 
 had she learned it ? She had that ineffable 
 charm of the born dancer, who, with every 
 step, seems to express some thought suggested
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION 115 
 
 by the music ; she surrendered herself to the 
 music ; she obeyed it ; she followed it. 
 
 ' This,' said Gilbert, ' is the most truly 
 wonderful thing of any. And not one turns 
 his head to look at her !' 
 
 That, however, was not wonderful, because 
 in this kind of trance you may fire a cannon 
 beside the patient, or you may cut him into 
 small pieces with blunt knives, but you will 
 not awaken him. So none of these sleepers 
 had the least knowledge of the music or the 
 dancing. 
 
 Next, the one-man audience observed that 
 this danseiLse was dancing entirely for her- 
 self. You know the threefold smile of the 
 professional — that on her entrance, that with 
 which she vanishes, and the fixed smile with 
 which she performs. Imagine a dancer with- 
 out any smile at all, utterly unconscious of 
 her audience : such was this dancer. 
 
 Suddenly she threw up her arms, and, 
 with a cry — an exultant cry — she whirled
 
 ii6 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 round with swiftly twinkling feet — faster, 
 faster, faster. 
 
 ' It's splendid !' said the audience, longing 
 to applaud. 
 
 Then she stopped suddenly, and, lightly 
 stepping off the stage, took her seat, and 
 became instantly entranced. The musician 
 stopped, and there was silence ; and in this 
 goodly company of a hundred and more this 
 stranger was the only one not in the trance 
 which the Master called Meditation. 
 
 ' What are they thinking about ?' he asked. 
 ' They can't all hear voices and see visions. 
 Perhaps the girl heard voices while she 
 danced. She is a heaven-sent genius ; she 
 is inspired. With that lovely face, with 
 that divinely-graceful step, surely, surely, if 
 there were any voices to be heard, she would 
 hear them. But what a dress ! what a 
 dress !' 
 
 If you come to think about it, we have, as 
 the Master said, lost the power of Meditation.
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION 117 
 
 No living European can concentrate his gaze 
 and his thoughts upon his great toe and con- 
 tinue in abstracted Meditation for days or 
 years together. Formerly we had recluses 
 who thus meditated, lost to the outer world ; 
 they had to, or they would have been un- 
 happy in the long winter days and nights 
 when no one came to see them. We had 
 hermits, too, but they were more sociable. 
 The Carthusian, neither hermit nor anchorite, 
 meditated a good deal. Nowadays, however, 
 no one meditates at all — unless it be a novelist 
 over a plot or a mathematician over a pro- 
 blem. We call it Meditation when we sit 
 with a pen in hand, or when we walk alone, 
 or when we are reading : we fix our thoug-hts 
 elsewhere, while the eye, unheeded, runs 
 mechanically over the page. I once knew a 
 boy who meditated much because he had to 
 go to church much ; his Meditations began 
 and ended with the sermon. Gilbert, how- 
 ever, had never in his life set himself to
 
 ii8 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 meditate, and he wondered, very naturally, 
 what the thing might mean. 
 
 All kinds of questions might be asked 
 about this trance. Did they carry on this 
 kind of thing every night ? Did they really 
 advance themselves, elevate their souls, in 
 this wonderful way ? Did they really get 
 visions, hear voices, see things, while they 
 were in trance ? Would this one - man 
 audience, without any volition on his part, 
 become, if he stayed long enough, a per- 
 former with the rest — perhaps to tramp 
 round with the grace and agility of a 
 rhinoceros ? 
 
 All in silence : there was no sound at all ; 
 no one coughed ; no one breathed ; there 
 was no scraping of a restless foot. The rows 
 of white faces turned up to the light of the 
 petroleum lamps were as still and motionless 
 as the dead — only one man of them all left 
 alive, only one to count the dead ; the place 
 seemed a tomb. Gilbert felt as if he must
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION 119 
 
 fly from it into the open air under the stars. 
 To be sitting in the company of a hundred 
 dead men and women, yourself alive, is 
 terrible. Still he stayed on, looking for the 
 return to life. 
 
 It was about seven when they ' went off.' 
 At nine the Master moved, sat up, stood up, 
 and the light of life came back to his face 
 and eyes. At the same moment all the rest 
 with one consent sat up and breathed again. 
 Then they rose, and, without the formalities 
 of wishing each other good-night— 'twas a 
 House without any manners — they separated 
 into two companies of men and women, and 
 so filed out of the hall by the two doors which 
 led respectively to the men's and the women's 
 wing. Gilbert held back ; he was left alone 
 with the Master. 
 
 'You have seen,' said the latter, 'the way 
 in which we spend our evenings. To-morrow 
 you yourself will, perhaps, feel the gracious 
 influence of the place. Sometimes there are
 
 120 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 exercises ; perhaps there have been some 
 to-night.' 
 
 * There was dancing. Did you not hear 
 or see, then ?' 
 
 * I neither hear nor see ; I am carried 
 out of myself. Remember, we are each for 
 himself. What everyone does, he does for 
 himself. The soul is absolutely alone in the 
 world. If any wants to dance, let him — it is 
 for himself. As in a march some walk and 
 some run, some ride, some lag behind, some 
 are driven, some press on in front, so in this 
 House, some possess, like myself, the gift of 
 voluntary trance, and some must stir the 
 sluggish soul. But, Brother Gilbert, forget 
 the Past.' 
 
 So the Master passed out, and Gilbert 
 sought his cell. The gas was alight in every 
 room, and there was the sound as of the 
 taking off of boots ; the brothers were all 
 going to bed. 
 
 But the room next to his own — tliat
 
 RESTORATION AND MEDITATION 121 
 
 of Brother Charles — was dark and empty. 
 Where was Brother Charles ? 
 
 Gilbert was excited by the adventures of 
 the day ; he rolled about unable to sleep. It 
 was about two in the morning when he heard 
 footsteps on the stairs — soft footsteps. They 
 came along the corridor ; they passed his 
 room ; they stopped at the next room — that 
 of Brother Charles. He sat up and listened. 
 To-morrow — nay, that day — the ordeal by 
 battle should decide. He smiled to think of 
 it : he had no fear. Meantime, what mischief 
 had that saintly brother been about, that he 
 should get up to his room four hours after the 
 rest of the college ? Would the gate porter 
 take down his name ? Would the Dean 
 send for him ? Would he be gated or 
 rusticated before the duello? He fell asleep 
 again before he found an answer to these 
 questions, and dreamed of the dancing-girl.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE. 
 
 At half past five in the morning the Bell 
 Terrible awoke and began to clash and clang 
 with such discordancies that every man, 
 woman, child, and pig, sprang headlong out 
 of bed, as if obedience would quiet it. 
 Gilbert, who in dreams was in the neigh- 
 bourhood of St. James's, returned with 
 violent haste to the House of Meditation, 
 and remembered suddenly not only where 
 he was, but also why he was there. And 
 his eyes saw red. 
 
 There was no shrinking or hesitation in 
 Gilbert's mind. He intended, with all
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE 123 
 
 seriousness, to rid the earth of a man in 
 order to bring freedom to a woman. This 
 he would do out of the great reverence and 
 worship which he entertained for this woman. 
 Yet one must not, even in such a cause as 
 this, commit common and brutal murder. 
 Therefore there might be either the duel 
 until one is killed — nobody calls that murder 
 — after the good old fashion, or there might 
 be the duel after the Western fashion, in 
 which each man poes armed with the under- 
 
 o 
 
 standing that each may fire at sight. What 
 would the Master say to such an arrange- 
 ment ? There was another method still — 
 but Gilbert put this aside. How if the man 
 refused the duello ? One cannot always 
 compel another to become a target. Well ! 
 the police were looking for him. There was 
 a long list of crimes. If one were driven to 
 the thing — it was not a pretty thing — there 
 might be submitted a plain offer, an alterna- 
 tive — either arrest and trial on many charges,
 
 124 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 imprisonment, probably for life ; or the simple 
 duel unto death, with the equal risk for both 
 men. Which ? 
 
 Gilbert dropped his revolver into his breast- 
 pocket. He had to deal with an unknown 
 quantity ; things might be rushed upon him : 
 the man evidently suspected him. He would 
 wait, if possible, for a day or two, and see 
 more of this Community. 
 
 The decision was like a reprieve. His 
 eyes ceased to see red ; he remembered the 
 duties of the House ; he made his bed, 
 brushed his boots, swept out his room, and 
 went downstairs and into the open. In the 
 clear, strong light of the early morning — the 
 sunrise in May is not so early there as here 
 — he observed how beautifully the House, 
 so hideous in itself, was situated. Behind it 
 stretched the Berkshire hills, a lovely range 
 covered with woods ; a broad and shallow 
 stream, clear, bright, and evidently filled with 
 fish, ran winding through the estate ; corn-
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE 125 
 
 fields, meadows, orchards, coppice, covered 
 the ground ; only the ugly buildings — the 
 workshops and sheds and farm buildings, 
 the engine-room— all the places, which in 
 Enofland would have been venerable and 
 beautiful with thatch and ivy and gables and 
 windows, marred the scene. Already the 
 tramp of heavy boots on the stairs showed 
 that most of the men were up and going 
 out to work. They were moving slowly 
 and singly, not in pairs, towards the work 
 shops. He was to work for his living as 
 well. What work would he be expected 
 to do ? 
 
 Not knowing what to do or where to 
 apply, he repaired, as one of the unemployed, 
 to the hall. There he saw the Master sitting 
 at the end of the table, quite alone, with 
 books — the account- books of the House — 
 spread out before him. Even in a monastery 
 these must be kept — the hard, practical, 
 matter-of-fact books of expenditure and
 
 126 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 receipt. The House, like every other place, 
 was run as a matter of business. It had to 
 pay expenses. I suppose that it was a shock 
 to the recluse, when he entered his hermitage 
 and took possession, to learn that, after all, it 
 had to pay expenses. Living costs at least 
 so much, however much one may macerate. 
 And even the hermit has got, somehow, from 
 somebody, to get that amount as a minimum 
 in cash or in kind. 
 
 Gilbert stood before the Master like a 
 schoolboy waiting for a task. 
 
 The Master looked up. The prophetic 
 light was gone. He was engaged in the 
 daily task of ascertaining that both ends met. 
 It was a prosperous Community ; there was 
 even a margin. But there were branches 
 which did not pay ; and these irritated the 
 Master. This occupation robbed him of his 
 dignity : he now looked like an old clerk, 
 say, in a country brewery, where the clerks 
 are not expected to wear black cloth coats ;
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE 127 
 
 he seemed to be one who had done nothing 
 all his life but add up figures. 
 
 ' You want work, do you ?' he said irritably. 
 ' It's more than some of them seem to want, 
 then. I hope you mean to work, Brother 
 Gilbert ; you can't meditate all day long. 
 It's against the spirit of the House. And it 
 isn't fair on the others.' 
 
 ' I understood yesterday that work is to be 
 a servant and not a master.' 
 
 ' Certainly. But while you work, remem- 
 ber that you are not at play. You work 
 partly to subdue and fatigue the body, partly 
 to occupy the mind, partly — which some 
 seem to forget — to keep the House going. 
 Well ! what can you do ? You have the 
 look of a gentleman.' Certainly the Master 
 looked and spoke with greater dignity as a 
 Prophet. 'Well, I suppose you can do 
 nothing except go out with a gun to kill 
 God's creatures. That is all the English 
 gentleman of my time could do.'
 
 128 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 ' I do not know any trade, to be sure ; but 
 you have a large garden. I think I might 
 be of some use in the garden. Or, if not in 
 the garden, I beHeve I understand something 
 about horses.' 
 
 ' Oh ! You are a gardener .'*' 
 
 Gilbert did not set him right. Why should 
 he } The Master had been so long out of 
 the world that he had forgotten most things. 
 
 'Well, I'm glad to hear it. The other 
 Englishman here — Brother Charles — who 
 was also a gentleman once, and is now — 
 something else, whatever he is, cannot do 
 anything at all. 1 was brought up to the 
 turnery trade myself, before I became a 
 preacher in the Baptist connection where I 
 first found light. Whenever I do any work 
 now I always go back to the old trade. I 
 was a good worker once — very good. Very 
 well, you shall go into the garden. I am 
 glad to find that you are not a gentleman. 
 We don't want fine gentlemen here. Yet
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE 129 
 
 you've just the same manner as my good and 
 worthy friend, Cicely's father, who was my 
 eadiest disciple. And he was a gentleman. 
 You might have been too proud for the 
 Community. My dear friend and brother, 
 in spite of his faith, found it difficult to re- 
 member that we are all equal here.' 
 ' I will try to remember the equality.' 
 'As for me,' the Master continued; 'it is 
 my daily work to keep the accounts. I am 
 too old to need Fatigue. We've got a farm 
 and a garden and workshops : we grow and 
 make all we want, except our tea and coffee 
 and a few other things ; we sell everything 
 that is over to get these simple luxuries — 
 which are really necessaries. The body, 
 you see, must be kept satisfied and in good 
 temper — if possible without pain — while the 
 soul inhabits it. Those who practise austeri- 
 ties and privations become mere slaves to a 
 tortured body. Pain is a hindrance. They 
 think it is a help ; the more they suffer the 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 better they think themselves. We cultivate 
 painlessness. So that we work in order to 
 exercise the body ; yet work, as I told you 
 last night, must be a servant, not a master. 
 And temptation comes in there, as well, 
 because one may fall into the habit of 
 slovenly work, or one may become lazy. 
 And we have to live by our work.' 
 
 Gilbert sat down beside him. 
 
 ' Tell me more,' he said, * about the House 
 — how you live and how you get on.' 
 
 The Master pushed away his books with 
 alacrity and leaned back in his chair, folding 
 his hands, as becomes one who is going to 
 tell a story. And Authority returned to 
 him. 
 
 'It is pleasant,' he said, 'to remember 
 how we have grown and from what we have 
 sprung, I told you that I was in the turnery 
 trade, at first, in Clerkenwell ; little as you 
 would think it now. I got conviction and 
 entered the ministry — a Baptist connection it
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE 131 
 
 was — and I had a call. There I received 
 
 the Hght ' 
 
 * How did it come ?' 
 
 ' As light always comes, with a sudden 
 flash. Of course they wouldn't have me any 
 longer. I wanted to convert the service of 
 song and prayer and preaching into Medita- 
 tion ; they could not understand Meditation 
 — so I had to go. Then I made the 
 acquaintance of those two shining ones, 
 Cicely's parents ' — he cast his eyes upwards 
 as if he saw them. Doubtless he did see 
 them. ' They joined me, and we came here 
 to lead by ourselves the Life of Meditation.' 
 * So that was how you began.' 
 ' That was twenty years ago. I had just 
 those two disciples, Cicely's parents. Her 
 father bought the land. He had brought 
 over enough money for that ; the rest he left 
 behind for anybody to take who chose. We 
 put up a log hut and we began. . . .' He 
 paused. ' Ah 1 That beginning !'
 
 132 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 * You suffered privations ?' 
 
 ' We had no money : we had a hard struggle 
 — my two disciples, man and wife — and I : we 
 cleared the ground, we grew things, we lived 
 on bread and potatoes with a little bacon ; I 
 went back to my turnery ; he made traps and 
 such notions, and peddled them. Then the 
 baby came. That is the girl Cicely — my 
 daughter, as I call her. The mother died — 
 I think the hard life killed her ; but the baby 
 thrived. And her father died, but only four 
 or five years ago. In Meditation I can see 
 them both, every day : I converse with them, 
 I share their happiness, I am mounting with 
 them side by side. Otherwise I should desire 
 to go hence and be no more seen.' The 
 strange light that they used to call En- 
 thusiasm returned to his eyes, and continued 
 there. ' We got on,' he continued. ' Every- 
 thing began to prosper with us. The bless- 
 ing of increase lay upon our fields and our 
 gardens like the sunshine of this beautiful
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE 133 
 
 land. Our little homestead grew ; we 
 attracted people, the report and fame of us 
 went about the world ; here was a Community 
 aiming solely at the Perfect Life, refusing to 
 take money except for their needs, living in 
 equality, despising the toys of Outside ; in 
 such a country as this, where the people are 
 naturally inclined to religion, and yet are 
 prone to fall into money-getting, the example 
 is wholesome ; and in a country like this of 
 political equality, such a Community is sure 
 to attract. 
 
 * So they came : they were curious at first, 
 not being able to understand the contempt of 
 wealth ; but some remained. You are curious ; 
 you want to be pleased with us ; but there are 
 things which you do not understand. Wait 
 in patience for a little. Our people are free 
 to depart, but they remain. Nowhere else 
 have they the same freedom from care. 
 Some of us have been city clerks, hard- 
 worked and badly paid, always in anxiety
 
 134 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 about the daily bread ; here we have no such 
 anxiety. Some have been tormented while 
 in the world by ambition and disappointment, 
 here there are no ambitions ; some by injury 
 and wrong' — Gilbert changed colour — 'here 
 there are no such emotions. Some have 
 fallen into habits of vice, drunkenness, 
 gambling, and I know not what ; here there 
 are no temptations. You have yourself 
 doubtless found some of these hindrances in 
 the world.' 
 
 ' Truly.' 
 
 ' Well, everybody works at something ; 
 there is a town three or four miles away 
 which takes all we have to sell ; we have a 
 name for honesty and good work ; people 
 who buy our jam don't get glucose and they 
 don't get parsnips. A good name for thorough 
 honesty is worth something, I can tell you.' 
 
 ' I suppose so.' 
 
 ' We have no rent to pay, no wages, no 
 partners, no servants ; we only have to keep
 
 LARORARE EST ORARE 135 
 
 ourselves. I have calculated that if every- 
 one earned — over and above what we con- 
 sume for ourselves — two dollars and a half 
 every week, we should manage very well. 
 But it is difficult to get this average of work 
 out of them. Some of them, if they could, 
 would be for ever meditating. We do not 
 want money — I desire never to see money in 
 the House. What we cannot exchange we 
 put into a bank and exchange from that place.' 
 
 The Master in his simplicity could not 
 understand that having money in a bank was 
 exacdy the same thing as having it in the 
 House. 
 
 ' Have you any money, young man?' 
 
 * Yes : that is, there may be a litde, some- 
 where.' He coloured slightly, being a young 
 man of great possessions. 
 
 ' Leave it there. Never ask after it — let 
 it go. That is what my first disciples did. 
 They just left their money behind them.' 
 
 T thought of offering a gift of money to
 
 136 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 the House,' said Gilbert. ' I fear, however, 
 that it would not be accepted.' 
 
 ' It would not. Go, instead, and work. 
 Young man, there is something, I know not, 
 standing between you and the gate of the 
 Upward Path. Until that obstacle is re- 
 moved I fear that Meditation will be im- 
 possible for you. Go now and work.' 
 
 He sighed, drew the books down again ; 
 obviously resisted a powerful temptation to 
 meditate ; and became again the clerk and 
 accountant. 
 
 Outside, work was now going on in full 
 swing. Gilbert looked into the workshops, 
 where a great number of industries were 
 carried on, the most important appearing to 
 be the turning of chair legs. There were, 
 however, many other trades : there were dress- 
 makers, sempstresses, shoemakers, saddlers, 
 carpenters, upholsterers, bookbinders, deco- 
 rators, turners, cabinet-makers ; and others. 
 Some of them worked listlessly, even sitting
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE 137 
 
 beside their work, with hanging hands and 
 eyes far away ; they were the spirits who 
 would fain pass their whole time in the trance 
 which they called Meditation ; others worked 
 steadily, after the manner of good and trained 
 workmen ; others, again, worked by fits and 
 starts, feverishly ; these were the restless, 
 unsatisfied souls, those who had to dance in 
 order to invite the sleep of Meditation. 
 
 No one spoke to his neighbour ; there was 
 the whirr of the engine from the engine-room ; 
 there was the sound of the work itself ; there 
 was the click of the tools ; but there was no 
 voice. No one spoke. It was like a Car- 
 thusian House, save that there was no Rule. 
 If you think of it, to those who never read, 
 who have no connection with the outer world ; 
 to whom there comes no news of the outer 
 world ; who have no longer brothers or 
 sisters, parents, or enemies, or friends ; who 
 try to bury and forget the Past ; who use no 
 form of prayer and have no litanies to chant
 
 138 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 and no services to attend ; to whom one day- 
 is like another, save that one may be cold 
 and one may be hot ; to these people there is 
 nothing to talk about. Why should they 
 talk ? In a Benedictine monastery there are 
 the ambitions and the offices of the house ; 
 here there are no offices and no ambitions. 
 
 Nobody appeared to notice him : one 
 expects, in such a house, a flocking of the 
 members to the new-comer, if only to con- 
 gratulate him upon his arrival or to ask why 
 he has come, or what news he brings from 
 the outer world, or if it is true, as reported, 
 that the devil is dead. There was no notice 
 taken of him at all. 
 
 He left the workshops and looked round 
 the farmyard, and was enabled to understand 
 why his neighbour. Brother Silas, suggested 
 that occupation at supper. He repaired to 
 the scene of his labours. He was to be a 
 gardener. 
 
 Of all human occupations gardening is by
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE 139 
 
 far the most interesting. The gardener not 
 only cultivates the soil, making it produce 
 delicious peaches, strawberries, plums and 
 pears, apples and quinces ; radishes and 
 cabbages ; roses and lilies ; corn and barley ; 
 but he also cultivates many most useful 
 human faculties — such as patience, self- 
 sacrifice, observation, perseverance, memory, 
 forethought and many other things. It is 
 not without meaning that Adam is said to 
 have been a gardener. For my own part, I 
 have never been able to understand why 
 kings and the great ones of the earth, who 
 have often become watchmakers, carpenters, 
 cabinet-makers, chemists, poets and painters, 
 have never become gardeners. They always 
 have a garden of their own — yea, a back 
 garden and a front garden ; they have every 
 opportunity of self-improvement by means of 
 the garden ; yet so far as we have got in 
 history the kings and the great ones of the 
 earth have neglected that opportunity.
 
 140 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 The gardens covered a large area ; there 
 were flower- farms, kitchen-farms, and fruit- 
 farms. It was the month of May, when 
 things are growing and blossoming, and 
 ripening fast. The splendid sun of America 
 warmed the buds and flowers through and 
 through ; it never fails; our own summers 
 grow cold and wet for twenty years on end ; 
 but in the States the summer sun fails not, 
 any more than the winter ice and snow. In 
 the gardens were employed a good many of 
 the members, men and women. Like the 
 men in the workshops, they spoke not at all 
 to each other. 
 
 With a hoe in his hand, which he held as 
 one who never brandished that instrument 
 before. Brother Charles stood over a piece of 
 ground. Now and then he stuck his hoe into 
 the earth ; for the most part he gazed at his 
 work with a kind of loathing. Never was 
 disgust written upon human face more 
 plainly.
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE 141 
 
 Not far from him the girl Cicely was at 
 work among the rose-bushes. Presently she 
 drew nearer to the man with the hoe. Now, 
 he was exactly the opposite of Bunyan's man 
 with the muck-rake ; for Bunyan's friend 
 raked with zeal with his eyes cast down, 
 but this man did not rake at all — he looked 
 upwards and sidewards and forwards and 
 backwards, and every way but downwards. 
 Had there been an angel hovering over him 
 with a crown of gold he would certainly have 
 seen that angel and would have proposed a 
 game of dearth, with that crown as the stake. 
 
 ' Brother Charles,' said Cicely firmly, 'that 
 is not the way to handle a hoe. See — I will 
 show you. I am sure you can learn if you 
 choose. If you do not like gardening there 
 are many other things to do. You can go 
 into the farm-yard.' 
 
 ' No. no — I like gardening.' 
 
 ' You are doing nothing at all to-day ; you 
 did nothing yesterday. If you go on idling,
 
 142 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 the Committee will criticise you. It is a 
 dreadful thing for the Committee to criticise 
 you. You never remain at the hour of 
 Meditation. Perhaps they would not so 
 much mind that, for a time ; but we cannot 
 keep with us a man who will not work and 
 does not wish to meditate.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it is because I am restless.' 
 
 ' Perhaps. You are always thinking over 
 your Past. Can you not forget it ? It is a 
 terrible Past, I know — I can see so much 
 in your face. Will you always be tied and 
 bound by your Past ?' 
 
 The man dropped his eyes. ' Never mind 
 my Past,' he said huskily. 
 
 ' There is the Present — here. And the 
 Future — where you please.' 
 
 * Where I please,' he echoed. ' Yes, where 
 I please.' 
 
 ' Why do you stay with us ?' 
 
 ' For Elevation, I suppose,' he replied, 
 with an ugly sneer ; ' like the rest.'
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE 143 
 
 * It will be difficult,' thought Gilbert, 
 looking on, ' to persuade this man to adopt 
 an honourable and happy despatch.' 
 
 Cicely left him and turned to meet Gil- 
 bert. 
 
 ' You are going to work in the garden ?' 
 she said, with a smile of welcome on her 
 sweet and serious face. 
 
 If she had looked ethereal in her dance 
 last night, she was even more lovely among 
 the flowers in the morning sunshine. How 
 came this flower here among these common 
 vegetables ? 
 
 ' Oh ! I am so pleased,' she went on 
 simply. ' You will work with me. Perhaps 
 I can help you a little, because you are 
 strange to us. And no work, I always 
 think, is half so good for us in this Com- 
 munity as gardening. We are out every 
 day under the sky, and among the things 
 that grow and blossom for us, we have no 
 temptation to think of the past. Sometimes
 
 144 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 the hours pass and I feel as if it had been 
 one long Meditation.' 
 
 ' Without any dancing ?' 
 
 ' You saw me last night ? Dancing helps 
 me.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but you dance most beautifully. 
 Who taught you ?' 
 
 ' No one. I have always danced. But I 
 cannot dance with the others. To-night if 
 you try to meditate you will not be able to 
 see me dancing. If it is any hindrance to 
 you I will not dance.' 
 
 ' I would much rather see you dance than 
 go off into Meditation.' 
 
 ' Brother Gilbert ' — she laid her hand upon 
 his arm, not timidly, nor yet boldly, but 
 without any hesitation or any blushes — ' do 
 not speak of our Meditation until you under- 
 stand it. I should like you to remain with 
 us. You remind me, somehow, of my father : 
 you speak like him, with the same soft voice 
 — he had a very sweet voice ; and you look
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE 145 
 
 like him, thoughtful, with deep eyes — only 
 yours are troubled,' 
 
 * I am glad to be like your father, 
 Cicely.' 
 
 ' Yes. But you have not attained to his 
 heights.' She withdrew her hand, and over 
 her face there fell something of the strange, 
 rapt, far-off look which Gilbert had observed 
 in the Master. ' He has risen so high — so 
 high — whither I cannot reach. My mother 
 is with him. They come down to meet me 
 every day and talk to me.' 
 
 ' Cicely !' cried Gilbert, * come back to 
 earth. Tell me,' he said, after a pause, 
 'are there many people in this House like 
 you and the Master .-^ Do you all see 
 visions and have dreams ?' 
 
 ' I do not know. We live every one for 
 himself Only the Master talks to me. Some- 
 times I know what he sees and where he 
 goes. For my own part, at Meditation time 
 I sit with my father and my mother and they 
 
 VOL. I. lO
 
 146 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 speak to me. I will ask them to help you, if 
 you will try.' 
 
 * If I will try,' Gilbert repeated dubiously. 
 
 ' As yet you cannot, because your mind is 
 darkened. You are thinking of something 
 gloomy ; it fills your soul with sadness ; yet 
 you are not a bad man. Not like that other ' 
 — she looked at the man with the hoe — ' his 
 soul is black through and through. Yours is 
 full of gleams.' 
 
 ' You are a witch, Cicely.' 
 
 ' Put it from you, Gilbert. Forget the 
 Past. Leave bad people and bad things 
 behind. Let your soul lie open to the 
 
 light.' 
 
 She spoke like the Master, because he was 
 the only one who ever talked with her. 
 
 * No, Cicely,' Gilbert answered his own 
 question, ' there can be no others in the 
 House like yourself.' He thought of their 
 voracity at supper, of their stupid silence, of 
 their shuffling, ungraceful dance, of their
 
 LABORARE EST ORARE 147 
 
 vacuous faces. ' If these people were like 
 you, Cicely, if they had your mind, they 
 would no longer remain in silence ; they 
 would be constrained to talk, if it were only 
 to tell their thoughts to each other, like the 
 birds who cannot choose but sing.'
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A WARNING AND A PROMISE. 
 
 Gilbert took off his coat — the regulation 
 coat — and set to work. * I must earn,' he 
 said, ' my board, which is three square meals 
 a day — pork and beans, and steak and coffee 
 — and two dollars and a half a week over and 
 above — say, about seven dollars a week in 
 all. This means zeal.' 
 
 The work set before him was of the 
 lightest possible kind — a little weeding and 
 clearing ; nothing could be lighter. Yet un- 
 accustomed stooping made the shoulders 
 ache ; he was fain to straighten himself and 
 from time to time look about him. Cicely
 
 A WARNING AND A PROMISE 149 
 
 was going about among her roses, her face 
 always set with a seriou-s responsibility, as if 
 she were doing something especially sacred, 
 such as decorating the altar — she who had 
 never seen an altar ; or making beautiful for 
 the next day's service the pillars of the 
 church — she who had never seen a church 
 or any pillars of a church. She showed no 
 signs of wishing to continue the conversation ; 
 in fact, she had learned one lesson at least in 
 the House of Silence — not to give utterance 
 to vain repetitions. In this respect the 
 fashion of the world is so very different. 
 We not only repeat vainly, but we cannot do 
 anything, persuade anybody, or breathe the 
 simplest truth without vain repetitions : they 
 are a necessity. Formerly, the Sage, when 
 he had anything to say, came forth with im- 
 portance, and, after commanding silence, said, 
 once for all, what he had to say ; then he 
 went in auain and waited for the next 
 message. In these days he has to say what
 
 150 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 he is charged to say a dozen times over — 
 first, in a monthly magazine ; at the first 
 delivery of the message no one listens. He 
 then says it again, in another form ; at the 
 second delivery people are irritated. He 
 then says it a third time ; then they begin 
 to call him names and to throw stones at him, 
 because novelty frightens and irritates them. 
 Perhaps at the fourth or fifth delivery, if 
 there is nothing in the doctrine to interfere 
 with income, the world may consent to listen. 
 Even then the Sage must go on repeating 
 his message, else the whole will be speedily 
 forgotten. At this House there were so few 
 words spoken that everyone had a chance 
 of being heard. ' Let your soul lie open to 
 the light,' Cicely said. ' Lie open to the 
 light!' And his presence in the House was 
 due to such a purpose! If she only knew! 
 The incongruity between purpose and pre- 
 tence — if he had made pretence — was 
 ridiculous. In the silence of the garden the
 
 A WARNING AND A PROMISE 151 
 
 words rang in his brain — ' He open to the 
 lig-ht.' What thino-s had to be done before 
 that opening of the soul to the light ! 
 
 But he had resolved to defer this purpose 
 while he observed the ways of the Community 
 — a relief, for a time, to forget this terrible 
 purpose. And he fell once more to consider- 
 ing the place where he had found his enemy. 
 A strange, mysterious place ! The retreat 
 of rustics, apparently — yet, of rustics who fell 
 into trances, had raptures and saw visions. 
 Well, if it is given to any people to see 
 visions, it must surely be to the country folk, 
 who work alone in the field and forest, that 
 such privilege is given. A place dominated 
 by a man of strong magnetic force, who cer- 
 tainly believed what he said, and might, had 
 he chosen to remain among men, have drawn 
 multitudes to follow him, such was the power 
 of his voice and of his words. A place with 
 something of the desert about it, situated, 
 like an abode of Eremites, in a lonely place
 
 152 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 under the everlasting hills, with a rushing 
 stream to sit beside (nothing assists Medita- 
 tion more than a running stream) ; a place 
 outside the world ; a place whither came no 
 letters or news or papers ; dedicated, like a 
 Buddhist monastery, to that sublime selfish- 
 ness in which no one cares for his brother, 
 but is entirely occupied with his own advance- 
 ment ; a religious house in which there was 
 neither chapel nor service — where the mind, 
 stripped of dogma and creed, of teaching and 
 of teacher, looked inwards for nourishment 
 and for inspiration. 
 
 Thinking these things, he waited till 
 Cicely, in her round, again drew near to 
 him. Then once more he spoke to her. 
 ' Those heights, Cicely — those levels of 
 which you speak. What are they like when 
 you reach them ? What are the dreams 
 and visions which come to you in your 
 trance ?' 
 
 'The levels are spiritual levels. The
 
 A WARNING AND A PROMISE 153 
 
 place is always the world. How can I ex- 
 plain ? This world will always remain. 
 There are as many worlds as there are men, 
 yet only one real world. It is the perfect 
 world which we are trying to see and to 
 understand. To all of us there are worlds 
 of different levels, invisible to each other. 
 Outside our own world, above us and below 
 us, are infinite worlds, always the same. 
 When we are ready to go up to the world 
 above us, we are taken up. Yet there is 
 only one world, and that world you are not 
 able to see or understand. What you see 
 with your short sight is only a fragment.' 
 
 As she spoke she became like the Master 
 — transformed. She became glorified. Her 
 eyes were filled with light — she became a 
 goddess. 
 
 ' Then you will soon be taken up, and we 
 shall lose you, Cicely.' 
 
 She shook her head. Compliments she 
 did not understand. ' We live out our lives.
 
 154 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 We are called away only when at this stage 
 we can learn no more.' 
 
 'Well — but always the same world? 
 Always pie and pork and beans ?' 
 
 ' Don't look like that, Gilbert. I cannot 
 tell you anything if you look like that. It 
 makes me feel ill ; it makes your soul black 
 when you mock. You must not think of 
 things gross and material when your soul 
 should lie open to the light.' 
 
 ' I will not. But there will be always this 
 House ?' 
 
 ' There will be always, I suppose, some 
 company of men and women trying to rise 
 higher and higher to the greater happiness.' 
 
 'The greater happiness,' he repeated. 
 ' That is what I cannot understand. What 
 constitutes the greater happiness ? What 
 will you do with it when you have got it ?' 
 
 'You cannot understand. Why talk any 
 more ? First, you must clear your mind of 
 the Past, and then you must earn how to
 
 A WARNING AND A PROMISE 155 
 
 rest before you are able to take a single 
 step.' 
 
 She turned away and continued her work. 
 Gilbert looked after her, moved by her 
 sincerity and her earnestness. 
 
 There are moments for some men — not 
 for all, because most men are unable to feel 
 these things, and for the few only in youth 
 and early manhood — when it seems really 
 possible to stand outside the environment of 
 time and matter ; when the raptures of saints, 
 the visions of nuns, the ejaculations of 
 anchorites, the stories of spiritualists, seem 
 not idle dreams and fond imaginings, but 
 true liftings of the Veil which hides the only 
 things that are real and everlasting. At 
 such moments a cloud rolls over the eyes ; 
 the walls of the room vanish ; everything 
 vanishes, and one is alone in space. It 
 passes quickly for the most part ; the strange 
 feeling, which was always in the mind of the 
 Master, has come and is gone in a moment.
 
 156 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 before one has had time to consider what it 
 means, or to ask any questions, or to learn 
 if any questions may be asked. While the 
 Master spoke to him, Gilbert experienced 
 this feeling. When Cicely spoke to him in 
 the garden, he experienced it once more. It 
 was not the first time. When he was a boy 
 of seventeen, certain poetry drew him out of 
 himself When he heard music of a certain 
 kind, he was fain to sit down and surrender 
 himself. So, when he travelled abroad, and 
 made the acquaintance of dervishes, fakeers, 
 Moravian missionaries, and sometimes 
 Catholic priests, worn and devoted, the 
 same emotion seized him. Some books of 
 biographies filled him with this sense ; some 
 flowers inspired him with this yearning after 
 the power of living outside life — the power, 
 in short, claimed by the people of this House. 
 Now his brain was filled with a kind of 
 glory, left there by the words and the voice 
 and the eyes of this girl. At such a moment
 
 A WARNING AND A PROMISE 157 
 
 if self- surrender were possible, everything 
 would be possible : trance — visions — voices 
 of the dead — and the lifting of the Veil. 
 
 His heart glowed within him. He could 
 not choose but believe the girl. Her eyes 
 were as sincere as her heart was pure, as her 
 maiden soul was innocent. When he should 
 be able to rest . . . but the Purpose stood 
 between. 
 
 ' You want rest ?' It was the voice, cold, 
 hard, and metallic, of the man he was hunt- 
 ing. He stood with his hoe over his shoulder 
 on the other side of the bushes. ' I have 
 overheard your conversation with the girl. 
 Rest is what we all want, isn't it .'* — rest and 
 Meditation and Elevation. Yes — oh yes — 
 Elevation !' 
 
 The glow and the joy of his dreams fled 
 shrieking, driven away by this evil presence. 
 
 'You had better go on with your work,' 
 said Gilbert shortly. 
 
 ' Presendy — presently. All in good time.
 
 158 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 You needn't break your back in this place. 
 As for work, I suppose you don't really like 
 blistering your hands and cramping your 
 legs over a beastly hoe any more than I do. 
 I chose gardening because no one knows 
 whether you do anything or not.' He sat 
 down on a barrow. ' I'm going to take a 
 spell of rest. Let us talk. I was astonished, 
 last night, to see you come in, because you 
 have the appearance and the manners of an 
 English gentleman, and you don't look like 
 a Crank. As for me, I come here because 
 I want complete rest, which a man can't 
 get anywhere else. It was over- work — in- 
 tellectual kind — writing. My doctor told me 
 of this place. Light physical exercise, 
 simple food, absolute silence, no telegrams, 
 no letters, no newspapers — that is what I 
 get here. I do not pretend to meditate, as 
 they call it. I am never carried away in a 
 trance ; but I am quiet. That's my little 
 simple story, Mr. Maryon. What is yours ?'
 
 A WARNING AND A PROMISE 159 
 
 ' Mine? Oh ! mine is still simpler.' 
 
 'You are not a religious Crank, like the 
 rest of them. And you don't look as if you 
 were nervous. I heard you talking to that 
 girl just now. Well, she's the only pretty 
 thing in the place. You look that kind of 
 man — I shan't interfere. Besides, I shall be 
 going in a week or two. Don't mind me.' 
 
 His cold face showed neither leer nor 
 grin : there was nothing of the Satyr in 
 the man ; but it expressed evil of the most 
 evil. 
 
 Gilbert felt an intense desire to kill the 
 creature, but refrained. 
 
 ' How long did you say you were going to 
 stay ?' 
 
 ' Probably a week or two longer. The 
 people are rustics ; the food is coarse ; there 
 is nothing to drink ; there is nothing to do ; 
 there is nothing to talk about ; but one can 
 be quiet. As for you, I suppose that little 
 girl — well, they are all blind and deaf and
 
 i6o THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 dumb : you can do just what you like — I 
 shan't Interfere,' 
 
 Gilbert stepped across the beds and stood 
 over him. He was a big strong man, and 
 the other, though as tall, was slight and 
 spare. 
 
 ' Look here — you — Charles Lee, as you 
 call yourself. I dare say I shall have some 
 little accounts to make up with you pre- 
 sently. Meantime, be very careful never to 
 mention that young lady's name again in my 
 presence. If you do I will horsewhip you.' 
 
 The man looked ugly, but he made no reply. 
 
 ' As for your coming here, we know all 
 about that. It is a convenient spot for a 
 man who wants to be out of the way : a 
 place not likely to be suspected ' 
 
 ' Out of the way ?' The man changed 
 colour. ' What do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Such a man, I say, might very well think 
 that no one would look for him in such a 
 place.'
 
 A WARNING AND A PROMISE i6i 
 
 ' What the devil do you mean, sir ?' The 
 man spoke with a poor show of surprise, 
 
 ' I mean just what I say. Mr. Charles Lee 
 thinks that he is safe so long as he remains 
 in this House — so long as no one suspects 
 this House — so long as no one comes to look 
 for him. Very well, Mr. Charles Lee is quite 
 right. The police are not suspicious about 
 this place ; they are looking for him in all the 
 dives from Chicago to New Orleans. But 
 they will not come here to look for him unless 
 they are sent for! 
 
 Mr. Charles Lee sat down again upon the 
 barrow. ' The police ?' he repeated. * The 
 police ? What have the police to do with 
 me }' He watched Gilbert with unmistakable 
 terror in his eyes. He looked furtively about 
 him as if meditating flight. 
 
 'That is your business, not mine.' He 
 had gone so far, he thought, that he might 
 just as well go on and complete the job on 
 the spot — say. after breakfast. 
 
 VOL. T. T T
 
 i62 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 ' Who are you ? What do you want with 
 me ? Who told you ?' Then he suddenly 
 threw up his arms. ' Oh ! I remember now. 
 You are Gilbert Maryon. You are the son 
 of General Sir Harry Maryon, K.C.B. Oh 
 yes ! W^hat the devil are you doing here ? 
 I never met you at home, but I have heard 
 about you. Yes : you were in the Foreign 
 Office; you became an unpaid attache — I 
 remember.' 
 
 ' I would not remember too much if I were 
 you.' 
 
 ' Why not ?' 
 
 ' Because you might happen to remember 
 what your own name used to be and why 
 you left England. I don't ask you to tell 
 me, understand. It would be a pity to give 
 yourself away, wouldn't it ?' 
 
 In spite of his proud bearing, the man 
 shivered from head to foot. There was one 
 thing, then, that touched him still : his own 
 disgrace ; the memory of what he had been.
 
 A WARNING AND A PROMISE 163 
 
 ' What have you done ?' he asked. ' Why 
 are you here ? How do you know — what you 
 do know ?' 
 
 ' It is full early for personal and private 
 conundrums, isn't it ? Wait a bit. I do not 
 desire your society, but I shall have to speak 
 seriously to you very soon. Of that I warn you. 
 We may, some time or other, perhaps this 
 day, exchange confidences and confessions.' 
 
 ' What confidences ?' 
 
 ' As to why and how you left your native 
 country. Already I have learned that it must 
 have been a very short time ago, because you 
 knew that I was in the Foreign Office ; and 
 that you must have been a man of the 
 Piccadilly End, otherwise you would not 
 have known that little fact. Besides, you 
 have the survival of manner, although your 
 face must have changed since you were re- 
 ceived in London houses. Your story, in 
 fact, should be interesting. Mine, I confess, 
 would be commonplace in comparison.'
 
 i64 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 ' Then tell me,' he insisted, still with that 
 terror in his face, ' why you have come here ; 
 how you learned — what you know.' 
 
 ' Not yet. It is the story of a villain and 
 his punishment. I will tell you presently — 
 after breakfast, perhaps. There goes the 
 bell. Go now, and feed.' 
 
 He left the man on the barrow, his face full 
 of fear and suspicion and uncertainty, and 
 turned his steps towards the hall and break- 
 fast.' 
 
 He was joined by Cicely, who laid her hand 
 upon his arm. 
 
 'Brother Gilbert,' she said. 'Not to-day. 
 Promise me, not to-day.' 
 
 ' What ?' he asked. ' What am I not to do 
 this day ?' 
 
 ' Not to-day,' she repeated, as if she divined 
 his purpose and knew his secret. ' Promise 
 me, not to-day.' 
 
 ' What is it, Cicely ? Put the promise into 
 words : what is it that I must not do this day ?'
 
 A WARNING AND A PROMISE 165 
 
 ' I do not know what they mean ' — she did 
 not explain who ' they ' were. ' They told 
 me to make you promise, not to-day. You 
 must promise, Gilbert. It is my mother's 
 order. Not to-day.' 
 
 • Your mother's order ? Your dead mother's 
 order .^' He hesitated. One look at her 
 serious face determined him. He obeyed. 
 'Well, little witch, I promise. Not to-day.'
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 'not to-day.' 
 
 The House breakfast proved to be very 
 nearly the same as the supper. What can 
 one ask that is better than steak, bacon, ham, 
 pork and beans, with hot cake and all kinds 
 of cakes and jam ? The body, as the Master 
 said, must be kept in good case and painless, 
 in order for the soul to be free. When 
 hunger gnaws, or when rheumatics bite, the 
 soul becomes nothing better than a groaning 
 prisoner — which shows how mistaken the 
 ascetics and eremites have all been in morti- 
 fying the flesh. Twice and three times as 
 spiritually disposed is that soul which reposes
 
 'NOT TO-DAY' 167 
 
 in a body well fed and nourished and com- 
 fortable. 
 
 The one o'clock dinner was also very 
 nearly the same as the breakfast and the 
 supper. The Fraternity, in fact, had but one 
 meal — a square meal, quadrilateral and 
 rectangular— taken three times daily. As 
 they knew what to expect, they were saved 
 from vain lookings forward and from specula- 
 tions as to possible or unattainable good 
 things which trouble some folk. Iced water, 
 tea and coffee were served at every meal, and 
 of course if the food was coarse and indifler- 
 ently cooked it was exactly what most of the 
 members had been accustomed to receive all 
 their lives. 
 
 In every kind of hunt, the sympathy of the 
 onlookers is always with the hunter, seldom 
 with the hunted. Especially is this the case 
 with the hunt of man. He has to be run down, 
 he has to be caught : how will it be done .'* 
 That is what everybody asks ; in certain
 
 i68 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 circles, however, the question is — how will 
 he escape ? Great as is the ingenuity of the 
 man hunted, still greater is the ingenuity of 
 the detective. The hunted man flies, he runs 
 out of sight, he disguises himself, he hides, 
 he assumes a beard, he cuts off a beard, he 
 puts on eyeglasses, he takes them off, he puts 
 on a wig, he changes his name, his dress, his 
 carriage, he has a thousand tricks and turns ; 
 yet in the end he is caught, generally by some 
 accident which Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the 
 detective, turns to his own account. Can we 
 not admire the cleverness of the man who is 
 hunted ? Never mind why he is hunted, 
 probably in order that he may no longer eat 
 up other men ; let us watch the cleverness of 
 the quarry. 
 
 Here was a man whom all the police in the 
 United States were looking for; in every 
 town they had his portrait and a description 
 of him and information of his way of life. 
 Every place closed to him, except this. He
 
 'NOT TO-DAY' i6g 
 
 knocked at the door of this House and was 
 admitted. Here he was quite safe ; no poHce 
 ever came to the place, it was unsuspected, it 
 was a modern sanctuary. And here he had 
 rested for three weeks and more, feehnor him- 
 self for the first time in absolute security. 
 There were certain drawbacks in the life 
 here, but he was safe from pursuit. And 
 then came this young Englishman. Why 
 did he come to the place ? 
 
 There is one branch of thought-reading 
 which is common to all mankind, except the 
 very stupid. This class, as we know, feel 
 nothing, fear nothing, anticipate nothing, and 
 desire nothing. They are incapable of 
 imagination, love, hatred, or any other 
 passion whatever. All but the very stupid, 
 however, possess the power of divining 
 whether another man is a friend or an enemy. 
 This instinct is a survival of the days when 
 man was a fighting animal, and a hunting 
 animal, and a hunted animal. 1 le could then
 
 I/O THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 hear and see his enemy miles off ; he could 
 scent his enemy when he was invisible ; he 
 acquired this power through the instinct of 
 self-preservation : even now, when he hunts 
 no longer, he can perceive at first sight if a 
 man will prove a friend or an enemy. The 
 man Charles Lee, who was at the moment a 
 hunted animal, recognised, at the first sight 
 of Gilbert, an enemy. This made him 
 uneasy, particularly as he could not by any 
 thinking arrive at a working theory as to 
 why this young fellow should be an enemy, 
 what he was doing in this House, and how 
 he came to know anything about that ring — 
 if he did know anything. He felt so uneasy 
 that he would have gone away but for the 
 absolute certainty that nowhere else could be 
 found a place of such safety : the only place 
 in the world where the residents showed no 
 curiosity at all about a new-comer, and did 
 not question him and did not talk about 
 him. Such a place was to a hunted
 
 'NOT TO-DAY' 171 
 
 man like a Fortress Impregnable, a Chateau 
 Gaillard. For three weeks he had lived 
 unnoticed among them ; nobody spoke to 
 him except the Master and this girl. And 
 now came this young Englishman, who knew 
 at least that he was in hiding. He was very 
 uneasy indeed. 
 
 Other things made the fugitive uncomfort- 
 able : lesser things ; everything that must be 
 expected when one has to run away : part of 
 the stage management, the ' business ' of 
 running away. The ring had been con- 
 ducting its operations, having acquired the 
 power of spending freely, in great cities, 
 where there is variety of meals, not the same 
 meal ; and variety of food, not the same 
 food ; where there are hotels, and where 
 there are, sometimes, cooks ; where, also, 
 there are drinks like the juice of the grape 
 and the juice of the barley. How dreadful, 
 therefore, were the sufferings of this unfortu- 
 nate man, condemned to feed upon nothing
 
 172 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 but tough steak and pork and beans, and 
 to drink nothing, either with his meals or 
 between them, but tea and coffee and iced 
 water ! There was no tobacco, there was 
 not a cigar in the place, and he had no 
 money to buy any. That there was no con- 
 versation under the circumstances mattered 
 little. And he had to do manual work. He 
 was expected to take a rake or a hoe or a 
 spade, and to work, actually to work, in the 
 garden. 
 
 There was once a great criminal, almost as 
 great a criminal as this person. They tried 
 to convert him with prison, but he found him- 
 self among old friends and was comparatively 
 happy ; at all events, he continued as far 
 removed as ever from penitence. They 
 flogged him : he took his flogging as one 
 of the disagreeable accidents of life — like 
 toothache, but sooner over — and went back 
 to his old friends ; they locked him up quite 
 alone — as soon as he was let out he went
 
 'NOT TO-DAY' 173 
 
 back to his old friends ; they gave him a 
 kind chaplain and a sympathetic visitor who 
 prayed with him and wept with him ; he 
 enjoyed the weeping very much, and he then 
 went back to his old friends. Finally they 
 hit upon a plan which at least made him 
 entirely miserable, because there was no hope 
 left to him : he was never allowed to go back 
 to his friends at all, and he had to spend the 
 remainder of his life among people who 
 neither drank nor gambled, nor thieved, nor 
 planned iniquities, nor committed crimes, great 
 or small, but lived with the most disgusting 
 and intolerable purity, temperance and virtue. 
 This seemed, for the moment, the only future 
 possible for the man who called himself 
 Charles Lee. He could not go back to his 
 old triends, first because they were dispersed, 
 and next because at every road which led to 
 the former haunts of these interesting people 
 stood the sheriff with an order for his arrest. 
 And oh ! how he hated the place he was in !
 
 174 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 After breakfast they went back to work. 
 Mr. Charles Lee, hoe in hand, contrived to 
 keep within sight of Gilbert. Nothing at all 
 happened. Gilbert went on quietly with his 
 work ; there was no conversation at all 
 between him and the girl ; nor did Gilbert 
 address any remarks to him. What did he 
 know .'* What did he mean by settling 
 accounts ? Nothing, either in London or in 
 America, had ever passed between him and 
 that young man. How did he learn what he 
 evidently knew ? The more he thought about 
 it, the more uneasy he became. 
 
 At one o'clock they sat down to dinner, 
 which was, as has been stated already, exactly 
 the same as breakfast and supper. Gilbert 
 observed that his left-hand neighbour. Brother 
 Silas, devoured the same meal three times a 
 day with the same voracity and despatch. 
 He was a heavy-looking young man, square 
 jawed, with high cheek-bones, big limbed. 
 Like all the men in the place, he had a
 
 'NOT TO-DAY' 175 
 
 ruminating eye. The man who ruminates is 
 not always the man who meditates. Brother 
 Silas ruminated. He fed slowly, but steadily 
 and thoroughly, like an ox, gazing into space 
 the while. Was it possible that this dull and 
 clownish head contained a brain capable of 
 seeing visions, and dreaming dreams, and 
 taking flights into other worlds ? Gilbert 
 endeavoured, out of curiosity, to make the 
 man talk : he put forth tentatives, he sug- 
 gested questions, he gave openings ; nothing 
 could be got out of the man but a grunt. It 
 might be imagination, but Gilbert thought 
 that a gleam of light shot across those ru- 
 minating eyes once or twice, when the man 
 turned his head slowly and his eyes fell upon 
 Cicely, the one sweet and dainty figure in 
 the whole company. Could he have so much 
 grace as to admire this girl ? Was Love 
 admitted into the Comniunity ? 
 
 After dinner the people separated slowly 
 and silently. A few turned them round in
 
 176 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 their places and, leaning back as if for Medi- 
 tation, frankly dropped into slumber. There 
 was no mistaking the difference between the 
 Meditation of the evening and the sleep of 
 the afternoon. The latter was honest, drowsy, 
 afternoon doze ; the former was trance. Others 
 rolled slowly — the rolling gait comes to those 
 who loaf as well as those who tread the yield- 
 ing deck — out of the hall and took their seat 
 on the benches in the verandah. Some 
 walked up and down the wooden walk before 
 the House, languidly, with hanging hands and 
 vacant eyes. Some stood still and looked 
 out into space, seeing nothing ; some set off 
 with briskness and then changed their minds 
 and came back again : there was no sign of 
 settled purpose, or of any brain activity at all. 
 Upon all there lay the same dull and vacuous 
 look. Not without wisdom did Benedict 
 enjoin in his brethren the work of the body 
 or the work of the mind when they were not 
 chanting hymns in the abbey church.
 
 'NOT TO-DAY' 177 
 
 Gilbert moved about among them and 
 spoke to one or two. They were morose in 
 their manner ; the words seemed to irritate 
 them : they answered in monosyllables. Their 
 irritation was not altogether disinclination to 
 answer, it was partly inability. If you remain 
 absolutely silent for a long time — for many 
 years — during which you read nothing, hear 
 nothing, and speak nothing, you will become, 
 like Alexander Selkirk, unable to speak except 
 with great difficulty. At the very best our 
 powers of speech are extremely limited : 
 under such conditions they may vanish al- 
 together, more especially with men no longer 
 young, who have never received much educa- 
 tion ; who have lived solitary lives in the 
 fields ; and have never at any time enjoyed 
 much converse with their fellow-men. 
 
 The women were brighter and more alert 
 both in face and in movement. To begin 
 with, it is impossible to keep in silence a 
 company of women working together. Those 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 who sit and sew, those who make and mend, 
 those who cook and wash up, those who order 
 dairy and laundry, have a great deal to say 
 over their work. Here they called it neces- 
 sary talk, not frivolous talk ; and this talk 
 kept them alive, even though for the rest of 
 the day they observed the wonted silence of 
 the House. 
 
 One of these, a little slight woman, between 
 forty and fifty years of age, her hair streaked 
 with gray, with bright, beady eyes, and a 
 sharp face, attracted Gilbert, because she 
 looked so much more alive than the rest. 
 He ventured to address her. She was sitting 
 in a corner of the verandah, and she had 
 some knitting in her hand ; she was the only 
 woman who was occupied in this feminine 
 manner, and she looked curiously natural 
 and, therefore, out of place. 
 
 'Well, young man,' she said, 'if you want 
 to talk about the House, you may. That's 
 improvin' talk. We're set against idle talk,
 
 'NOT TO-DAY' 179 
 
 but you're a new-comer and perhaps you 
 want to learn. Sit down, then, and ask.' 
 
 'Tell me,' said Gilbert, 'about your Medi- 
 tation.' 
 
 ' That's always the trouble, at first. You 
 can't meditate, not worth a cent, can you ? 
 I couldn't when I began. I came here 
 twenty years ago, soon after the Master 
 started the House and just before Sister 
 Cicely was born. I was in terrible trouble, 
 I remember, about something or somebody ; 
 you wouldn't believe what a wrench it took 
 to get all that trouble out of my head. But 
 I persevered, thank the Lord ! and forgot 
 everybody and had my mind clear at last ; 
 and I've never thought about my own 
 trouble ever since. And I meditate lovely 
 every night.' 
 
 It seemed, to the new-comer, rather a 
 selfish way of getting higher up ; but he 
 refrained from saying so. 
 
 * If it's any comfort to you, young man —
 
 i8o THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 you look as if your thoughts were elsewhere, 
 perhaps with some girl or other — I may tell 
 you that in a ver)^ few weeks I was able just 
 to sit down, fold my hands, and go off — go 
 off — up into the clouds.' 
 
 * Yes. And what do you see when you 
 are up in the clouds ?' 
 
 ' It might be the New Jerusalem, for all 
 I know,' she replied vaguely. ' It's jest 
 grand and glorious ; it fills me all over with 
 a kind of warmth ' 
 
 * But what is it you see when you get 
 there ?' Gilbert persisted. 
 
 ' Don't I tell you ? It's grand and glorious. 
 I come back all in a glow. Isn't that enough ?' 
 
 * Then you see nothing ?' 
 
 ' When you come back from the other 
 world,' the woman replied without hesitation, 
 ' you can't never tell what you've seen ; 
 everything goes clean out of your head ; you 
 jest remember where you've been. Nothing 
 is left but the glow.'
 
 ' NOT TO-DAY ' i8i 
 
 ' I understand. Do you think the other 
 people here enjoy the same glow, the same 
 experience of the other world, as yourself?' 
 
 ' We don't know much about each other. 
 Sometimes there's whispering about this one 
 or that one — and what we see, and what we 
 hear, and what we remember. We women 
 talk about it a little over our work. There's 
 jealousies sometimes about who gets highest. 
 Sister Cicely goes up ever so high. But the 
 Master soars higher than anybody else.' 
 
 ' Quite so. And what is your own work 
 in the morning }' 
 
 ' I work in the dairy. Young man, mind 
 you choose the hardest, not the lightest 
 work. Dig in the garden, if you can. 
 Take a spade and dig. Do something to 
 make the body tired, if you wish to meditate 
 quickly and easily.' 
 
 ' I will remember. And now tell me who 
 they are, and where they come from, and 
 why they come here.*
 
 i82 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 ' I don't know who the brothers and sisters 
 are, nor where they come from. It isn't any 
 business of mine where they come from. 
 When first they come they talk sometimes. 
 Some of the women were driven here by 
 cruel scorn. Oh, but it is for their own 
 good, and after a bit they know it. Then 
 they forget the Past — it drops clean from 
 their souls like a garment that one takes off. 
 Yes, young man, your Past will fall from 
 you : perhaps you've been wicked — it doesn't 
 matter ; or unfortunate ; or perhaps you've 
 been disappointed in love — nothing matters. 
 After a bit the world will be quite dead to 
 you : nothing will be left but the care of 
 keeping the body from pain and the mind 
 from thought, so as to leave the blessed soul 
 free to soar. You will get to understand by 
 bits that you are all by yourself in space, and 
 no concern with anybody else.' 
 
 ' Isn't that rather a selfish way of looking 
 at things ?'
 
 'NOT TO-DAY' 183 
 
 • It's the Lord's own doing, young man, 
 and you can't undo it. Therefore, I say, 
 forget your Past. It is gone by; you can't 
 alter it. Bury it and forget it.' 
 
 ' I have always thought that the Past 
 never dies and can never be forgotten. 
 What if one cannot forget the Past ?' 
 
 ' Then you will be criticised by the Com- 
 mittee. It is a dreadful thing to be criticised 
 by the Committee.' 
 
 Cicely said the same thing to the brother 
 with the hoe. 
 
 ' Oh ! What is the Committee ?' 
 
 'Young man,' she took up her knitting, 
 ' I've talked enough.' 
 
 ' One moment.' Gilbert laid his hand 
 upon the knitting, which is well known as a 
 narcotic. 'One moment. Is the Past really 
 forgotten? Have you really forgotten that 
 old trouble ? Do you never ask what be- 
 came of hini ? Do you never wonder why 
 he wronged you ? Do you never ask why
 
 i84 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 he married the other ? Or if he repents his 
 wickedness ? Or if ' 
 
 ' Oh !' — she dropped her knitting with a 
 cry of pain, and answered as one who must, 
 — 'if I remember! Yes! yes! I think I 
 forget ; but I don't. Oh ! I remember all day 
 long, except in the evening, when I force 
 myself to forget and so to rest for an hour.' 
 
 'Just so,' said Gilbert. 'The Past can 
 never be forgotten. It is like your shadow ; 
 it can never be cut off.' 
 
 He left her, shaking and trembling, hands 
 and head and shoulders. He had recalled 
 something of that past trouble. He sighed 
 in pity for the poor woman, who was trying 
 her best to live in a fool's paradise, and 
 turned away. 
 
 Gilbert retreated to the garden, where 
 Cicely was still among her roses, walking 
 about with clasped hands and thoughtful face. 
 What were the thoughts of this girl who 
 knew nothing ?
 
 'NOT TO-DAY' 185 
 
 'What do you do,' he asked, 'all the long 
 afternoon ?' 
 
 ' Generally I am out here. Sometimes I 
 sit indoors. The time seems long to you 
 because you have forgotten how to rest.' 
 
 ' I should like to read.' 
 
 ' Oh no !' she said, ' you must not read. 
 Nothing hinders rest more than reading. I 
 used to read before I arrived at the age of 
 Meditation — not since. Go and sit down 
 somewhere by yourself in a corner ; shut 
 your eyes ; try to forget the Past. You are 
 in the world still ; you are thinking of it all 
 day long ; and you are disturbed by some- 
 thing evil that has come to you out of the 
 world. Forget the Past, Gilbert, and be 
 happy with us. Oh, if you only knew it, this 
 is the most beautiful House! There can be 
 no place more delightful — if you only knew it.' 
 
 ' I wish I did know it, then. But tell me. 
 Cicely, what do you see when you meditate 
 after your wonderful dance ?'
 
 i86 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 ' I see my father and my mother. Every 
 night we are all three together on heights far 
 above this. They tell me things.' 
 
 ' What things do they tell you ?' 
 
 ' When I return to earth I have forgotten. 
 That is to say, for the time. I shall remem- 
 ber everything when I am worthy to speak 
 and this House is worthy to hear. The 
 words come back to me when I gro back to 
 them, and my heart is so softened, so warm, 
 and so happy. Oh, Gilbert ! if you knew. 
 Only to think of It makes me long for you to 
 feel it too.' 
 
 ' Child, what is the good of hearing things 
 you can't remember? How can they affect 
 your life ?' 
 
 ' My life ? You mean my life here ? Oh ! 
 but that doesn't count. I have nothing to 
 do with my life here but to get through it.' 
 
 ' Well. Then what do you see ? What 
 is your mother like ? How is she dressed ?' 
 
 ' I don't know. When I come back to
 
 'NOT TO-DAY' 187 
 
 earth I have no recollection of such things. 
 Yet, when I see her again, I know her 
 again.' 
 
 ' What is the good of seeing them if you 
 cannot tell what they are like ?' 
 
 ' Gilbert, you know nothing. That is my 
 true life— to be with them. It is my happi- 
 ness and my joy. All the rest is show and 
 a weariness — unless it is to see the flowers 
 grow. Go away now. Gilbert. You disturb 
 me too much.' 
 
 He obeyed. He wandered about the 
 gardens, finding no rest or peace. The 
 place was interesting, the girl was interest- 
 ing ; he was a young man open to impres- 
 sion and interested by th''s kind of profession 
 or pretence ; but everything was marred by 
 the presence of the man Charles Lee, and 
 the thought of what had to be done. 
 
 He found himself presently in the shrub- 
 bery where were the seats. He sat down, 
 his mind agitated, as far from rest as is
 
 i88 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 possible for any man, even outside the House 
 of Meditation. 
 
 Presently the man himself who filled his 
 thoughts came up to him and stood before 
 him, dark and threatening, 
 
 ' I want to know,' he said, ' what you 
 meant this morning when you said that you 
 had accounts to settle with me.' 
 
 ' Did I say so ? Well, then, in good time. 
 Not to-day — I have promised. Not to-day. 
 I shall settle those accounts with you another 
 time,' 
 
 'You will explain now.' The man's face 
 grew darker and more threatening, 
 
 ' I shall choose my own time. Do you 
 understand.'^ My own time.' 
 ' I have seen men shot for less.' 
 ' You will not shoot me, Mr. Charles Lee. 
 At least, not yet.' 
 
 ' I have a right to demand an explanation. 
 Come, Mr. Gilbert Maryon, you were once an 
 English gentleman, whatever you are now.
 
 'NOT TO-DAY' i8g 
 
 Suppose you had used those words to a man 
 in any club of which you were a member ?' 
 ' I cannot suppose such a thing possible.' 
 ' You charged me, in so many words, with 
 hiding from the hands of Justice. Will you 
 tell me, I ask once more, what you meant by 
 that ?' 
 
 ' Well, I don't mind explaining so much. 
 You have been, among other things, a lead- 
 ing member, perhaps the cleverest member, 
 of a certain ring or long firm, or whatever it 
 was called : a combination for purposes of 
 plunder and robbery. You possess a certain 
 distinction of appearance and manner, and 
 generally played the part of the moneyed man, 
 the aristocratic traveller, or any part requiring 
 manners and appearance. At last you were 
 everywhere blown upon, the police took up 
 the case, the gang was broken up ; you are 
 now all separated and either arrested or in 
 hiding. That is what I meant, Mr. Charles 
 Lee.'
 
 igo THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 The man laughed, but without much merri- 
 ment. 
 
 ' I dare say,' he repHed, ' that you are right 
 about the gang. It does not concern me, 
 because, you see, I am not the man in 
 question. His name may be Charles Lee 
 or it may be something else. I don't know 
 or care.' 
 
 * In that case you have only to march out 
 of this place, which evidently does not suit 
 you. But you will not leave it yet' 
 
 ' Why not .?' 
 
 ' Because in whatever American town you 
 venture to show your face, you will find that 
 they have got a photograph and an exact 
 description of your personal appearance. 
 Because, my friend, you are wanted very 
 badly. Oh no, you will not leave this place.' 
 
 ' I shall leave it,' he replied, with a very 
 good assumption of dignity, ' when it suits 
 me.' 
 
 ' If I thought you were going to leave us
 
 'NOT TO-DAY' 191 
 
 before it suits nie^ Gilbert replied, ' 1 would 
 call in the sheriff of the nearest town.' 
 
 ' By ,' the man swore a great oath, ' I 
 
 will kill you, Mr. Gilbert Maryon.' 
 
 ' No, you will not, unless you wish to see 
 the sheriff, because in such a case he would 
 be sent for immediately.' 
 
 ' What do you want, then .^' 
 
 ' I want to settle accounts with you. Not 
 to-day. Perhaps to-morrow.' 
 
 ' How have I injured you .'*' 
 
 ' That you will learn when the day of 
 settlement arrives. Look here, Mr. Charles 
 Lee, you are a prisoner in this House. Out- 
 side, all round you, you are waited for. You 
 will continue to be a prisoner in this House 
 until you are arrested, or until your death. 
 Yes — until your death. It is all you have to 
 look forward to. Now, Mr. Charles— shall 
 I give you your right name ? — go away and 
 wait for the day of settlement — perhaps to- 
 morrow.'
 
 192 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 With white face, but with the affectation 
 of carelessness, Charles Lee walked away. 
 Heavens! and only two years before the 
 man was a member of the English Govern- 
 men, a statesman, a gentleman of unblemished 
 character !
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE. 
 
 Gilbert sought no more conversation that 
 afternoon. He wandered about by himself 
 in the grounds and garden and fields belong- 
 ing to the House. The first curiosity once 
 over, he felt himself out of harmony with 
 the place, for everything jarred upon him : 
 the sight and speech of the man whom he 
 purposed to kill ; the presence of that pur- 
 pose ; the postponement of the thing — on 
 account of the vague request of a brain-sick 
 girl, a visionary — lay upon his soul like lead. 
 Why did he put off the thing? He had no 
 right to stay an hour longer in the House ; 
 VOL. I. I ;
 
 194 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 he should have sought out the man without 
 going into the House — and so on. His 
 spirit was disquieted within him as he strolled 
 about the hedgeless fields. Presently he 
 came upon a stream, a bright shallow stream 
 which babbled with so sparkling a voice and 
 laughed so merrily over the stones that it 
 mocked him ; the sunshine mocked him ; the 
 clear blue sky mocked him ; the fresh breeze 
 mocked him ; everything mocked and scoffed at 
 the man who bore about so grievous a burden. 
 
 The thing should have been done in a 
 gambling den — in a saloon of desperadoes in 
 the Wild West, if there is any Wild West 
 left ; even there it would have been a task 
 heavy enough ; but it had to be done in a 
 house of religion. To this quiet peaceful 
 retreat he had come to force a man, perhaps 
 against his will, to mortal combat. 
 
 And no other way out of it — none. Even 
 if the man were arrested, tried, and sentenced 
 to a lifelong imprisonment for complicity in
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE 195 
 
 murder and companionship in robbery, his 
 wife would not be free. Nothing, except his 
 death, could set her free. He thou^rht of 
 her tears and of her shame ; of the boy, 
 whose name could only be preserved by the 
 death of his father ; of his own promise ; and 
 so he strengthened himself. Yet his heart 
 was as heavy as lead. 
 
 Suddenly while he meditated — not in the 
 Master's sense — a hand was laid upon his 
 shoulder. It was the Master himself. Gil- 
 bert turned promptly. 
 
 ' You, Master ? I did not hear your foot- 
 step.' 
 
 ' Worldling !' said the Master, using a 
 word common on the lips of the converted 
 and convinced and the saints in evangelical 
 circles fifty years ago, 'your thoughts were 
 far away from this House. You were back 
 again Outside, as absorbed and entranced as 
 we when we leave the House.' 
 ' I was thinking '
 
 196 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 * Brother Gilbert,' the Master interrupted, 
 ' I liave been disturbed in Meditation on 
 your account. I have been moved to rise 
 and seek you out and to speak to you. It 
 is laid upon me to speak to you. First of 
 yourself. Something — I know not what, 
 and I will not ask — troubles you. Some- 
 thing stands between you and the repose 
 which you need. Am I right ?' 
 
 ' You are indeed right. I am deeply 
 troubled.' 
 
 * You have not left Outside though you 
 have come here. You come not with crimes 
 upon your soul, like that other Englishman, 
 but with a purpose not yet accomplished. 
 Again, am I right ?' 
 
 ' How did you learn that ?' 
 
 'Anyone can read trouble and doubt in 
 your eyes. But I have a more certain source 
 of knowledge. When that which you think 
 must be done shall have been done, you will 
 be easier in your mind.'
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE 197 
 
 ' I think so. It will be finished.' 
 
 ' Then, Gilbert, I have a message for you. 
 One for your private ear.' 
 
 * A message ?' 
 
 ' From a person whom you know not — 
 yet. Perhaps you will know her — some 
 time or other, A message from her,' His 
 low, soft voice was like music, ' For some 
 reason which as yet I know not she takes an 
 interest in you. She is Cicely's mother, and 
 my very dear friend with whom I hold sweet 
 converse every day,' His voice faltered ; 
 his eyes became once more filled with that 
 strange, soft light — of what ? Enthusiasm ? 
 Credulity,^ Imposture? Not the last: not 
 imposture, ' She is my oldest friend, my 
 dearest friend, for whose sake her child 
 Cicely is dear to me beyond all earthly 
 things, I say, for her sake ; you would say, 
 for her memory. To me it is not memory, 
 because she lives with me still and daily 
 speaks to me,'
 
 igS THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 ' And the message ?' 
 
 'Yes — the message. "Tell Gilbert 
 Maryon," said Cicely's mother, "that what 
 has to be done may be done without him. 
 Tell him to wait ; tell him to believe that 
 what has to be done shall be done without 
 him." That is the message. As I under- 
 stand it, the time will come soon when the 
 arm of the Lord will be stretched out — when 
 some who now cumber and trouble the earth 
 will cease their troubling. How do you 
 understand it ?' 
 
 ' Why ! how should she know ? How 
 should anyone — you — Cicely — anyone know 
 anything? She cannot. What does she 
 mean, then ?' 
 
 ' I know nothing, young man. Yet I can 
 read the signs. I do not ask your purpose 
 — I do not ask your Past. There is, how- 
 ever, a plain promise with a plain command, 
 from one who cannot deceive and can fore- 
 tell. On her heights the future is spread
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE 199 
 
 out before her like a map. This thing, 
 whatever it is, will be done without your aid. 
 Very well, then. You are troubled about 
 the event and your own action in it. Let it 
 trouble you no more. Suffer your mind to 
 be at ease. Believe the promise, obey the 
 command. So all will be well with you.' 
 
 The Master turned away and left Gilbert 
 staring after him stupidly. 
 
 Now observe. If one of our friends were 
 to tell us that a telegram had just arrived 
 from a dead man and that it was lying on 
 the study table, we should treat that com- 
 munication with contempt, and that friend as 
 a person of strong imagination or of unsound 
 mind. Such a thing would not be received 
 seriously in London ; I mean, outside one of 
 the Houses of Pretence. Yet when such a 
 message was brought to Gilbert in this 
 House, whose atmosphere was charged with 
 mysterious trances and wonderful ways, he 
 received it with meekness. The man who
 
 200 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 gave him the message was a stranger, an 
 acquaintance of twenty-four hours' standing, 
 the friend of a day ; he brought no credentials 
 of veracity, he gave no proof of credibiHty ; 
 he simply said, ' Behold a miracle : I bring 
 to you a message from the dead. Why they 
 send you the message I do not know.' 
 
 Yet Gilbert received the message with 
 meekness — with that rarest of modern 
 virtues. Why ? I suppose it was partly 
 because the atmosphere of the place was so 
 strange and weird ; partly, perhaps, on ac- 
 count of the man who brought the message : 
 a strange, remarkable man, picturesque, per- 
 suasive ; a man with a soft voice, with eyes 
 deep set, searching, luminous ; with a high, 
 square forehead ; with white flowing hair. 
 We probably ask ourselves how certain 
 persons — impostors — could ever, under any 
 circumstances, be believed. The things they 
 pretended were incredible and absurd, yet 
 they deceived multitudco, and will still
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE 201 
 
 deceive multitudes so long as they have 
 the persuasive voice, the deep-set eyes, the 
 face of candour, the manner of authority. 
 Cagliostro is a case in point, and, I believe, 
 Mohammed, and the late Mahdi. 
 
 With meekness Gilbert received that 
 message. Why, he had already received 
 and obeyed a warning from a girl — to be 
 sure she looked like an angel or a spirit. 
 He was also ready to obey a message given 
 him by a man who looked like a Prophet. 
 He received the message with meekness, 
 and he allowed it to bring him consolation 
 and relief 
 
 ' What had to be done would be done with- 
 out him.' If that were so, really : if that 
 should prove to be so— if he could only 
 believe this — why, the rippling of the stream 
 and the whisper of the breeze would be an 
 echo to the joy of his heart ; his soul would 
 lie open once more — not to trance, but to 
 life and light and action. Anything seemed
 
 202 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 possible in such a House as this — even a 
 message from the dead : even the postpone- 
 ment at their command of a killing which he 
 persuaded himself would be no murder, but 
 the ordeal by battle. 
 
 One must own that, in any case, it was 
 really a remarkable thing for two such 
 messages to be delivered by two persons 
 independently. Certainly the Master could 
 have no suspicion of his intention, nor could 
 the girl. 
 
 But another and even a more remarkable 
 thing was to happen in the evening, as you 
 shall hear. 
 
 At supper in the evening he sat, as before, 
 opposite his enemy. Mr. Charles Lee retained 
 so much of his English manners that he could 
 and did sit at the table as if at a table d'hote, 
 without the least consciousness of the presence 
 of anybody else : with icy separation he gazed 
 across the table through the body of the man 
 who was going to settle accounts with him.
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE 203 
 
 He sat in silence ; he took such food as he 
 desired, and in silence he presently rose and 
 walked out of the hall. But Gilbert was no 
 longer concerned about him. ' What was to 
 be done would be done without him.' There 
 was once a gallant knight who set forth to kill 
 a loathly worm for the sake of a lady. On 
 the way he met a fairy who bade him ride on 
 and see the worm killed, but not by himself. 
 So he marvelled greatly, but rode on with 
 uplifted heart. For though he desired very 
 much the death of the worm, without which 
 the lady could never be happy, he could not 
 choose but bethink him that it was a powerful 
 creature, and one that had already killed many, 
 and that the killing of loathly worms was a 
 kind of poaching, because these creatures 
 were strictly preserved for the hunting of 
 the seigneur. Yet a gallant knight. Gilbert 
 was like his valiancy, with differences : for 
 the mediaeval worm was sure to fight on 
 provocation, and this, his modern successor.
 
 204 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 might refuse absolutely to fight. In that 
 case, what to do ? 
 
 After supper, the brothers and sisters, as 
 on the preceding night, changed their 
 positions, but not their seats ; leaning back 
 against the table with outstretched feet and 
 folded hands, and heads slightly inclined back- 
 wards. Then, as on the evening before, the 
 man at the piano played a stately march, with 
 repetitions and deep-voiced chords ; and life 
 and thought went out of the rows of vacuous 
 faces : all but a few were lost to sense and 
 feeling, or understanding. They fell into 
 trance. The restless few — among them was 
 the little woman, now restless, with whom 
 Gilbert had talked in the afternoon — got up 
 and shuffled through their clumsy, ungainly 
 dance on the platform. When they left off 
 and descended, the veil of nothingness fell 
 upon their faces too : they, like the rest, 
 sat without their souls — a strange, uncanny 
 sight.
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE 205 
 
 Then Cicely sprang upon the stage, and 
 with untutored feet performed again her wild 
 fantastic dance. It was not the same dance 
 as that of last night, but it was no less 
 graceful, natural, spontaneous, fantastic. 
 Gilbert watched it with increased interest ; 
 for now he understood something of what it 
 meant : it was like listening to a sonata of 
 which one understands a litde, and listens to 
 learn more. Last night it was a mere un- 
 meaning dance that he saw. This evening 
 he understood that she was seeking to bring 
 body and mind together into the condition 
 necessary for perfect rest. The rhythmic 
 action of the body signified and accompanied 
 the movement of the mind : first the limbs 
 fell into cadence ; then the mind fell into 
 repose as the music grew fainter ; lastly, 
 with the whirl swift and simple, the brain 
 dropped into rest absolute. She sank un- 
 conscious upon a seat on the platform, her 
 eyes open, her hands folded, her sweet face
 
 2o6 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 vacuous, with none of its ethereal beauty left 
 in it, save of shape and line. 
 
 The musician stopped and leaned back 
 against the wall, also in trance. And now 
 the hall was perfectly silent : not a breath, 
 nor a cough, nor the movement of a foot, 
 disturbed the ghostly stillness. 
 
 Suddenly, Cicely rose ; and, still with 
 folded hands and open eyes that saw nothing, 
 she walked as a somnambulist walks straight 
 through the double file of that enchanted 
 company to Gilbert, as he sat at the end of 
 the table in his place near the door. 
 
 ' Brother Gilbert,' she said, ' I bring you a 
 message.' 
 
 A third message ? He gazed into her 
 face : it was lifeless ; no gleam of life or 
 sight in those open eyes ; her soft, sweet 
 voice was changed : it was now metallic, and 
 though she spoke in low tones her words 
 echoed from wall to wall in the silence of the 
 place.
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE 207 
 
 ' ]\Iy mother sends you a message.' 
 
 ' Good heavens ! Your mother ?' 
 
 ' First, for a token, and to show that it is 
 really my mother who sends it, she bids me 
 tell you that she was in Lucknow, a child of 
 four years, when the English troops relieved 
 the place : and that your father, who was 
 with them, a young lieutenant, took her in 
 his arms and kissed her. That is a token.' 
 
 ' My father went through the Indian 
 Mutiny, certainly.' 
 
 ' This is the message. " Tell Gilbert 
 Maryon that what must be done shall be 
 done : but not by him. Bid him put the 
 thing out of his mind. During five weeks 
 longer the sinner shall have time to repent. 
 At the end of that time, what must be done 
 shall be done." ' 
 
 So saying, Cicely glided back to her seat, 
 still with the somnambulist's certain walk, 
 and the strange fixed gaze of her open eyes. 
 
 Again, one remarks that it is, of course,
 
 2o8 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 perfectly impossible for a man of Gilbert's 
 education and antecedents to believe such 
 things. They are too absurd for human 
 reason. That is the way we talk. But 
 there are certain considerations which we 
 overlook. For instance, the condition of 
 mind in which such a message is received. 
 Gilbert was in a highly sensitive, excitable 
 condition. The man he had hunted for two 
 years was in his grasp. He was going to 
 fulfil his pledge ; he was going to set his old 
 friend free. This fact alone made him 
 excited and excitable. Then, in our casual 
 talk, we are apt to forget the influence of 
 voice, eyes, touch, surroundings. This 
 message came to Gilbert, for instance, 
 out of the silence and the stillness of a 
 whole company of men and women entranced, 
 by means of one of that company, herself 
 rapt in an undoubted trance. No message 
 could well come more solemnly. And then, 
 again, one message corroborated its prede-
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE 209 
 
 cessor : Cicely could not know anything of 
 the Master's communication. Yet here was 
 an exact repetition of it. For the moment, 
 at all events, Gilbert believed both messages. 
 All his trouble left him. His eyes saw red 
 no more. 
 
 If you please to take the trouble, you may 
 construct a very reasonable explanation of the 
 whole phenomenon. The Master imagined 
 that every day he conversed with his dead 
 friends — that was his fixed craze. Now, he 
 was greatly interested in this pleasant, comely 
 young Englishman who had come thus unex- 
 pectedly into the House. He observed — any- 
 body with any penetration could observe — by 
 the usual outward symptoms, that this new- 
 comer was in trouble, or doubt, or anxiety 
 about something. What more probable than 
 that he should imagine a vague message and 
 communicate it himself, believing it to be 
 true ? Nothing more natural. As a good 
 child of his generation, Gilbert put the thing. 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 next morning, in that way ; he wrote it down 
 in his diary, because most men argue best 
 with a pen in hand. And yet, in spite of this 
 rational interpretation, he continued to beHeve 
 in the message. 
 
 Exactly the same thing with Cicely's mes- 
 sage. She imagined this message, because, 
 like the Master, she conversed with her dead 
 parents every evening ; she, too, was in- 
 terested in the new-comer ; she, too, had 
 observed the signs of trouble. She dreamed 
 the message ; half asleep she carried the 
 dream to him. 
 
 A perfectly rational explanation, you see. 
 Not a spark of the supernatural about it. 
 Gilbert wrote a short account of the two 
 similar phenomena with this explanation. 
 Much is due to one's self-respect in this 
 age ; but, being a descendant of so many 
 ages which have all believed in the uncanny, 
 he continued to believe in the warning and 
 the command ; he received the former ; he
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE 211 
 
 obeyed the latter ; and he said to himself 
 that he disbelieved the whole business. 
 
 When the trance was over, he looked for 
 some repetition of the message, some con- 
 firmation from Cicely. She made no sign ; 
 with the rest of the sisters she filed off 
 to the gynaeceum and vanished for the 
 night. 
 
 Gilbert, a long way from the repose of 
 meditation, sought his own room. He had 
 the curiosity to look into his neighbour's 
 room : it was again empty. What did the 
 man do all the evening in the dark gardens 
 and the empty workshops of the House ? 
 In the middle of the night he was again 
 awakened by belated footsteps in the cor- 
 ridor ; they passed his room, they entered 
 his neighbour's room, Mr. Charles Lee, 
 then, came up to bed at the fashionable hour 
 of two. What had h(i been doing from 
 seven o'clock in the evening until two in the 
 morning ? Wickedness, somewhere. Mis-
 
 212 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 chief, somewhere. Never mind. In five 
 weeks' time all would be cleared up. So, 
 relying on those two messages, Gilbert went 
 to sleep again. 
 
 In the morning he made a curious dis- 
 covery. When he exchanged his clothes for 
 the livery of the House, he had placed all 
 his money with his v/atch and a ring or 
 two in a drawer. There were about six 
 hundred dollars in notes and a letter of 
 credit. All the money was gone. ' So,' 
 said Gilbert, 'there is a robber in the House 
 of Meditation.' 
 
 It was impossible not to connect the deed 
 vvith the man named Charles Lee. ' Poor 
 devil !' said Gilbert ; ' he has sunk low in- 
 deed. But he cannot get away from this 
 House. That is impossible.' 
 
 He resolved upon saying nothing, for the 
 moment, about this loss, and so he went 
 downstairs to the morninor work. 
 
 The man whom he suspected was already
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE 213 
 
 in the garden, rake or hoe in hand, pretend- 
 ing to a zealous performance of his duties. 
 When Cicely walked over from her place to 
 speak with Gilbert, the man gazed sus- 
 piciousl)% his face pale with anxiety. They 
 were talking about him. This he saw quite 
 clearly. Everybody knows when other 
 people are talking about them ; some men 
 pretend that they can hear what is said — 
 which we need not believe. He was quite 
 right. The conversation did, in fact, concern 
 this sinful brother. 
 
 ' My heart has been troubled about you 
 all night, Gilbert,' said the girl seriously. 
 
 ' It is very good of you to think about me 
 at all, I do not forget what you said last 
 night.' 
 
 'What did I say last night .^ I wish I 
 could say or do anything to remove the 
 trouble.' 
 
 ' I am not so troubled, I say, Cicely, since 
 I received your message of last night.'
 
 214 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 She seemed not to hear. * The bad in- 
 fluence,' she said, 'is connected with the 
 other Englishman over yonder — the man 
 with a soul as black as night. He has no 
 business here ; he belongs to lower levels : 
 in his next world he will be a pig, I think, or 
 a rattlesnake. You know that after death 
 we all go to our own levels. This man fears 
 you, Gilbert, for some reason. I see very 
 plainly that he would do you some harm if 
 he dared. You are very hostile to him, and 
 he knows it. But he cannot get away. I 
 know not why. He would like to fly, but 
 he is afraid.' 
 
 ' How do you know this, Cicely ? Are 
 you a witch i^' 
 
 ' What is a witch ? I know because I can 
 read what is written on your face and in 
 your eyes as plainly as any print : and on his 
 face, too. Gilbert, put that purpose of yours 
 out of your mind. Let me try to work upon
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE 215 
 
 that evil spirit of his and to cahn him into 
 forgetful ness. Oh ! how restless he is ! What 
 a terrible punishment it is for wickedness, 
 that one cannot forget ! To be tied and 
 chained in the lower levels — oh ! it is dread- 
 ful !' 
 
 ' You will never calm that restless spirit, 
 Cicely. But try, by all means — after your 
 mother's message.' 
 
 ' My mother's message ? What message ? 
 You keep talking about a message.' 
 
 'You gave it to me yourself, Cicely, last 
 night, while you were in trance. Have you 
 forgotten .'*' 
 
 She became greatly agitated. ' Oh, Gil- 
 bert ! what .'* I remember nothing of what 
 happens to me in trance. Tell me, Gilbert, 
 exactly what it was. Ah ! my mother ! 
 She sent herself — my mother — a message to 
 you ? Oh ! what does it mean that she 
 should think of you ?' The tears came into
 
 2i6 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 her eyes. ' Yet she is so good. She thinks 
 of everybody.' 
 
 * She says that she knew my father long 
 ago, in India, when she was a child.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Yes, yes — she was born in India ; 
 she was in Lucknow when the rebels. . . . 
 Oh ! it is wonderful. But the message. 
 Tell me exactly what she said.' 
 
 'She said, "That what has to be done 
 will be done, but not by him." That is, by 
 me. "And now he is to put the thing out 
 of his mind. For five weeks longer the man 
 shall have leisure to repent." The man is 
 Brother Charles. "At the end of that time 
 what has to be done will be done." That is 
 the message, Cicely. The Master brought 
 me another to the same effect from your 
 mother.' 
 
 'Oh! Through the Master, too! Gil- 
 bert, there is some reason — I know not what 
 — why she should give you her protection.
 
 A SECOND AND A THIRD MESSAGE 217 
 
 Oh ! but you must believe what she says : 
 she cannot deceive you ; she is so high that 
 future and past and present are all visible to 
 her. Oh ! that my mother should send a 
 message, and to you ! Oh ! she will look 
 after you now. Oh, Gilbert ! oh, how glad 
 I am that you came !' 
 
 ' But about this message ?' 
 
 'You must obey — you have no choice. 
 Tell me, Gilbert, you believe it ?' 
 
 * Belief, my child, in such a thing as this is 
 contrary to reason. The thing is prepos- 
 terous. It is likewise ridiculous. I have 
 said this to myself a dozen times. Yet, 
 Cicely, I do believe it.' 
 
 He took her hand. The other man looked 
 on with a scowl ; he could see, but he could 
 not hear — he could see her sweet, earnest 
 face looking up in prayer — and he could see 
 the man's face softening. 
 
 'I believe it, dear child. I will obey.
 
 2i8 THE CITY OF REFUGE 
 
 I will wait for five long weeks. And mean- 
 time you will talk and tell me things out of 
 your innocence and your faith. These things 
 are too high for me. Let me lean awhile 
 Cicely, on your more stalwart arm.' 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
 
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