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THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 “A POOR MAN’S HOUSE” 
 Crown 8vo. 
 
 Second Edition . 
 
THE HOLY 
 MOUNTAIN 
 
 A SATIRE ON TENDENCIES 
 BY STEPHEN REYNOLDS 
 
 There's many a true word, spoken in jest 
 
 LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEYHEAD 
 NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMX 
 
PLYMOUTH! WILLIAM BRBNDON AND SON, LIMITED, PRINTERS 
 
JO f pat"ri J "V ')/’> /-)“?* 
 
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 TO 
 
 THE AUTHOR’S 
 FORMER SCHOOLMISTRESS 
 AND 
 
 PRESENT FRIEND 
 
 MISS ADA BENNETT 
 
 TO WHOSE GENEROUS CARE HE OWES 
 AMONG MANY OTHER THINGS 
 HIS LIFE 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/holymountainsatiOOreyn 
 
If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed , ye shall 
 say to this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; 
 and it shall remove; and nothing shall he impossible 
 unto you . — St. Matthew. 
 
 If the fool would persist in his folly he would become 
 wise . — Blake. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 B 
 
BOOK I 
 

THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 I 
 
 Should you, after an absence, return to Trowbury, 
 Wilts, your health will be inquired after ; you will be 
 questioned as to your time of coming and going, your 
 business in the old town, and particularly as to your 
 private affairs ; and lastly you will be asked, “ Well, 
 you don't find Trowbury much altered, do you ? 99 
 To this you should reply, “ No, not a bit ! ” and blame 
 the railway company. Then you may make a move in 
 the direction of the Blue Boar, that modernised coach- 
 ing inn which is called ‘ The Antient Hostelry ' by 
 local newspapers, and gives an air of prosperous age to 
 at least one corner of the Market Square. 
 
 Enter and drink to the health of your inquisitive 
 friend. Drink up, dear sir ! Another Scotch and soda ? 
 And another to the welfare of Trowbury. Say you love 
 the dear old place ; or that Trowbury is going to the 
 dogs. It is all the same. Trowbury is Trowbury — the 
 small old market town on a slope of the Wiltshire 
 Downs, with the bare windy hills above it and good 
 fat hedged-in grazing lands below. It does not increase ; 
 neither does it greatly diminish. It spends a vast 
 amount of time and speech, and a certain amount of 
 energy, in standing quite still. It takes its pride in the 
 fact that, if it has never been better than it is, it has 
 certainly never been worse. Not every man, nor every 
 town, can hold his or its own by standing still. En- 
 
6 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 viable little town ! whose rates would be twenty shillings 
 in the pound but for the tongues that must wag before a 
 penny’s spending ; whose dull sins suffice to provide 
 the clergy and the police with salaries ; whose wit is 
 the handmaiden of gossip ; whose brain is as peaceful 
 as a standing pool ; whose civic motto might be Semper 
 Eadem ! 
 
 And one more glass, my dear sir, to Trowbury society, 
 to the Castle which belongs to strangers ; to the County 
 which is great and takes care to live outside the town ; 
 to the Fringers — families not quite County, professional 
 and semi-professional people, and tradesmen with offices 
 instead of shops — who may touch the hem of the 
 County’s garments at charities, bazaars and the like, 
 and whose social position is a wee babe, born too early, 
 that cries for careful nursing ; to the upper tradesfolk, 
 aldermen, councillors, burgesses and busybodies, good- 
 livers all, who have money, respectability or push, and 
 for the most part frequent the bar of the Blue Boar ; 
 to the lower tradesfolk who sit in shilling seats and 
 dress amazingly on Sundays ; to workmen sober and 
 workmen drunken ; to servants virtuous and servants 
 not ; to those poor sportsmen who are called poachers, 
 and to all who make use of the workhouse, the asylum 
 or the gaol — Good Health ! For of such is the town of 
 Trowbury, and the devil may care which is the best and 
 the worst of them ! 
 
 II 
 
 About the middle of the right hand side of Castle 
 Street — the straight narrow thoroughfare on either side 
 of which the upper tradesfolk have their shops, and 
 many of them their dwellings and gardens too — there 
 used to be a somewhat gaudy shop, fitted into the base- 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 7 
 
 ment of a sombre freestone house, across which was 
 painted in large red letters picked out with gold : 
 
 JAMES TROTMAN, THE FAMOUS GROCER, 
 Established 1889. 
 
 TRY OUR FAMOUS BLEND OF FAMILY TEA. 
 
 Here, early on a Monday in July, was enacted a series 
 of little scenes which might have been providentially 
 arranged for reproduction on paper bags. A servant 
 in a sluttish print dress, with untidy hair and cap awry, 
 stood for some minutes at the side door talking to the 
 milkman. She put his tie straight (with an eye on 
 another man who was sweeping the odds and ends of 
 the shop across the pavement), heard a voice, took up 
 her jug, and hastened inside to the kitchen. Four rather 
 pinched young women in dowdy black raiment came 
 chattering up the street, passed through the side door, 
 and banged it. Another young woman, Starkey by 
 name, more lissom in figure, better in looks and nattier 
 in dress, hurried up the street from the other end, and 
 likewise disappeared into the Famous Grocery Establish- 
 ment. It seemed as if the place and the people had 
 clockwork inside them. With many odd jerks and 
 wrinklings the broad blue blinds of the shop went 
 up. The four young women, all of them greatly smart- 
 ened by the addition of white aprons and oversleeves, 
 bustled about between the counters. Miss Starkey 
 took her place in a glass box labelled Cash. A hatless 
 child, carrying a pair of bloaters under one arm and a 
 loaf under the other, bought half a pound of castor 
 sugar and a penn'orth of adulterated pepper. The 
 day's business began. 
 
 Within the house also, the day commenced in a 
 similarly mechanical fashion. In a sitting-room, one 
 door of which opened into the passage, another into 
 
8 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 the kitchen and another into the shop, the servant, 
 behindhand on account of her talk with the milkman, 
 was throwing breakfast things upon the table. It was 
 a dingy room. Not all the frivolous importations of 
 Mrs. Trotman — bits of art muslin, photogravures, 
 painted dicky-birds, bamboo letter-racks and so forth — 
 could do much to relieve its dullness. It smelled of 
 stale tobacco smoke (bad cigars) and of a dirty carpet. 
 Even the morning light that came in through a French 
 window, mud-splashed from the flower-bed outside, was 
 stale and spiritless. 
 
 The clock was stopped ; but at 8.15 or thereabout 
 Alderman James Trotman, Mayor of Trowbury, slowly 
 descended the stairs, whistling the air of an old song 
 called The Honeysuckle and the Bee . He walked into the 
 sitting-room, monarch of all he surveyed. Although a 
 peep through the window of the door leading into the 
 shop appeared to be not unsatisfactory, it was at the 
 same time very plain that he had got out of bed the 
 wrong side, or, as was more likely, had got into it at the 
 wrong time. For he belonged to that fraternity of 
 lugubrious topers, which discusses things in general 
 and its neighbours in particular every evening at the 
 Blue Boar ; a coterie which is familiarly and justly 
 known as the Blue Bores . He now walked delicately 
 round the room, balancing himself the fraction of a 
 second on the ball of each foot. His glance at the break- 
 fast table might equally have meant, “ What can I do 
 for you, ma'am ? '' or, “ Why isn't breakfast ready ? 
 What have you got ? " Both no doubt were simply a 
 part of his daily routine. At all events, the gravy 
 splashes on the tablecloth encircled no dish of bacon. 
 Alderman Trotman pulled down the bell deliberately, let 
 it swing back with a snap and a jangle, and resumed his 
 promenade around the breakfast table. Nevertheless his 
 none too healthy countenance looked fairly contented. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 9 
 
 He was in no sense an extraordinary man, and would 
 indeed have repudiated any suggestion to that effect, 
 unless some very complimentary intent were made quite 
 obvious. He liked to call himself A man in the street, 
 meaning by street, of course, Bond Street or Piccadilly ; 
 not Castle Street, Trowbury. His house of many man- 
 sions was most emphatically London. The reason why 
 his fellow- townsmen had made him mayor was, that it 
 w r as his turn. His greatest practical ambitions were, to 
 get on in life — to make money that is, — and to be a 
 local celebrity as cheaply and with as much advertise- 
 ment to his business as possible. At this time, he had 
 no idea of becoming a world- celebrity. He was forty - 
 five years, one month and some days old ; of middling 
 height and middling stoutness ; middling altogether. 
 His appearance — sloppy clothes, a dirty collar and 
 trodden-over carpet slippers — was absolutely normal, 
 except that his face, which had in repose a gloomy cast, 
 mainly on account of biliousness and a drooping mous- 
 tache, was rather paler than usual. In his own house he 
 was known for a manageable, if bothersome, tyrant : in 
 municipal affairs, as 'Mendment Trotman. He placed 
 few motions in the agenda of the borough council, but 
 with never-failing eloquence he amended, or tried to 
 amend, every one else's proposals for the good of the 
 dear old town. In his own opinion, and also in the 
 judgment of thoughtful people, his two originalities 
 were, first, that he called himself The Famous Grocer, 
 and secondly, that, finding young women assistants 
 (who lived out) far less expensive than men, he called 
 the young women Female Clerks, and employed them 
 exclusively at his counters. 
 
 After ringing the bell a second time, he seated himself 
 before the place where the bacon should have been. 
 Almost immediately a thin fair woman, a few years 
 younger than the Mayor, and peevish in expression, 
 
10 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 entered the sitting-room by the kitchen door, and 
 seated herself before the breakfast cups. There was 
 about her a certain air of elegance and an equally 
 certain air of vulgarity. Her skirt was stained and with 
 a dirty hand she fingered a golden bracelet. A pearl 
 brooch fastened her crumpled collar. She was the 
 Mayor's most very excellent wife. Her innate vulgarity 
 suited him at home. Her elegance was useful to him 
 abroad. He knew how to deal with her peevishness. 
 She was tactful with his bilious irritability. Which of 
 them was the profounder, the more jealous and earnest- 
 minded scandalmonger, it is impossible to say ; their 
 methods were so different and their joint results so 
 wonderful. 
 
 Without giving her husband an opportunity of in- 
 quiring after the bacon, Mrs. Trotman remarked 
 sweetly : “ It's coming in a minute if you'll wait." 
 
 “ I've waited twenty minutes already," said Mr. 
 Trotman in those sepulchral tones that he used on im- 
 portant occasions. 
 
 “ Do have patience, my dear ! — What is that little 
 hussy up to ? " 
 
 “ If at first you don't succeed . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Trotman produced a large sigh, removed her 
 bracelet and returned to the kitchen ; whence in a few 
 moments she reappeared, followed by the servant bear- 
 ing at last a dish of fried bacon. 
 
 “ H'm ! " began the Mayor, turning over some 
 of the rashers with his own fork. “ Drowned in 
 fat ! " 
 
 “ You didn't give me time to drain each piece separ- 
 ately. . . ." 
 
 “ Where's the paper ? " 
 
 “ Ellen," said Mrs. Trotman with the quiet dignity of 
 a mayoress, “ the Halfpenny Press , please." 
 
 Ellen had gone. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 11 
 
 “ Ellen ! " caterwauled the Mayoress. 44 The paper ! 
 Hurry up ! D’you hear ? ’ ’ 
 
 Mr. Trotman seemed to be in a hurry. He dropped a 
 rasher of bacon on the cloth (“ Do be careful, dear."), 
 filled his mouth over-full of hot tea (“ There ! "), 
 spluttered upon his waistcoat (“ James ! ’’), used his 
 handkerchief to wipe himself dry, placed his hand 
 on the newspaper, and thus shortly addressed his 
 wife : 
 
 “ Where’s Alec ? " 
 
 “ He’s getting up." 
 
 “ Sure ? ’’ 
 
 “ I think he is." 
 
 44 Then you’re not sure. I know he isn’t." 
 
 44 How do you know ? " 
 
 “ He’s sure not to be." 
 
 The Alderman paused, and then proceeded : 44 I 
 
 won’t have it ! " 
 
 44 What ? " 
 
 44 His coming in late, like he did last night." 
 
 44 How can it matter when he’s leaving home so soon ? 
 He wasn’t well, I think, last night, only he wouldn’t 
 say." 
 
 44 It does matter, I tell you." 
 
 Mrs. Trotman could not succeed this time in pacifying 
 her husband. Wound up by waiting, it was necessary 
 for him to run down in eloquence. 44 Yes," he con- 
 tinued, 44 1 knew quite well why you stayed down to 
 open the door after I was gone to bed last night. I 
 knew, I tell you. It’s a wonder to me you aren’t more 
 ashamed of him. I am. I’ve spent pounds more than 
 I ought to on his education. I’ve made the money, and 
 you and him have bled me. I’ve kept him on at the 
 technical school to learn to be a practical man, and he’s 
 neither business-like or a scholar. Can he write a decent 
 letter ? Eh ? When he was chucked out of May’s, 
 
12 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 and when Beecher wouldn't article him, I didn't say 
 much. . . 
 
 “ Oh ! " 
 
 “ Well, I forgave him, anyhow. He might have been 
 an accountant, or an auctioneer and estate agent, by 
 now if he'd stuck to it. There's pickings in both and I 
 could have put some business in his way. In all the 
 world there's nothing worse than a waster. Look at 
 your brother ! " 
 
 Mrs. Trotman coloured up at the reference to her 
 ne'er-do-well brother, and submitted an assortment of 
 her stock arguments in favour of her son. “ You 
 know Alec left Beecher’s because his chest couldn't 
 stand the outdoor work. He never wanted to go there. 
 And if you'd paid the premium, instead of trying 
 to do it on the cheap by getting him in on trial, perhaps 
 he'd have been there now. And he never did have any 
 head for figures. . . ." 
 
 “ Then he ought to have a head ! What did I send 
 him to school for ? Eh ? I can't have him in my own 
 establishment ..." 
 
 “ He shan't while his mother's alive ! " 
 
 “ — and look after him myself. He's not smart enough 
 for me. Only last week he told Mrs. Marteene that he 
 thought China tea more digestible than the Famous 
 Blend. The Rev. Marteene told me so himself — con- 
 gratulated me on such a thoughtful son ! He hasn't 
 the head, of course, to reckon out that there's twice as 
 much profit on the Famous. We'll see what he'll do 
 in London — the proper place, that, for business ex- 
 perience. Grocers' assistants learn to be smart there. 
 Else they starve. If I'd stayed in Trowbury, what should 
 I have been ? A very different business man to what I 
 am, as you very well know. If Alec thought he was 
 going to stop about here and dangle after that yellow 
 girl at Turner's, he was trying the game on the wrong 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 13 
 
 man. Besides, he's much too familiar with the girls in 
 the shop. That Miss Starkey. . . 
 
 44 Oh, I'm sure he isn't. That woman ! You know 
 he's not." 
 
 “ Oh well, I'm not so sure. — Are you getting his things 
 ready ? It's Monday now, and we start Thursday ; 
 and no putting it off, mind. Go'n see if he's getting 
 up and tell him his father wants to speak to him — im- 
 mediately ! " 
 
 Mr. Trotman had dragged the teapot towards him, 
 had refilled his cup, and was just going to open the 
 newspaper, when his wife returned, saying : “ He's 
 
 got up early and gone bathing. I hope he won't catch 
 cold. . . 
 
 “ Do him good ! " snapped his father. “ He'll 
 go to Town just the same next Thursday, any- 
 how." 
 
 The Alderman's eloquence had nearly worked itself 
 out. He took another piece of bread, and Mrs. 
 Trotman judged that a counter-attraction or diver- 
 sion, a little savoury, which is to say a tit-bit of 
 scandal, would be timely. 44 D'you remember saying 
 last week, James, that Mr. Clinch's affairs are in a 
 mess ? " 
 
 “ Well ? " 
 
 44 I saw Mrs. Clinch last night in the butcher's. She 
 looked awfully pale and worried." 
 
 44 Clinch still up in Town ? " 
 
 44 When I asked her, she turned the conversa- 
 tion." 
 
 44 H'm ! Daresay I shall see him at one of the halls 
 when I go up with Alec. He's not supposed to go to 
 Town strictly on business always." 
 
 44 Don't take Alec to those music-halls, James." 
 
 44 Why not ? D'you want me to sit with him all the 
 evening in the hotel smoking-room, or take him to 
 
14 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Madame Tussaud’s ? They’re perfectly refined ; most 
 refined entertainment if you know the ropes. In Rome 
 do as Rome does, is my motto.” 
 
 “ But you don’t think that John Clinch is — that he 
 goes up to Town to see anybody, do you ? It would 
 break her heart.” 
 
 “ Don’t know and don’t care. Got little feet under 
 many a man’s table, I shouldn’t wonder. That sort. 
 Anyhow, I’ll find out. Trust J. T.” 
 
 Mr. Trotman, who was now at last really open- 
 ing the Halfpenny Press , suddenly gave vent to 
 some almost reverential exclamations. “ Well I’m 
 damned ! ” said he. “ What on earth. . . . took at 
 that ! ” 
 
 “ James ! ” protested Mrs. Trotman in her most 
 exquisitely modulated and delicately shocked voice. 
 “ What is the matter, my dear ? ” 
 
 “ Look ! — No, never mind. I want this paper. Get 
 me my boots. I’ve got a council meeting this morning. 
 Boots ! Quick, sharp ! ” 
 
 Such an attentive bustle there was to prepare the 
 master of the house for leaving it. He put on his boots, 
 lighted a cheap morning cigar, and, taking up by mistake 
 an old newspaper, he rushed out, not to the council 
 chamber but to the Blue Boar bar. 
 
 His wife, acting on the valuable adage that 
 silence is the better half of truth, did not call him 
 back to point out his mistake. As soon as she had 
 heard the door bang, she picked up the day’s news- 
 paper and spread it out on the top of the breakfast 
 things. 
 
 Alec Trotman, who had come quietly into the room 
 with a bathing towel wrapped round his neck, glanced 
 at the open paper, looked startled, made as if to go, 
 glanced again, and did go hurriedly. 
 
 Mrs. Trotman was left staring at the central pages of 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 15 
 
 the Halfpenny Press , one of which was almost entirely 
 filled up by a collection of gigantic headlines : 
 
 VOLCANIC UPHEAVAL 
 
 SUDDEN APPEARANCE OF A MOUNTAIN IN LONDON 
 POPULOUS DISTRICT BLOTTED OUT 
 
 IS IT THE END OF THE WORLD? 
 
 What the Rev. Diogenes Jameson Says 
 
 See this Evening's Evening Press 
 
 Special Copyright Articles by Special Correspondents and 
 Authorities. 
 
 Ill 
 
 To go back to the day before that on which Alderman 
 Trotman exhibited his wits and wisdom to his wife over 
 breakfast : 
 
 At a quarter to six on Sunday evening, three young 
 men in top-hats and best clothes were walking up and 
 down Trowbury Station Road. As the turkey-gobbler 
 struts to and fro, feathers up, in a poultry yard, so did 
 these smart young men march up and down the Station 
 Road, pull their clothes into something like a fit, blow 
 their noses, adjust their ties, twirl their sticks, puff 
 cigarettes daintily, cast up their eyes at certain windows 
 and strike elegant attitudes in turning. One of them 
 placed his feet just as a dancing mistress had instructed 
 him for waltzing. Their beats, though unequal in 
 length, centred exactly opposite one single house, 
 opposite Clinch's Emporium — a large drapery establish- 
 ment that, taking tone from its master, was said to have 
 given more wives to Trowbury and to have struggled 
 
16 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 more valiantly against depopulation than any other 
 two shops in the county. Knightly vigils before cold 
 mediaeval altars placed fewer promising youths on the 
 sick-list than did Clinch's young ladies and an east wind 
 down the Station Road. But to-night the air was soft ; 
 fit for butterflies or crepuscular moths. Love was 
 abroad. He wore preposterous garments but 'twas he 
 himself. 
 
 Before long, Clinch's side-door rattled. The three 
 youths stopped dead in their perambulations. A couple 
 of richly dressed, many-coloured, fuzzy and fashionable 
 young women emerged from the Emporium — gaudy 
 butterflies emerging from as ugly a chrysalis as might 
 be seen. Two of the young men stepped up and ap- 
 propriated them ; and to the third young man one of 
 the young ladies said gaily : “ Good evenin', Mr. 
 
 Trotman. Miss Jepp 'll be down in a mo'. She's jest 
 puttin' on her 'at." After which the couples went 
 merrily up the road, leaving Mr. Alexander Trotman to 
 wait a little while longer, alone. 
 
 Far from a handsome or a hearty young man was 
 Alexander Trotman. “ Sins of the fathers . . ." you 
 might have whispered on seeing him. Even in his 
 country-made tailcoat — a large garment very round at 
 the corners — he seemed pliant, loose and narrow. His 
 pinky face was the face of a man who goes about open- 
 mouthed, and his moustache was grown just enough to 
 make him appear slightly unwashed. His boots looked 
 as if they contained corns ; and they did. Peculiar to 
 him and rather uncanny, were his light grey, steady, 
 almost sphinx-like eyes — eyes that stared people out of 
 countenance without being aware of it, and not infre- 
 quently made even his father uncomfortable. They 
 suggested that, in the midst of his general weakness, 
 there survived some strong primitive force ; a head of 
 steam too great for the rickety engine ; an energy that, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 17 
 
 once let loose, would destroy its owner. Because his 
 mother, till he was more than grown up, used to in- 
 quire all the year round at the butcher's for lamb chops, 
 saying that Allie's stomach being what it was, he must 
 have tender nourishing meat — he was familiarly called 
 Chop-Allie Trotman, and his prestige in Trowbury was 
 small. His was a flabby boyhood, neither good nor 
 bad, useful nor ornamental ; a source of pride to his 
 mother and of absurd hopes and mortifications to his 
 go-ahead father. At a dance, however, when he was 
 nearly twenty years old, and was wearing his first 
 swallow-tails for the first time, he overheard a wag 
 trying to make conversation with a dull girl. 44 Chop- 
 Allie," said the wag, 44 is quite a lady-killer." That 
 was all. But Chop-Allie took the words to heart. He 
 decided that he was a Man, and in deciding, was so, 
 more or less. He kept a picture of a fat half-clothed 
 actress locked in a little wooden box. He ambled forth 
 from boyhood with the deliberate intention of lady- 
 killing. He saw himself flirting with them all and kiss- 
 ing the greater number. But the first lady he fell in 
 with, Miss Julia Jepp of Clinch's Emporium, overcame 
 him quite ; and instead of killing he was himself most 
 grievously wounded. 
 
 When, at last, the said Miss Jepp came out of Clinch's, 
 he ran forward as if he had not seen her for years, 
 greeted her with a pump-handle handshake and snuffles 
 of delight, and succeeded in saying : 44 You've come ! " 
 
 44 Yes, I've come. But I had to hurry, I can tell you, 
 to get ready in time. And I saw you waiting below, 
 poor boy ! " 
 
 44 Did you really ? " 
 
 44 Really ! " 
 
 It was perhaps not solely to prove how much she had 
 hurried that Miss Jepp patted her ample self all over — 
 patted and pulled her yellow silk blouse, tweaked the 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 yellow ribbon round her neck, caressed her low-lying 
 fringe, the yellow bow in her hat, and the dark hair 
 that contrasted so strongly with her complexion, pale 
 from long hours in the stuffy dusty Emporium. All this 
 she did with her peaceful eyes resting on Alec. 
 
 “ D'you think I shall do ? " she asked. 
 
 Chop-Allie was spell-bound. “ Do ! 99 he blurted out. 
 “ Where's your bike. Let me get it." 
 
 She lightly touched his arm (some gestures have a 
 pathetic grace : this had) with a hand that held two 
 Prayer Books. “ I want you to come to church with 
 me, our last evening." 
 
 They had never yet braved the eyes of a church con- 
 gregation together. Alec protested that a walk or a ride 
 would be ever so much nicer, until she added : “ But 
 we'll bike up to Nurse's afterwards, and go on the Hill." 
 Then he gave way, and to church they went. 
 
 The service was not long. Alec and Julia had each 
 other to think about. It seemed to them but a short 
 while before the preacher went up into the pulpit and 
 gave out as his text : 
 
 “ If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed , ye shall 
 say to this mountain , Remove hence to yonder place ; 
 and it shall remove ; and nothing shall he impossible 
 to you . 99 
 
 And it seemed but a short while, again, before the 
 preacher's peroration, delivered under the flickering 
 pulpit gas-lamps in tones of great conviction, caused 
 Alec to take his eyes off Miss Jepp's left hand. 
 
 “ If we had faith as a grain of mustard seed," the 
 preacher's voice rang out, “ we might say to the ever- 
 lasting hills, Remove hence to yonder place ; and they 
 should remove ; and nothing would be impossible unto 
 us. But we have not that faith. We have little faith 
 and little love, and therefore are we a weak-kneed 
 generation, and all things of worth are impossible unto 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 19 
 
 us, and the blest age of miracles is past and gone. 
 Nevertheless '' — here his voice was low enough and im- 
 pressive enough to startle the congregation — “ it is 
 written and endures, If ye have faith as a grain of 
 mustard seed, ye shall say to this mountain, Remove 
 hence to yonder place ; and it shall remove ; and 
 nothing, nothing shall be impossible to you ! '' 
 
 The gas-lamps in the body of the church were turned 
 up. The congregation shuffled as if it had the pins-and- 
 needles in its legs. The organ gave out the melody of 
 the last hymn. What relief ! Deep breaths were taken. 
 Alec and Julia had been so thrilled that they forgot to 
 rise until the congregation's singing and the chink of 
 pence in the bags brought them, too, back to everyday 
 life. Throughout the hymn they glanced slantways at 
 one another, and no doubt would have continued so 
 gazing if the anxiety of the people to be out of church 
 had not compelled them to look after their ribs and 
 toes, instead of into each other's eyes. 
 
 How exquisitely fresh was the evening air outside ! 
 
 IV 
 
 Once on their bicycles, Alec and Julia felt at 
 home, for cycling was more to them than worship. 
 When Alec made the discovery that Julia Jepp, who 
 was flat-footed and walked badly, looked, as he said, 
 perfectly lovely on a bicycle, he pleased himself and he 
 pleased her ; and it was his most notable advance in 
 courtship. They rode rapidly out side by side, and soon 
 left the strolling townsfolk behind them in that stretch 
 of the road which is an avenue of plain and ornamental 
 trees and also a canal of dust. None of this they noticed ; 
 neither trees, hedges, pathways, nor mere walking 
 
20 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 couples. Only motor-cars brought them back to them- 
 selves and the world. After a couple of miles they came 
 out upon the open, white and for the most part hedgeless 
 road that winds over the Downs, and finally they alighted 
 at the gate of a tiny cottage with a porch and three little 
 white-curtained windows. 
 
 “ La, Master Allie ! Is it you to be sure ? Who'd ha* 
 thought of seem* you out here to-night ! " exclaimed 
 the small old woman, becapped, bearded, and dressed 
 in rusty black, who ran out to greet them. “ And how 
 be father and mother, my dear ? 'Tisn't often I get 
 into town to see 'em now." 
 
 “ Oh, they're all right. . . 
 
 “ And you don't mean to tell me this be your young 
 lady, do 'ee ? Well, well ! " 
 
 Chop-Allie's pleasure and confusion were about equal ; 
 for in courtships like his there must be a good deal of 
 walking out, and even a little kissing, before young- 
 ladyship is openly admitted ; and his proposal of 
 marriage, his formal wooing, was yet in solution, so to 
 speak. 
 
 “ There, come in a minute, won't 'ee, my dears ? " 
 the gossipy lonesome old woman was saying, when Alec 
 interrupted her with : “ We're going up on the Hill, 
 nurse. May we leave our machines here ? " 
 
 “ On course you may, my dear. Young folk sweet- 
 heartin' don't want old folks' company, do 'em ? But " 
 — turning to Miss Jepp — “ you ain't going on the Hill 
 in that lovely silk body, and your hat and hair done 
 nice and all, fit for a live lady in her carriage. — You've 
 got a real nice pretty young lady, Master Allie ; and I 
 should like to see her in one o' they there pretty sun- 
 bonnets, like they used to wear when I were young, 
 that I should. — And I think as how you'll make him a 
 good wife, Miss ; which I'm sure he'll make 'ee a good 
 husband, for I've a-nursed he and I've a-nursed his 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 21 
 
 father, and fine babies they was both, though they did 
 both have croup and bronkitties, and was delicate in 
 their little stummicks, and was born wi’ difficulty, 
 both. But there, they d’ say, c Like father, like son , ; 
 and there’s something in it, I say.” 
 
 Alec and his sweetheart were greatly blushing now. 
 “ Well, we must get on, nurse,” he said. “ See you again 
 soon.” 
 
 44 Good night, my dears. — There, I shall see ’ee again, 
 shan’t I ? I’ll take care on your bicycles.” 
 
 Close by the cottage they left the main road for one 
 of the rutted tracks down which chalk is brought to 
 the lime kilns from the quarries above. Both of them 
 being thoughtful, disinclined to prattle, and still rather 
 embarrassed by Mrs. Parfitt’s memories and enthusiasm, 
 they had a rare opportunity of listening to the birds 
 and grasshoppers. And this unusual silence lasted until 
 Miss Jepp slipped into a rut overgrown by grass and 
 cornflowers, and tore the hem of her garment. 
 
 She lifted up her skirt nine inches, retired to the bank 
 and handled pins as to the knack trained. 
 
 44 I can’t never think how ladies mend things so 
 quick,” remarked Alec, regarding Julia with lively ad- 
 miring eyes. “T couldn’t, I’m sure.” 
 
 44 You’re a man. There’s lots of things you can do 
 that us women can’t, you know.” 
 
 “ I don’t know. . . .” 
 
 44 Men can fish and hunt and play football and cricket, 
 and hit brutes down, and go anywhere. I wish I could.” 
 44 So do I,” said Alec sadly. 
 
 44 And make love. . . .” Julia added. 
 
 Alexander Trotman grasped the hand of Miss Julia 
 Jepp. Hot words flooded his mind, but unfortunately 
 the hand was the one that held her draperies. (The 
 other one held her pins.) Once more she trod on her 
 skirts and tore them. 
 
22 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ There ! Oh my ! " 
 
 “ I'm so sorry. . . ." Alec began. 
 
 “ You go on, Mr. Trotman. I think it's my under- 
 skirt." 
 
 She tore the lowest flounce from her petticoat, 
 straightened her hat, patted her hair, and rejoined 
 Alec. Walking some two or three feet apart, they 
 mounted the hill. 
 
 “ Lovely, isn't it ? " observed Miss Jepp. 
 
 “ There’s some air up here," replied Alec. 
 
 It is a Trowbury commonplace that the Downs — 
 ‘ where there's always some air going ' — lend salubrity 
 to the town ; which, to tell the truth, is fully two hun- 
 dred feet below, and frequently seems to obtain its air 
 rather from fried-fish shops than from the wind-swept 
 Downs. 
 
 The lovers came to a stop. Shortness of breath has 
 been the cause of much admiration of hill scenery. 
 Miss Jepp was red in the face — not quite healthily red — 
 and Alec was breathing with a slight wheeze. 
 
 “ It's lovely," said the former between breaths. 
 
 “ Yes — lovely ! " echoed the latter. 
 
 They were right. 
 
 Away in front of them stretched the undulating sage- 
 coloured plain, most exquisite in its gentle sharp-cut 
 curves, and tinged on the horizon with the colours of the 
 sky, now flushed by the approaching sunset. An ancient 
 camp, topped by a group of weird and desolate black 
 pines, jutted out into the vale on one side. On the other 
 side, and also behind them, was a broad fertile valley, 
 and in the distance a range of shining purple hills that 
 looked no less than mountainous in the clear proportion- 
 less air. Ramshorn Hill, with its abrupt sides and its 
 circlet of beech trees, crouched before them like a huge 
 breathing animal. Cloud shadows glided slowly over it, 
 and a flock of sheep, like a large flat yellow beetle, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 23 
 
 crawled down it towards one of the dewponds on the 
 plain. The wind whistled through the grass stalks as if 
 the air was wishful to caress the earth. The place was 
 holy — a temple for some god too mighty, too imper- 
 sonal, to be worshipped in temples built with hands ; 
 yet a god no mightier on earth than him the lovers 
 were prepared to worship another way. 
 
 Said Alec, “ I'm a bit blown. Shall we sit down ? " 
 
 “ Just a weeny bit, if you like. That's it ; sit on my 
 skirt ; the grass may be damp. If I'm late the guvnor 
 'll fine me and just about give it to me to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 “ Oh lor ! Will he ? Mine tries to, sometimes." Alec 
 took out a bronzed cigarette case. “You don't mind 
 smoke ? Plenty of air up here to carry it off." 
 
 “ I won't mind this time," answered Miss Jepp in 
 what she imagined to be the tone and manner of real 
 unsmoked ladies. Then she continued in her ordinary 
 voice : “ Me and Miss Loder have smoked out of the 
 bedroom window once or twice. Really ! But I didn't 
 like it a bit." 
 
 “ Have one now ? " 
 
 “ No, no ! Really!" 
 
 “ I'm going so soon. . . ." 
 
 “ Poor boy ! And I shan't see you again — till when ? " 
 
 “ I don’t know. Never, I shouldn't wonder. Why 
 don't you get a berth in London ? We could go to all 
 sorts of places." 
 
 “ 'Twouldn't be any good. I wish I could. Really 
 I do ! You see, dear," — she laid her hand on his arm — 
 “in Trowbury I'm Miss Julia Jepp from the leading 
 London houses and they think I know the Paris fashions, 
 but in Town I'd be only Julie Jepp from nowhere. 
 'Twas the doctor that first sent me into the country 
 out of London because I'm delicate ; and I don't want 
 to die, do I ? Not just yet. . . ." 
 
24 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Alec did not answer. Instead, he slid his arm round 
 her waist — and for so doing was mightily rewarded. 
 “ Not now I know you,” she added ; and she cuddled 
 to him : cuddled him to her, would perhaps be more 
 correct. Before long, they were half lying on the elastic 
 but thistly sward. Alec toyed with the long watch 
 chain around Julia's neck. Incidentally he touched 
 her hair, as gingerly as one touches a cat reputed to 
 scratch and bite. However old to mankind, these 
 simple actions were new to Alec and Julia. Speechless 
 and sadly joyful, they thought they were thinking, until 
 Julia sighed prodigiously and said : “ I expect you are 
 glad you are going to London — really.” 
 
 “ I am, you know, in a way ; and I'm not. I don’ 
 know. I wish you could come.” 
 
 “ Poor boy ! One never knows one's luck. What 
 part did you say you were going to ? ” 
 
 “ A place in Acton, on the Uxbridge Road, father 
 says.” 
 
 “ I know that part. I've been there,” said Julia, 
 rather glad of something definite, however trivial, to 
 talk about. “ We had a young lady from there at our 
 place in Oxford Street when I was in Town, and she got 
 ill, and I used to go out there to see her until she died. 
 She was my partic'lar chum, she was.' 
 
 “ Oh. . . . What's it like ? ” 
 
 “ Well, I don't exactly know : I can't say, that is. 
 It’s not town and it's not country. It's mostly building 
 land and new houses and cheap shops.” 
 
 “ Nowhere to walk ? ” 
 
 “ There's some nice fields behind Acton.” 
 
 “ Nice ones ? ” 
 
 “ They used to make me shiver ; really they did. I 
 always caught cold there. I used to go walks with that 
 young lady I told you, when she was well enough, and 
 she used to say the fields were dying like she was and 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 25 
 
 the houses were tombstones ; but some of them are 
 rather nice.” 
 
 “ I wish I wasn't going, Julia.” 
 
 The streaming red clouds had solidified, as it were, 
 to a dense violet while the sun had been sinking below 
 the horizon ; and as the sharply outlined gullies of 
 Ramshorn Hill faded into the general mass of Downs 
 and clouds, the heavens and the earth seemed to become 
 one vast cloudland. Alec and Julia came under the 
 spell of the Downs. They spoke reverently to one 
 another. Their longing augmented their reverence — 
 for what, they did not know. 
 
 “ I do wish I wasn’t going,” Alec repeated. “ We 
 shan’t have any more rides or walks. I don’t want to 
 go a bit.” 
 
 “ But you must, you’ve got to, dear.” 
 
 “ I won’t ! I wouldn’t mind if there was a place like 
 this in London.” 
 
 “ But you’re going to work and get an income, and 
 then we’ll . . 
 
 “We shan’t never climb up Ramshorn Hill any more. 
 We shall write letters, and then we shall stop that. 
 People always do. I’ve got an idea we shan’t never 
 see each other any more.” 
 
 “ God will take care of us,” said Julia Jepp as she 
 bent forward and kissed him on the forehead. 
 
 He was near weeping ; was like a naughty boy. 
 
 “ D’you remember what the clergyman said ? ” she 
 asked. “ It’s in the Bible : If ye have faith as a grain of 
 mustard seed , ye should say to that mountain , Remove 
 hence to yonder place, and it should remove , and nothing 
 shall be impossible unto you .” 
 
 “ That’s all rot.” 
 
 “ If ye have faith. . . ” 
 
 “Julie! Julie!” cried Alec with unformulated 
 despair. 
 
26 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 They kissed ; neither decorously on the forehead this 
 time, nor shyly on the cheek. 
 
 They clung to each other, a little spot on the broad 
 open Downs. 
 
 It was the moment when the hills are in perfect peace ; 
 after the day birds have ceased twittering ; before the 
 night birds fly. The wind was now very still. 
 
 “ Julie ! ” cried Alec again, and again they kissed. 
 “ I wish Ramshorn Hill was near Acton. I can't go 
 away from the Downs. I won’t. I want them, Julie.” 
 
 He raised himself a little, and peered as it were 
 violently into the darkening scene, without speaking. 
 
 The Downs trembled. 
 
 “ What’s that ? ” said Julia in a whisper. 
 
 A puff of cool air struck them. A corncrake gave a 
 rasping screech behind them. 
 
 44 Only a corncrake. . . 
 
 “ Not that ! ” 
 
 Julia scrambled to her knees. 
 
 46 Look ! ” 
 
 Alec stood up too. He shuddered. 
 
 Where Ramshorn Hill had been, there was a large 
 white patch and something like a hollow. They could 
 see the last shred of sunset — a lingering coloured cloud 
 which before had been hidden by the beech-topped 
 hill. 
 
 46 What is it ? ” said Julia breathlessly. Her breast 
 was heaving and her hat awry. She was ugly with 
 fright. 44 Look, Alec ! ” 
 
 44 God ! ” exclaimed Alec in a voice unlike his own. 
 44 I’ve gone and done it ! ” 
 
 44 You . . . What ? ” 
 
 44 1 thought what you said — what the preacher — 
 the Bible — says, — and when we were — were — you 
 know — sitting down — I wished it. . . . Oh, God ! 
 I’ve done it now ! ” 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 27 
 
 “ Done what ? What ? " 
 
 “ Moved Ramshorn Hill. It’s gone ! " 
 
 They stared into one another's eyes. Julia re- 
 covered first. 
 
 “ P'raps you haven't, really. Let's go and see." 
 
 They started walking over the Downs, towards the 
 great white patch. 
 
 It was almost dark. Both of them were shivering. 
 They felt as if there were presences, invisible eyes, 
 abroad on the Downs. 
 
 Where Ramshorn Hill had lain, there was a hollow 
 like an immense quarry. They stood on the edge and 
 looked down into it, into a whitish blackness. 
 
 “ What's that ? " screamed Julia. 
 
 A rabbit with a broken foreleg hopped up over the 
 topmost edge and crouched on Julia's boot. Pieces of 
 chalk were falling deeply into the hollow. They echoed 
 from side to side. 
 
 Ramshorn Hill was gone. 
 
 Alec and Julia stayed a few minutes, looking down 
 into the vague, terrible, mysterious hollow. Alec heard 
 the wind rising. “ Let's get down to nurse's," he said. 
 
 “ Yes, yes ! What will you do ? " 
 
 “ Promise you won't say anything to anybody at 
 all, Julie." 
 
 “ I won't." 
 
 “ Sure certain ? " 
 
 “ Oh, chase me ! " said Julia with an hysterical 
 attempt at laughter. “ What a do ! " 
 
 “ Be quiet ! " said Alec. It was the first time he had 
 ever spoken to her with command in his voice. 
 
 Silently and separately they had gone up ; silently 
 and a little apart, with careful peering footsteps, they 
 returned down the track. 
 
28 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 A light appeared in the back window of the cottage, 
 as if to guide them. 
 
 “ Julie,” said Alec, taking her arm, “ I forgot when I 
 moved the hill that you wouldn't be in Acton.” 
 
 “ You don't know the hill is. — I say, how they'll 
 look ! ” 
 
 The Downs were gathered into darkness. 
 
 V 
 
 Behold the wonder-workers then ! slinking down 
 from the hill as if some fellow-townsman, some tell-tale- 
 tit acquaintance of their fathers and masters, had sud- 
 denly broken in upon their youthful endearments. 
 Never before had they been in quite such an extraor- 
 dinary state of mind. It was not that they had had 
 time to become conceited ; to feel themselves the dis- 
 tinguished practitioners of real miracles. It was not 
 that they themselves were filled with wonder. On the 
 contrary, they simply brimmed over with a boiling 
 bubbling mash of half-cooked emotions. For it is too 
 hastily assumed that the faculty of wonder is common 
 to all men, and needs no cultivation. Alec and Julia 
 could have wondered generally at the usual objects of 
 that attitude ; at the common objects of the seashore, 
 at the triumphs of engineering, at the marvels of a 
 cheap press, and at their own insides. But Ramshorn 
 Hill . . . 
 
 No. That at present was too great for their wonder. 
 They knew, of course, that it was gone ; they knew 
 the circumstances under which it went ; and that was 
 all. But on the other hand, they understood secrets 
 quite nicely ; they had often made and broken them ; 
 it was their pledge of secrecy that their intellects were 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 29 
 
 most capable of fastening on ; and that, indeed, was 
 the topmost subject in their minds. 
 
 Mrs. Parfitt, the antique and hirsute little nurse, 
 had been all ears for their footsteps. She ran out to 
 the gate, lifting her feet straight up and down after the 
 manner of old women in soft boots, and her side-curls 
 waggled bravely as she called out : “ La, Master Allie ! 
 I thought you was never coming, my dear ; and I been 
 so frightened I didn' know what to do. There ! come 
 in and bide a minute, and I'll tell 'ee all about it.” 
 
 She hustled them into the cottage and turned up the 
 lamp, at which they blinked stupidly like fowls at 
 roost when a light is taken into the hen-house. 
 
 In an awe-stricken voice, Mrs. Parfitt began again : 
 “ ‘ There's been a . . . La, Master Allie ! How pale 
 you d' look, and I do declare if your nice young lady 
 bean't paler 'n you be ! You didn't ought to stay up 
 on they cold Downs now the nights is drawin' in — sittin' 
 on the grass, I'll be bound — ay, I knows ! If you d' go 
 sweetheartin' so fast, you won't have no sweetheart 
 left come you be married. Now sit you down, do 'ee, 
 and I be goin' to give 'ee a drop o' summut short ; and 
 then I'll tell 'ee — No ! I be goin' to do it. You be 
 'bout shrammed and 'twill do 'ee a power o' good. Sit 
 you down by the fire, my dears. I d' always have a little 
 fire in the chill o' the evenin', or else off I goes to bed.'' 
 
 Though the lovers were already late enough, their 
 contact with the miraculous had inclined them to stay 
 near any homely human being. The cottage, after the 
 dark wide Downs with their whistling wind and the 
 great hollow, was like home after travel, shore after a 
 stormy voyage. So they sat them down and looked 
 sheepishly about the room ; gazed at each other in timid 
 expectant fashion. Mrs. Parfitt busied herself with hot 
 water, glasses, spoons and sugar — all the cheerful appa- 
 ratus of hot grog. She set a glass-stoppered bottle — most 
 
30 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 like a vinegar bottle — upon the table. “ There, Master 
 Alec ! 'Tis some o' your father's own, what he give me 
 last Christmas, and I ain't hardly touched it yet, you 
 see." 
 
 Alec recognised the label on the whiskey. He knew 
 its retail price, two and elevenpence. He knew its 
 wholesale price — very considerably less — for he had 
 heard his father boast about it. He even thought he knew 
 the profit on a hogshead. By mistake one day his 
 mother had dosed him, for colic, with that famous 
 whiskey, and the doctor had had to be called in either 
 for the colic or the whiskey. He thought, therefore, 
 that they had better be going. 
 
 “ No, no, my dear ! " protested Mrs. Parfitt. “ 'Twill 
 do 'ee a power o' good. And I want to tell 'ee — while 
 you've a-been on the hill." 
 
 Glasses were filled, spoons clinked, and an odorous 
 steam, not, be it said, wholly free from rankness, 
 ascended like a sacrifice towards the ceiling. Cosiest 
 of little parties it seemed — the young man taking his 
 future wife to the nurse of his childhood. Alec sipped, 
 keeping his glass in his hand, and sat back further in 
 his chair. Julia took a gulp, wiped her mouth, shuddered 
 and set the glass down on the table very deliberately. 
 Mrs. Parfitt poured herself out what she called a tiny 
 teeny drop o' good stuff. 
 
 “ As I was a-goin' to say," she began once more. 
 Then changing her mind, she got up and reached down 
 something from the mantelshelf. “ Look at my poor 
 little china shepherd," she complained, “ as I've had 
 ever since I left your ma's." 
 
 The china shepherd was broken into several pieces. 
 Alec was requested to take the bits into his hand ; 
 likewise Miss Jepp. The old woman stood over them. 
 She shook her head, uplifted a finger, and said solemnly : 
 “ 'Tis my belief as 'twas an earthquake shook it down ! " 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 31 
 
 Alexander Trotman looked, reddened, rose up, sat 
 down again. Julia Jepp sat where she was and made 
 warning faces at her excitable young man. 
 
 “ Didn’ 'ee feel the ground tremble ? " continued Mrs. 
 Parfitt in a ghost-story voice. 
 
 “ When ? " inquired Alec faintly, glancing at Julia. 
 
 “ P'raps it was a cart going by," hazarded Julia with 
 a fierce stare at Alec. 
 
 4 4 Bless you ! I d' know the sound o' that. 'Twas an 
 earthquake, I tell 'ee ; and I thought of the Burnin' 
 o' Rome picture in your pa's sittin' room and said Our 
 Father ." 
 
 44 We don't have earthquakes nowadays," said Alec, 
 in whose mind earthquakes and miracles had become 
 somewhat mixed up. 
 
 44 No," Julia added authoritatively. 44 And we must 
 be going now ; really ; mustn't we, Mr. Trotman ? " 
 
 Mrs. Parfitt took not the least notice. She had been 
 watching them keenly in order to feast on their sur- 
 prise. Instead, she saw hesitation and significant 
 glances. 
 
 44 Don't 'ee tell I you don't know nothin’ about it ! " 
 she burst out triumphantly. 44 'Tis that what's made 
 'ee so pale. If I didn't think 'twas when I see'd 'ee 
 cornin' ! " 
 
 Alec and Julia bobbed their heads violently at one 
 another, got up, and began whispering : 44 Nurse won't 
 tell. — 'Tisn't that. — She's safe. — Nobody’s safe. Your 
 fault if it does. — All right. — Remember, I told you so." 
 
 A moment's silence, and then : 
 
 44 It was me," said Alec. 
 
 44 Alec's moved a hill," Julia explained. 
 
 44 Ramshorn Hill," said Alec. 
 
 44 And we don't know where it's gone to." 
 
 44 Acton, p'raps. . . 
 
 44 La, my dear ! What do 'ee mean ? " 
 
32 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 The secret was beginning its travels. In the three- 
 cornered conversation that followed, Julia told the tale, 
 Alec supplied corroborative details, and Julia again 
 tried to stifle her lover’s indiscretions — with no great 
 success so far as the glorious fact of kissing was con- 
 cerned. Mrs. Parfitt would not even appear to believe 
 them until Julia repeated the preacher’s text. At 
 that, the old woman credited the miracle in very 
 orthodox fashion, as the Bible itself is credited ; suffi- 
 ciently to talk about it, that is, and to indulge in sup- 
 position and partial belief ; no more. She was im- 
 plored to keep their secret, and to humour them she 
 gave her promise as if she really thought there was a 
 great occurrence to be kept dark. 
 
 “ Course I will,” she said. “ But just you go home, 
 Allie dear, and get quick to bed like a good boy. I’ll 
 be bound ’tis the earthquake’s upset ’ee a bit ; and I 
 ’spect as Mr. Merritt, Squire Burdrop’s shepherd, ’ll 
 find your Ramshorn Hill safe enough come daylight. 
 Now good night, my dears. Go straight home, and sleep 
 tight.” 
 
 It was past ten o’clock. The lovers were tremulously 
 tired. They arranged to meet each other on the morrow 
 at Clinch’s side door, after the young ladies had finished 
 their one helping of pudding, but before the Clinch 
 family had got through its second. 
 
 “ I don’t know what we shall do — might be a devil 
 of a row,” said Alec, with a whine shading into bravado. 
 
 “ I can’t hardly believe we’ve done anything,” said 
 Julia. 
 
 64 / can’t. . . ” 
 
 They kissed again in parting — poor babes in the 
 world ! 
 
 Alec’s mother let him in, asked him what was the 
 matter, gave him bovril and threatened him with his 
 father. Mr. Clinch, who let Julia into the Emporium, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 33 
 
 fined her there and then one shilling. Mrs. Parfitt locked 
 up her cottage and hurried up the road to see if Mrs. 
 Merritt — Squire Burdrop's shepherd's wife — was yet 
 abed. 
 
 VI 
 
 Children passing the porch of the Blue Boar Hotel, 
 look down the hospitable passage, into the hall and at 
 the pillars thereof, as reverently as a yokel takes his 
 first peep into the Houses of Parliament. If they are 
 sent there on an errand, to order the bus, to buy brandy 
 or a bottle of wine, they creep along the passage with 
 timid steps and wait on one foot just inside the swing- 
 doors until that great lady the barmaid calls them up 
 to the long bow- windowed bar. Then they advance shyly 
 to the side, and deliver their messages in wee small 
 voices, so that the great gentlemen who lounge at the 
 front window shall not be able to hear. If they are 
 kept waiting, which is more than probable, they steal 
 glances at the white, red and green glasses, at the 
 crystal spirit-kegs and decanters, at the hanging tan- 
 kards and piled-up cigar boxes inside the windows ; 
 or else they open their eyes at the larder on the other 
 side of the hall, with its old bull's-eye panes of glass, its 
 Stilton cheeses and its mighty joints of beef. They 
 wonder into what mysterious and sacred regions the 
 wide staircase leads, and what is on the other side of 
 the broader spring-doors which are covered with highly 
 tinted paper transparencies of saints, and which, if 
 they should open, reveal the spacious, cavernous, cook- 
 smelly and fly-blown Blue Boar kitchen. They shift 
 out of the way of waitresses scurrying by with laden 
 trays. They jump when an electric bell goes off above 
 their heads. They look down at the ground respect- 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 fully if the awful dignity of the proprietor approacheth. 
 When one of the great gentlemen saith a great big 
 damn it hath an auguster sound than father's damns 
 at home. It is something like church to them, the low- 
 ceiled, vault-like, pillared hall, with its artificial light 
 browbeating the daylight, its brightnesses, and its 
 dark and dingy shadows. 
 
 0 children, revere the Blue Boar bar ! Trowbury is a 
 big little place, and the Blue Boar bar is the head and 
 centre of it, struggle the teetotalers never so much. 
 More business is done there than in the Borough Council 
 Chamber, and as much fuss is made about it as in 
 Parliament itself. Treasure your memory of it on a 
 market day, when half a dozen servers are treading on 
 one another's corns, and a seething pack of farmers, 
 together with tradesmen who hope to make something 
 out of them, is calling and hallooing for drink and is 
 paying strong compliments to the barmaid ; when the 
 passage is almost impassable, and the pavement outside 
 is crowded with men in all varieties of garment, who 
 stand in talkative attitudes and pour samples of corn 
 from one hand into the other. 
 
 But on ordinary days — when you usually see it, 
 children — the place is given over to the peaceful occupa- 
 tion of your fellow townsfolk. There they exchange 
 their wit and wisdom. Marriages are predicted and 
 made there, and characters undone. It is the noisiest 
 place to hush a thing up in, and the quietest place 
 to spread it abroad. There men discuss their enemies, 
 friends, children and relations ; their wives even. If 
 your father is a Blue Bore, you may be certain that he 
 has blabbed about you there, and has listened to those 
 fat and elderly Paul Prys. There the Blue Bores obtain 
 bibulous sympathy for their bilious ailments, or pro- 
 fessional sympathy from a caged barmaid. They 
 arrange the affairs of town and country, growing wise 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 35 
 
 over glasses. Debts, scandals, health, visits to London, 
 deeds good and bad ; all is talked over and much of it 
 known. Almighty and omniscient are the Blue Bores, 
 some kindly and some not. 'Tis the headpiece of 
 Trowbury and of Trowbury's enlightenment. In vino 
 verifas. So be it ! 
 
 VII 
 
 In these days of a cheap press, not without a powerful 
 trumpet of its own, nor lacking wind to blow it, people 
 often forget that a piece of news is most interesting by far 
 to those whom it concerns. But, after all, to onlookers, 
 the reception of that piece of news is decidedly the most 
 entertaining thing about it. So with the news of Alex- 
 ander Trotman's miracle. For though Ramshorn Hill 
 was not unimportant to London ; inasmuch as it 
 altered the topography of a western suburb ; squashed, 
 killed, and utterly hid three or four little families of 
 Acton ; and caused for a time no small dislocation of 
 metropolitan customs ; it made nevertheless a further- 
 reaching and more permanent impression on the district 
 whence it was removed, on the town and environs of 
 Trowbury. Horrible catastrophes do not stir the heart 
 of London ; unless that heart is really Fleet Street ; 
 and it is notorious that the palpitations of Fleet Street 
 are as short-lived as they are profitable and alarming. 
 Trowbury, even, did but devote a flabby “How terrible! ” 
 to the squashed families of Acton. The event worked 
 itself out thus : at first London was excited while Trow- 
 bury was entertained ; then London found entertain- 
 ment, as it always does, whilst excitement in Trow- 
 bury grew more intense. London and Trowbury 
 played see-saw ; a spectacle which was very wonder- 
 ful ; Dignity and Impudence seated on either end of 
 
36 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 the swing-board making mouths at one another. But 
 who can tell which was which ? 
 
 On the Monday morning, at the very hour when 
 Alderman Trotman was talking to his wife, Miss Miles 
 and Miss Cora Sankey, soi-disant manageress and bar- 
 maid respectively, and Robert, the billiard-marker of 
 the Blue Boar Hotel, were all three putting the bar 
 ready for its morning customers. Miss Miles, a fair, 
 large and somewhat languishing beauty — beloved of 
 customers who wanted quiet talks — was flicking the 
 shelves with a duster. Rollicking Miss Cora Sankey 
 was polishing the counters. Robert was alternately 
 burnishing the taps of the beer- engine and pressing 
 gently a boil on the back of his neck. 
 
 The hall was gloomy, for since the sun was said to be 
 shining outside, the gases inside had been left turned 
 down. Miss Sankey's terrible laugh — a prolonged he-he 
 with a dying fall, which could not but have grated on 
 the ear of a sensitive man in a perfectly sober state — and 
 her equally terrible, distressingly cheerful chatter, were 
 continually firing off like a magazine popgun. The 
 “ Smile of the Blue Boar,” and “ Light in our Darkness,” 
 this noisy and popular little woman had been dubbed ; 
 and since she was in no sense beautiful or charming, it 
 has to be believed that her voice and laugh, and her 
 dexterity with taps and glasses and men in their cups, 
 formed her stock-in-trade as a barmaid. 
 
 She raised herself from her polishing ; stretched, and 
 yawned. “ Who d'you say'll be first in this morning, 
 Miss Miles ? Mr. Ganthorn or old Trotman ? ” 
 
 “ I'm sure I don't know. Neither perhaps.” 
 
 “ But who d'you think ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Ganthorn probably.” 
 
 “ Well, I say Trotman. What'll you bet ? ” 
 
 “ Thank you. I've no wish to bet. Life isn't long 
 enough to bet on bores.” 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 37 
 
 Miss Sankey turned to the billiard-marker, asking 
 loudly, as if he had been in the boot-hole on the other 
 side of the hall : “ Who d'you say, Robert ? ” 
 
 “ I should say, Mr. Ganthorn, Miss.” 
 
 “ How much d'you bet ? Even threepences ? ” 
 
 “ Right y'are, Miss.” 
 
 “ Done ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Put up your threepence then.” 
 
 When they had put their coppers side by side on the 
 shelf, near the cigar boxes, Miss Sankey burst into an 
 echoing laugh. “ Got you now, Robert, me boy ! I 
 counted yesterday how many drinks they had each. 
 Mr. Ganthorn had twelve Scotches and Mr. Trotman 
 had seventeen. Trotman's bound to be first. D'you 
 see ? He'll wake up with a mouth and a liver, fat- 
 headed and no end thirsty. Better give me your three-d. 
 now at once. HE-He-he-he-he ! What'll you bet he'll 
 have ? Scotch and soda, or B. and S., or phizz ? ” 
 
 “ 'Spect you've asked him beforehand, Miss,” replied 
 Robert sulkily. 
 
 “ No, I haven't, Robert. Come on ! Which is it ? ” 
 “ Robert,” said Miss Miles. “ You won't be finished 
 if you don't get on.” 
 
 “ HE-He-he-he-he ! ” 
 
 Outside the Blue Boar. . . . Who is this small, 
 jaunty, clean-shaven little man with peculiar spectacles, 
 that is coming down the Market Square ? He is exactly 
 opposite the Blue Boar porch. Eyes left ! Left turn ! 
 Eyes front ! Quick march ! He is safely within the 
 Blue Boar passage — screened from the eyes of the 
 Market Square. He is in the hall ; at the bar. 
 
 Miss Sankey has lost her bet. 
 
 “ Good morning, Mr. Ganthorn. How's you ? Didn’t 
 expect the pleasure so soon.” 
 
38 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 The manageress, who disliked Mr. Ganthorn's airy- 
 mindedness, retired in a dignified manner to the office 
 behind the bar. 
 
 “ H'm, h'm ! Beastly liver on me. Don't know why. 
 H'm ! Brandy and a little so-dah, please, Miss Cor-ah. 
 How's that for a rhyme ? " 
 
 44 He-he ! getting poetical in our old age." 
 
 “ How's the boil, Robert ? " 
 
 “ Bad, sir, thank you." 
 
 44 You ought to take a teaspoonful of brewer's barm 
 three times a day, Robert. Fine old remedy for 
 boils." 
 
 “ What ye talking about ? " exclaimed Light in our 
 Darkness. 44 I'm going to do the trick when it's ready. 
 A piece of lighted paper in a ginger-beer bottle, and 
 clap it over. I'm a good nurse. . . ." 
 
 44 You are, Miss." 
 
 “ Barm prevents 'em," said Mr. Ganthorn. 
 
 44 But Robert's got his. It ain't prevented, you see. 
 HE-He-he-he-he ! We'll manage all right, better than 
 lancing. Nurse you too, Mr. Ganthorn, if you're ill." 
 
 “ I know how to take care of myself." 
 
 Miss Miles had come to the office doorway. “ Robert," 
 she said, 4 4 go and tell Boots to put on a fresh cask of 
 bitter." 
 
 Robert took his sixpence from the shelf, spat on it, 
 and went. 
 
 44 Not a bad lad," Mr. Ganthorn remarked. 
 
 44 Wants teaching a bit," said Miss Sankey. 44 D'you 
 know, he got the chuck from his last situation — gentle- 
 man's mansion — because he would smoke and would not 
 wear a nightshirt. HE-He-he-he-he ! — Morning, Mr. 
 Trotman. How's you this fine day ? " 
 
 Mr. Trotman was making his entrance by the back- 
 door with the important mien of a borough mace-bearer. 
 He carried a copy of the Halfpenny Press, which he 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 39 
 
 strove to unfold as he walked. Just as lie reached the 
 counter he succeeded. He spread out the paper. 
 
 “ Look here ! " he said. — “ Damn ! " 
 
 “ Sh, sh, Mr. Trotman ! HE-He-he-he-he ! You 
 know you mustn't say that here or you'll have to put a 
 penny in the hospital box." 
 
 “ Confound ! Have you got the Halfpenny Press ? " 
 
 “ It's in use in the coffee-room." 
 
 “ What's up ? " asked Mr. Ganthorn. 
 
 “ Didn't you see ? " 
 
 “ What ? I haven't time for reading ha'penny 
 rags." 
 
 Mr. Ganthorn turned ceremonially to his glass. 
 
 “ Haven't you heard anything ? " 
 
 “ Heard? What?" 
 
 “ One'd think Robert's boil was gone off bang," 
 shrieked Miss Sankey. For once, however, the gentle- 
 men took no notice of Light in their Darkness. 
 
 “ Why, they say that a vast mountain has suddenly 
 appeared in London — volcanic upheaval — extinct vol- 
 cano. ... I read it in the paper." 
 
 “ Street upheaval, I expect," said Mr. Ganthorn in 
 the tone of one closing a subject. “ Some of the heavy 
 sky-scrapers they're putting up are quite enough to do 
 it, to say nothing of laying electric cables among the 
 gas and water mains." 
 
 “ But it has absolutely blotted out a vast number of 
 men women and children. . . ." 
 
 “ Halfpenny Press . Take it cum grano — with salt, 
 Trotman." 
 
 “ A1 sauce is my condiment," said Miss Sankey. “ I 
 love it ! Are you a condimentarian, Mr. Trotman ? " 
 
 “ All in moderation, Miss Sankey," replied Mr. Trot- 
 man. “ I remember when I was a boy, my father 
 always said . . ." 
 
 “ Morning, Mr. Clinch ! Enjoyed your visit to Town ? 
 
40 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Eh ? I 'spect you have. There ! you're blushing. HE- 
 He-he-he-he ! " 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Clinch of the Emporium did indeed 
 blush. Who can tell ? His short fat body was sur- 
 mounted by a round red face which blushed at all times. 
 So rubicund was he that, where other people's faces 
 inclined to red, over the cheek-bones, his own indicated 
 by a tint of blue where his cheek-bones were buried. 
 
 He regarded Miss Sankey for a moment, placed a fat 
 white ringed hand on the edge of the counter, and said 
 in a voice very like a mongrel dog's when it has a bone : 
 “ I'd pack you going. Gin with two drops of Angostura. 
 At once. Biscuits. And the paper." 
 
 “ All right. Paper's in use. You ain't in your own 
 ragshop, Mr. Clinch, and I ain't your wife or one of 
 your young ladies. Pity you didn't get killed in Mr. 
 Trotman's terrible catastrophe. Came down by the 
 early morning train, didn't you ? I know. I've got 
 to know when I've got to serve people like you, and 
 listen to your talk." 
 
 Miss Miles's reappearance from the office strangely 
 damped the fire of Councillor Clinch's temper. But 
 just when Alderman Trotman was buttonholing him to 
 tell him about the catastrophe, a tall bovine man with 
 side-whiskers, his dress an old tail-coat, knee breeches 
 and crumpled muddy gaiters, walked quickly and 
 heavily into the hall. 
 
 “ Early, Mr. Potterne ? " 
 
 “ Gie I two brandies an' one small soda, Miss — all in 
 one, please. Never felt the need o' a drop so much in all 
 my born days." 
 
 He turned to the Blue Bores : “ Ramshorn Hill's 
 gone, clean gone in a night," he said, looking into each 
 face in turn. “ An' they told I in the yard as half 
 London's been buried. 'Tis a judgment ! " 
 
 “ Nonsense, all of it," remarked Mr. Gantliorn. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 41 
 
 “ I tell 'ee I saw the hill gone wi' me own eyes ! " 
 
 “ What is it, d'you think ? " inquired Mr. Trotman 
 in a voice full of an awe that was partly due to the sub- 
 ject and partly to Farmer Potterne's reputed wealth. 
 
 “ That's what I dunno. Garge be cornin' up the yard. 
 He'll tell 'ee." 
 
 “ Something very serious for the world is happening," 
 Mr. Trotman said. “ I've left this morning’s Halfpenny 
 Press at home, but I should say . . 
 
 “ I should say," Mr. Ganthorn interrupted, “ that 
 you'd better look after your own affairs instead of 
 terrible catastrophes. We're going to bring up the 
 question of your house in Low Street at this morning's 
 council meeting." 
 
 “ What for ? It's not on the agenda." 
 
 “ What for, indeed ? Drains ! I told you when you 
 bought the property that the drains would cost you 
 more than the place itself." 
 
 “ The drains are all right." 
 
 “ The house is nothing more or less than a ventilator for 
 the main sewer. There's not a proper trap on the place." 
 
 “ Well, what the . . ." 
 
 “ You'll find out at the meeting. How many people 
 have had fever and sore throats in that house ? Eh ? 
 Have they got 'em now, or not ? One of your tenant's 
 doctors' bills drove him bankrupt. The surveyor warned 
 you a long time ago." 
 
 “ I tell you what," said the Mayor. “ I'll make you, 
 and the surveyor too, understand that I am the civic 
 head of this town." 
 
 “ Till next November, old chap. — I say . . ." 
 
 Alderman Trotman walked out of earshot. George 
 Potterne, a smarter and stupider edition of his father — 
 a young man who seemed to be clothed in innumerable 
 coloured ties, collars, waistcoats and gaiters — stumped 
 in from the yard. 
 
42 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Yer, Garge ; they won't believe I. Tell 'em . . 
 
 44 Tell 'em to go and see," said Garge. He winked and 
 wagged his head at Mr. Ganthorn. 64 Old man's got it 
 on the nerves a bit." 
 
 44 So has our Famous Grocer. It's all rot." 
 
 44 The hill is gone." 
 
 44 That 'tis ! " 
 
 44 Some slight seismic disturbance ..." 
 
 44 Don't know them half-crown words. Ramshorn 
 Hill be gone, an' that's enough for me. Seeing's be- 
 lieving." 
 
 44 And there's been a catastrophe in London," Mr. 
 Councillor Clinch added. 
 
 44 Nobody 'll be a penny the worse for it all," said 
 Mr. Ganthorn. 44 They make mountains out of mole- 
 hills nowadays. . . ." 
 
 44 1 tell 'ee, ye little whippersnapper, they be a good 
 many pennies the worse. I be, damn it ! " 
 
 The speaker was a stout florid man in old-fashioned 
 sporting clothes ; somewhat the figure of Mr. Clinch, 
 but rounder and firmer, with a complexion that owed 
 its colour rather to good living and the weather, than 
 to over-eating and liquor. It was Squire Burdrop, a 
 survivor of the old wheat-farming days, before those 
 who tilled the earth called themselves agriculturists. 
 44 1 be a lot the worse," he continued in an angry voice, 
 44 and my poor wife, she's done nothing but go off into 
 faints since she felt the ground a-trembling. I rented 
 Ramshorn Hill because I wanted more grazing, and I 
 won't pay me rent for it — not I ! I'll talk to the Crown 
 Commissioners when I see 'em. I won't pay a penny. 
 I'll claim damages. I'll bring an action. — Pint o' old 
 and a fourpenny cigar, please, my dear. — When I took 
 the grazing of Ramshorn Hill last year, how did I know 
 'twas going to go like a thief in the night ? How did 
 I know, I say ? I wont pay rent for the darned thing — 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 43 
 
 there ! My shepherd's out now trying to find a couple 
 o' my best lambs — gone too, I s'pose. Whosever’s done 
 it, I'll be level wi' 'em. Dan'l Burdrop's never been done 
 down yet. . . . 'S anybody know anything about it ? " 
 
 “ We heard . . 
 
 “ The milkcarts said . . 
 
 “ In London, Squire, there's been a . . ." 
 
 “ There, damn it ! You don' know anything about 
 it, I can see, none on 'ee. When you want a thing 
 looked after, look after it yourself. That's true ! — I'll 
 come and see that hunter o' yours to-morrow, Potterne. 
 D'you think she'll carry fourteen stun ten ? Eh ? 
 Good morning." 
 
 Squire Burdrop tossed up his tankard of old beer, 
 put his hands deep in his front pockets, and stamped 
 out. Silence fell on the company. The great events of 
 the night were so uncertain and so unexpected that the 
 Blue Bores could not yet realise what had happened. 
 They could have made livelier conversation with smaller 
 occurrences of a less conjectural nature and preferably 
 of some years ago ; for slow wits talk best on the retro - 
 prospect. They drifted one by one out of the Blue 
 Boar bar to that place of gossiping only second to it, 
 the Blue Boar porch. In the course of the morning, 
 “ pressure of business " relaxed sufficiently to permit 
 Messrs. Ganthorn, Clinch and Trotman's attendance at 
 a third place of gossip, namely the borough council 
 chamber. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Mr. Trotman was late for dinner. Mrs. Trotman 
 would have liked Alec to begin without him, while there 
 was still plenty of red gravy in the meat, but Alec pro- 
 
44 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 tested more than filially, almost vehemently indeed, 
 that he would much rather wait for his father. Then 
 he went out of the house ; down to the Station Road. 
 His pimply face was pale and worried, not to say scared. 
 At five-and-twenty to two, by the new watch his 
 mother had given him secretly, he whistled in a peculiar 
 manner which, being interpreted, means, “ Where the 
 devil are you ? ” 
 
 He would have liked to give also the other whistle : 
 “ Come, my love, I’m waiting for you.” 
 
 Before long, Miss Jepp appeared at the side-door. 
 “ Well ? You must be quick, Mr. Trotman. They're 
 earlier than most days. They've nearly finished, and 
 the guvnor's as cross as two sticks.” 
 
 Maybe her black dress of servitude, instead of the 
 yellow costume of the day before, lowered Alec's spirits 
 further than ever. 44 Have you seen the papers, Julie ? ” 
 he asked in a pitiful voice. 
 
 “ Haven't had a chance. What's the matter ? 
 They've been talking about an earthquake in London 
 all the morning. Mrs. King was full of it when she came 
 to try on her mantle.” 
 
 44 It's Ramshorn Hill. I've read it. It's killed a lot 
 of people.” 
 
 44 Nonsense ! There weren't any on the Downs.” 
 
 44 In London, I mean. — Julie, what shall we do ? I 
 don' know. They'll find us out and have us up for 
 murder.” 
 
 44 You keep quiet . . .” 
 
 There was a noise, inside the house, of chairs 
 scraping along a floor. Julia stood a moment listening, 
 looked at Alec with tender, almost humorous interest, 
 touched his arm, and exclaimed : 44 You've done it 
 now ! ” 
 
 44 1 can't . . .” 
 
 44 1 must go. They're on the move. Good-bye.” 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 45 
 
 The door was shutting, Julia disappearing. Alec 
 called her back despairingly : Julie, Julie ! D’you think 
 it really was me ? ” 
 
 “ You ? ” 
 
 His voice sank to the utterly confidential. “ I’ve 
 been trying to move a heap of bricks in the garden half 
 the morning, and I can’t ; not an inch.” 
 
 “ My word ! there’s the guvnor calling me. Quick. 
 Good-bye.” 
 
 The door shut finally. Julia was gone. Alec slouched 
 home with his hands in his pockets, wearily. His native 
 town seemed, as it were, strange to him. 
 
 The Mayor was home. Mrs. Trotman, on hearing the 
 street-door open, came out into the passage and said 
 very quietly : “ Wait till your father’s finished. There’s 
 been a bother at the council — drains ! ” 
 
 Alec therefore hung about the shop and the passage. 
 The female clerks were due back from their dinner. 
 Miss Starkey, as usual, was the first to return. The 
 other female clerks, those at the counter, who were 
 perhaps slightly Jealous, used to say that she c bossed 
 the place ’ and ‘ had the old man in tow.’ Though 
 her proper position was within the glass cash-box, or 
 office, in the centre of the shop, she did not always 
 stay there. A pale, anaemic, small woman, she knew 
 how to wear her clothes better than the others, and 
 Julia Jepp was accustomed to help her with the ideas 
 of the before-mentioned leading London houses. Clever, 
 impetuous, snappy, trustworthy ; the customers often 
 asked for her to serve them ; just as they often passed 
 the shop when His Worship was to be seen at the counter. 
 Best of all, she could be left in charge of the Famous 
 Grocery when its master left it for still more congenial 
 surroundings, and its mistress disdained it. She knew 
 the credit of most of the notabilities who lived in and 
 around Trowbury. Mr. Trotman retained her services 
 
46 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 not because he wanted to ; he did not ; but because she 
 knew and did her work. He spoke of her as 6 a capable 
 young person/ a credit to himself; and he hated her 
 and all her abilities. A permanent quarrel smouldered 
 between them. 
 
 Alec, since his debut as a lady-killer, had found a 
 hundred and one ways of aiding young women when 
 before he would merely have watched their struggles 
 with curiosity. He now offered to help Miss Starkey off 
 with her jacket. That done, she swung the garment to 
 and fro, looked him up and down smiling to herself the 
 while (the foremost cause of Mr. Trotman’s dislike was 
 her smile), and said airily: “ You're looking very pale, 
 Master Alec. Very ! " 
 
 “ Am I ? D'you really think so ? " 
 
 “ Look at your hand. Hold out your hand. There ; 
 it's trembling like as if you'd seen a ghost." 
 
 “ Not really ? " 
 
 “ Yes 'tis. Is it because you are going to leave your 
 mammie ? " 
 
 Irresolutely Alec replied, “ No." 
 
 Miss Starkey's voice was not unsympathetic. It was 
 noticeable that most women, young or old, used a 
 motherly tone in talking to Alexander Trotman. 
 
 “ Is it going away from its Julia then ? Hasn’t she 
 weaned you properly ? Is that it ? " 
 
 Alec blushed. “ No, it isn't that, Miss Starkey." 
 
 “ I believe it is. I'll tell her so the next time I see 
 her." 
 
 “ It isn't. Julie, Miss Jepp, 'll tell you. Tell her I 
 said she could." 
 
 “ She'd tell me without your kind permission, Mr. 
 Alec. We haven't been friends all the time she's been 
 here for nothing. What is it ? Where did you go last 
 night ? Tell me ! If you've done any harm to my 
 Ju . . ." 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 47 
 
 Mr. Trotman's voice was heard approaching. “ I 
 must clear out/’ said Miss Starkey. 
 
 Alec hesitated ; then, out came his news. “ Miss 
 Starkey, promise you won't tell ? I've moved Ramshorn 
 Hill. Moved it away. The catastrophe in London. 
 ... Ask Julie." 
 
 A deep sepulchral voice of vast dignity broke in 
 upon them. “ Did I engage you, Miss Starkey, to talk 
 to my son in the passage ? — What are you doing here, 
 Alec ? " 
 
 “ He only helped me off with my jacket." 
 
 “ Don't answer me back." 
 
 “ He's more of a gentleman than you are," said Miss 
 Starkey under her breath, turning to go into the shop. 
 
 Mr. Trotman caught at her words : 
 
 “ What's that ? What did you say ? I engaged you 
 to do your work. . . 
 
 “ And I've done it." 
 
 “I've heard quite enough of your goings-on after 
 shop hours. You're a thoroughly fast young woman ; 
 that's what you are. You'll go from here ; you're not 
 fit to be in a respectable establishment. Mrs. Trot- 
 man . . ." 
 
 “ That faded old cat ! " 
 
 “ Silence ! Your father died of drink. I know." 
 
 “ He didn't." 
 
 “ He did." 
 
 “ He didn't. 'Tis my stepfather drinks. My father 
 was a good man." 
 
 “ I'm not so sure of that." 
 
 “ You devil ! I wish . . ." 
 
 Mr. Trotman drew himself up like an offended goose. 
 “ You'll take your money and go this instant. — Go 
 and have your dinner, Alec, immediately ! " 
 
 Mrs. Trotman cut off for her son a couple of slices 
 from the juciest part of the joint. “ What is it now ? " 
 
48 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 she inquired. Mr. Trotman entered the room and poured 
 out for himself a stiffish glass of whiskey. 
 
 “ I've sent Miss Starkey going with her pay/’ 
 
 “ A good job too/' said Mrs. Trotman. 
 
 The Mayor took a deep draught of his whiskey. “ I 
 did all right/' he said, “ to engage her by the week 
 instead of by the month. She might have claimed a 
 month's pay. But she wouldn't have got it." 
 
 “ She doesn't deserve it," said Mrs. Trotman. 
 
 He heard the unfortunate girl's footsteps in the 
 passage. Putting his head round the door, he shouted, 
 “ Be off my premises at once ! " 
 
 “ She's no better than she ought to be," he remarked 
 to his wife. 
 
 “ Sh ! " said his wife. 
 
 IX 
 
 Looking backwards, it is at first sight astonishing 
 how T little commotion Monday morning's news made in 
 the small and presumably dull town of Trowbury. 
 Ramshorn Hill had totally disappeared — so it was said. 
 And there had been a terrible catastrophe in London, 
 which involved the sudden appearance of a high hill 
 on the outskirts of the metropolis, and the sudden dis- 
 appearance of a few families whose manner of death 
 was their only claim to notice. 
 
 But why should Trowbury have been greatly moved 
 while events remained outside it ? To a hungry man 
 his dinner is of more importance than eternal life : to 
 Trowbury, which had its bread and cheese to earn, its 
 little kindnesses to do and its petty malice to expend, 
 unimportant business was more important than some- 
 thing conjectural on the Downs and a hubbub in news- 
 papers, whose every fact was conjectural. Besides, the 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 49 
 
 Halfpenny Press , even in its more truthful days, had 
 never greatly moved Trowbury ; and there, 0 Trow- 
 bury, didst thou show thy superiority — thy true sleepy 
 Moonraker immobility. 
 
 A few energetic and curious people decided to make 
 up driving parties to the Downs. Several clerks and 
 shop assistants, effectually tied till after hours, planned 
 their next cycle ride. The actual life of Trowbury 
 flowed on as usual ; like a river of treacle with flies 
 stuck in it, and little eddies of alcohol here and there. 
 
 Mr. Ganthorn was the only eminent local personage 
 who deliberately altered his daily round, his common 
 task, of earning an income on the minimum of work. 
 It might have been observed that he was on the qui 
 vive ; but then he always was on the qui vive, and to 
 no end that any one ever saw. For all his loud scepti- 
 cism, he constantly put himself in the way of hearing 
 news, which, since it came from only one source, the 
 farming people around Ramshorn Hill, presented itself 
 to him as many different versions of the same tale. 
 
 He was, though few knew it, the unworthy local 
 correspondent of the Halfpenny Press ; unworthy, be- 
 cause he could never learn the second of the local 
 correspondent's two commandments : 
 
 1. Thou shalt send no news to any paper but ours. 
 
 2. Thou shalt send the news at once and find out 
 
 afterwards whether it is true or not. 
 
 He could never get into his head that time equals 
 circulation and that the possibility is greater than the 
 reality — things axiomatic to the born journalist. There- 
 fore he wasted his time in seeking truth until the Evening 
 Press arrived from London. Then he was put upon his 
 mettle. 
 
 The Evening Press not only contained headlines to 
 which the Halfpenny Press's headlines were as visiting 
 cards ; not only contained the versions of spectators 
 
 E 
 
50 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 and an interview with a member of one of the ill-fated 
 families, who happened on the memorable night to be 
 nowhere near the scene of the catastrophe ; not only 
 contained the non-committal opinions of several dis- 
 tinguished scientists and the irrelevant empiricisms of a 
 Leading Physician of Harley Street ; — it contained, 
 most wonderful of all, a report that there had been a 
 seismic disturbance in Wiltshire, communicated (said 
 Ganthorn to himself) by that damn’d officious local 
 correspondent at Marlborough. 
 
 The Evening Press queried, asserted and denied some 
 connection between the two occurrences. 
 
 Ganthorn set to work. He started with a brandy 
 and soda at the Blue Boar, wasted half an hour in trying 
 to get through on the telephone, and finally rushed off 
 to the telegraph office just before closing time. His 
 urgent telegram did not reach the Halfpenny Press until 
 after the last down train had left Paddington Station. 
 
 Trowbury and its news was, for one more night, cut 
 off from the world. 
 
 X 
 
 On the Tuesday morning, the news began to make 
 no little stir even in Trowbury. The Halfpenny Press, 
 with its mighty headlines and heavily leaded columns, 
 its many versions, all different, and its impressive 
 theories and opinions, all contradictory, impressed upon 
 the mind of Trowbury that it was really becoming 
 more famous than it already thought itself. The Penny 
 Press and the twopenny Times deepened the impression 
 in their own comparatively platitudinous and stodgy 
 ways respectively. Above all, the adventurous spirits who 
 had cycled and driven to the Downs the previous even- 
 ing, brought back fearful tales of a yawning gulf, an 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 51 
 
 abysm, where Ramshorn Hill had formerly stood. What 
 with the Downs and London, Trowbury became de- 
 cidedly confused. Men said, “ Queer ! " and explained 
 the thing away. Women said, “ How dreadful ! " and 
 while assuming the news was true, hoped it wasn't so. 
 
 Alderman Trotman read his newspaper, gave forth 
 his worshipful opinions over his bacon and eggs, re- 
 peated his unalterable determination that Alec should 
 inevitably leave home on the Thursday, and directed 
 him to begin packing forthwith. “ And don't go bother- 
 ing your mother," said the father. 44 She's got quite 
 enough to do for me." Business called him, and he 
 went off to the Blue Boar. 
 
 A stranger arrived at the Blue Boar by the first train 
 from London, and inquired after Mr. Ganthorn and Mr. 
 Ganthorn's house. Though he asked many questions, 
 more especially about Ramshorn Hill, nobody was able 
 to draw out of him any information about himself. 
 Therefore the Blue Bores, according to their custom, 
 said that he was a little bounder on no good business 
 at all. 
 
 At the side-window he ordered a soda and milk. 
 Soon, Alderman Trotman, who was arguing upon, or 
 rather expressing his opinion of, the morning's news, 
 took up his glass and strolled round to the side-window, 
 ostensibly to look at the clock and at a railway time- 
 table. 
 
 “ Beautiful weather," said he to the stranger. 44 A 
 fine outlook for the harvest." 
 
 44 Yes, beautiful weather." 
 
 “ Trade has looked up this season in London. The 
 Court always makes trade more brisk." 
 
 44 So I believe." 
 
 44 Commercial gentlemen, I hear, have booked good 
 orders in the provinces." 
 
 44 Is that so ? " 
 
 library 
 
 UNIVERSITY m ILUNOfe 
 
52 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Mr. Trotman placed his glass on the counter beside 
 the stranger’s. “ A temperance lecturer, sir ? I can’t 
 say I’m exactly a teetotaler. Moderation in all things. 
 ... You intend to lecture here ? It is unfortunate 
 the Town Hall assembly-room is under repair. . . .” 
 
 “ No, sir,” said the stranger, removing his silk hat 
 and mopping his forehead with the fairest of white linen 
 handkerchiefs. The like of his silky frock-coat might 
 have been seen any Sunday in Trowbury, but the cut 
 of it was obviously metropolitan. “ No, sir ; I’m neither 
 a commercial traveller nor a temperance lecturer.” 
 
 “ No offence. . . ” 
 
 “ Not in the least. I want to find a Mr. Ganthorn. 
 They told me I should be sure to find him here.” 
 
 “ Ah ! Unfortunately he is busy to-day with a very 
 important audit, or he would have been here about this 
 time. The Trow r bury Sausage Company — one of our 
 local industries. I am a considerable buyer from them, 
 also a shareholder*. Sound stuff.” 
 
 “ I want to see Mr. Ganthorn or, in fact, anybody 
 who can tell me about the hill which is said to have dis- 
 appeared, and the best way of getting there.” 
 
 “ I haven’t been there myself yet,” said Mr. Trotman, 
 “ but I can give you a good deal of information, or get 
 it for you. You have seen the Halfpenny Press ? You 
 are . . . 
 
 “ I am a special correspondent from the Halfpenny 
 Press .” 
 
 “ Oh, indeed, sir ! No doubt we could arrange to let 
 you have the surveyor’s motor-car if it’s not under 
 repair. I’m afraid it is though. Will you come up to 
 my house in Castle Street and have a snack ? Pot luck, 
 you know. I am James Trotman, at your service. 
 Mayor, this year. . . . The proper person to come to.” 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 53 
 
 XI 
 
 On that same Tuesday morning, the Blue Boar very 
 nearly lost its position as the centre of events and Trow- 
 bury's fount of action. In a cottage under the Downs, 
 a small old woman turned out of her bed, queerly half- 
 dressed. She lighted a lamp, brewed herself a cup of 
 tea, and set to work to shave her upper lip and chin. 
 With a ragged blue shawl over her slip-bodice and a 
 candle beside the looking-glass (the blind was carefully 
 tucked against the window) she scraped away most 
 patiently. She cut herself, mopped the place and put 
 on a piece of spider's web to stop the bleeding. It was, 
 indeed, precisely for that purpose that she allowed 
 spiders to spin in one corner of her clean little bedroom. 
 
 At length, with crowing exclamations and a deep 
 sigh, the shaving came to an end. Mrs. Parfitt poured 
 herself out another cup of black tea and furtively, 
 though she was all alone, she laced it with a few drops 
 of the Famous Grocer's Fine Old Liqueur Whiskey. 
 She sat down to three slices of bread and butter ; 
 thought better of it, and finished up the meat from a 
 pork bone as well. Then she fetched a black skirt and 
 a black bodice with jet on it from a lavender- scented 
 chest of drawers that stood in a dry place near her 
 kitchen fire. She went down on her knees and drew 
 from under the bed a box containing a black bonnet with 
 a pink rose in it. She adjusted all these things on 
 herself with care and much shaking. She put on her 
 boots, exclaiming at their discomfort, blew out the 
 lamp, and was ready. 
 
 An important purpose shone through all the little 
 old woman’s trembling movements. 
 
 She was going to Trowbury. 
 
 But first of all she climbed up to Squire Burdrop's 
 
54 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 head- shepherd’s cottage. Mrs. Merritt was scolding 
 and feeding her children. 
 
 44 I jest thought as I’d go into Trowbury an’ tell ’em 
 about it,” said Mrs. Parfitt. 44 After what your man 
 told ’ee last night about they lambs gone, ’tisn’t right 
 but they should know.” 
 
 44 No, that ’tisn’t, Mrs. Parfitt. — Merritt, he be gone 
 out for to have a last look, and I be so caddied wi’ 
 these here little varmints I don’t know which way to 
 turn, or I’d take and go in ’long with ’ee.” 
 
 44 I see as you be busy, my dear. — Well, I’ll come and 
 tell ’ee all about it when I d’ get back. You an’t found 
 no more lambs lost ? ” 
 
 44 Not as I knows of.” 
 
 44 Well, good marnin’ to ’ee.” 
 
 Mrs. Parfitt trudged into Trowbury as fast as her 
 aged legs could carry her. She moralised to herself 
 on the coming-in of motor-cars, standing stock still, 
 even in the footpath, till each one had passed her. 
 She could not help enjoying the delightful freshness of 
 the July morning, but her old-fashioned greeting, 
 “ Beautiful marnin’ that ’tis,” was unheeded by many 
 of the passers-by. The sun came out. The road dried 
 up with cloudlets of vapour hovering over its surface. 
 It was, after all, a hot dusty dishevelled old woman, 
 holding her skirts high above her elastic-side boots, 
 who tottered down Castle Street, turned as if frightened 
 into the Famous Grocery Establishment, sat down on 
 the nearest counter chair, and said to one of the female 
 clerks : “ Tell Mrs. Trotman, my dear, as I be come.” 
 
 44 Who shall I say, madam ? ” 
 
 44 Why, bless me, my dear ! Tell her ’tis me — Nurse 
 — Mrs. Parfitt.” 
 
 Before Nurse Parfitt had finished mopping, flicking 
 and arranging herself, the female clerk returned. 44 Will 
 you please step inside ? This way.” 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 55 
 
 “ All right, my dear. Don't 'ee trouble. I know’d the 
 way afore you was born." 
 
 The parlour was empty. As before mentioned, Mrs. 
 Trotman's morning costume was apt to preserve only 
 the shreds and jewellery of the previous night's ele- 
 gance. And morning or afternoon, she could not get 
 out of the habit, when a visitor was announced, of 
 rushing upstairs to have a look at herself. Now, though 
 it was only old Nurse Parfitt, Mrs. Trotman was obliged 
 to run away and, as she would have said, to titivate a 
 little. 
 
 When she did open the parlour door, with washed 
 hands and a coatee drawn on over her blouse, she ex- 
 claimed in tones of the gladdest and most hospitable 
 surprise : “ Why, Nurse ! " 
 
 With a hearty “ Good marnin', my dear ; how be 
 'ee ? " Mrs. Parfitt rose up and kissed her. She com- 
 mented on the weather, as if she had joy in it, but also 
 a secret underlying grief ; as if 
 
 God’s in His heaven. 
 
 All’s right with the world, 
 
 but the devil is main active all the same. Then she 
 stopped to take breath. 
 
 “ Have you heard anything about this Ramshorn 
 Hill ? " Mrs. Trotman took the opportunity of asking. 
 
 “ That's just what I come in for to tell 'ee," Mrs. 
 Parfitt replied conspirator- wise, “ only I'm blest if I 
 knows where to begin." 
 
 “ Will you take a little wine and biscuit, Nurse ? " 
 
 “ There ! I don't mind if I do — just a teeny drop, if 
 you please. You know, my dear, I d' always say as 
 your husband's wine is the best as ever I've a-tasted — 
 so nice and sweet — I can almost taste the grapes in it, 
 I can." 
 
 Wine, biscuits, and cake, therefore, were set forth 
 
56 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 according to the good old Wiltshire custom which allows 
 no visitor to depart unrefreshed. Mrs. Parfitt post- 
 poned the telling of her news until she had drunk a 
 couple of glassfuls of wine and had eaten some shop 
 cake. She was awaiting the dramatic moment, and 
 meanwhile she beat about the bush garrulously. Finally, 
 after some more remarks on the weather and the sadness 
 of things in general, she laid a wrinkled discoloured 
 hand on Mrs. Trotman’s. 
 
 Though the Mayoress drew her hand away, the old 
 woman was too full of her tale to notice it. “ I shouldn’t 
 have come in all this way to tell ’ee, my dear,” she said, 
 “ and I’m sure I didn’t know what I was a-saying of 
 when I promised him and Miss Jepp that I’d say nothing 
 about it ; but two o’ Squire Burdrop’s best lambs — his 
 very best, so the shepherd’s wife d’ say — two o’ they 
 be clean gone, and ’twouldn’t let me rest in my bed, 
 and thafs why I be come in to tell ’ee.” 
 
 Mrs. Trotman was leaning forward and trying to get 
 a word in edgeways. “ Miss Jepp, Ramshorn Hill, Mr. 
 Burdrop’s lambs. . . . What do you mean, Nurse ? 
 Alec wasn’t there ? ” 
 
 In the course of half an hour’s fast talking Mrs. 
 Parfitt succeeded in explaining, as far as she could, 
 the events of the previous Sunday evening. She nodded 
 her head so violently that her bonnet bobbed up and 
 down. Besides laying particular stress on Squire Bur- 
 drop’s lambs as her reason for breaking the secret, she 
 was quite sure that the chill of the evening, or the shock 
 of the hill’s disappearance, had made Alec ill, so that, 
 after all, he had not quite known what he was saying, 
 and he had not really moved the hill. In thus trying to 
 shield her Allie, she completely muddled his mother. 
 
 Mrs. Trotman rang the bell. 
 
 “ Tell Master Alec to come here at once.” 
 
 Alexander appeared. The strain of the last two days 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 57 
 
 had told on him shockingly. He looked altogether 
 crushed, flabby and frightened, as if a ghost had boxed 
 his ears. Nurse Parfitt burst out : “ La Master Allie ! 
 La ! I know'd you was ill. Poor dear ! " She even for- 
 got to try and kiss him. 
 
 “ What is this about you and Miss Jepp and Rams- 
 horn Hill ? " his mother asked sternly in a tolerable 
 imitation of her husband's sepulchral voice. “ Were 
 you on the Downs with her last Sunday night ? Tell me." 
 
 Alec's eyes shifted about the room. He did not 
 answer and his mother began again. She could be very 
 severe with her beloved Alexander in a case of sweet- 
 hearting. 
 
 “ Nurse says you know something about the disap- 
 pearance of Ramshorn Hill and Mr. Burdrop's two 
 lambs. Were you up there ? Tell me — at once ! Who 
 were you with ? " 
 
 “ I moved Ramshorn Hill," said Alec faintly. “ It 
 went." 
 
 He was shifting his hands in and out of his pockets. 
 
 “ What ? I don't understand. I shall ask your 
 father to look into this. Miss Jepp indeed ! " 
 
 The strain and attempted secrecy were too much. 
 Alec reddened. After a preliminary snuffle or two, he 
 sat down, laid his head on his arms, and boo'd like a 
 child. Nurse Parfitt toddled over to him. She put 
 her arms around him ; gathered him to her in the old 
 nursery fashion. “ There, there, Allie dearie ! Never 
 you mind. — I told you the poor child was ill, Mrs. Trot- 
 man. Your own son, it is ! " 
 
 Mrs. Trotman was helpless. Though she could and 
 did look after her son's stomach, she was at sea with his 
 emotions. He did not seem to need feeding this time. 
 What else could she do ? On going out of the room to 
 fetch smelling-salts and brandy, she met her husband 
 and the Halfpenny Pressman. 
 
58 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Sh ! Alec is not very well. Don't go in there." 
 
 “ Well, but Mister ... I didn't quite catch your 
 name, sir, Mister . . ." 
 
 “ Fulton — John Fulton." 
 
 “ Mr. Fulton, my better half. — Mr. Fulton has come 
 up for a little lunch. What have you got ? " 
 
 “ You know what we've got." 
 
 “ Do I, indeed ! Ah, well, we have two larders here, 
 my wife's for me and my own on sale. Pot luck, you 
 know. We can camp out. Pot luck in your trade, no 
 doubt. . . ." 
 
 Mr. Trotman always received a guest with jollity. 
 
 XII 
 
 Mrs. Trotman showed her husband and his guest up- 
 stairs, whisked some clothing away from the sofa, and 
 left them to admire that masterpiece of her elegant 
 predilections, her own drawing-room. 
 
 It was marvellously furnished. An exceptionally 
 heavy round couch, upholstered in yellow, green and red 
 flowered chintz, occupied the centre of the room. The 
 wall was covered with small mirrors which had flowers 
 and butterflies painted on them, and with pictures of 
 wild scenery, painted as much like oleographs as possible 
 to suit the English taste. Deep arm-chairs and silken 
 seats on enamelled sticks ; a solid mahogany sideboard 
 with art muslin wings ; a carpet of tropical luxuriance 
 and an airily painted ceiling ; a large black marble 
 clock with bronze horsemen flanked by bits of Worcester 
 china ; formed a series of contrasts which symbolised — 
 though she didn't realise it — her own life and that of 
 her celebrated son. The two windows looked out on 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 59 
 
 the busy traffic of Castle Street. Taste and commerce 
 were cheek by jowl. 
 
 The Mayor and the Halfpenny Pressman were left 
 together. How the one chafed at the polite informative 
 discourse of the other, yet stayed because it was his 
 business to watch and write, ought to be written in 
 a National Dictionary of Journalistic Biography, ad- 
 vertised by Americans, and distributed over the entire 
 world on the instalment system. 
 
 Presently, however, Mrs. Trotman put her head round 
 the door and with grimaces full of meaning called her 
 husband from the room. She whispered that into his 
 ear which caused him to snort as loudly as politeness 
 permitted and then to send imperiously for his son and 
 Mrs. Parfitt. 
 
 After Alec had been up to his bedroom and had 
 washed his eyes, there began in the drawing-room that 
 revelation which shook the press, convulsed the sects, 
 and quite definitely disturbed the saner portions of the 
 nation. Chiefly owing to Mrs. Parfitt, it took as near as 
 possible two hours and ten minutes. Miss Jepp was 
 sent for — and was unable to come. Mr. Clinch was re- 
 quested, with the Mayor's compliments, to send the 
 said Miss Jepp to the Famous Grocery — and sent her. 
 Miss Starkey absolutely refused to appear, even on being 
 promised that her outrageous conduct should be over- 
 looked ; which was in the Trotmans' opinion exceedingly 
 ungrateful. She sent such a rude message, in fact, 
 that the Mayor felt certain her evidence would be abso- 
 lutely worthless. The Halfpenny Pressman talked him- 
 self into a sweat, and his shorthand notes, that he jotted 
 down as soon as possible afterwards, read somewhat 
 thus : — 
 
 “ Mayor (bumptious old fool) has son about twenty 
 (poor-looking specimen : bit off). Last Sunday, son 
 and his girl (handsome girl : local draper's assistant) 
 
60 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 went to church and then cycled and walked to Rams- 
 horn Hill. They assert (seem to be speaking the truth) 
 that son wished Ramshorn Hill in London, for reasons 
 of his own (query : what reasons precisely ? Can’t get 
 it out of the idiot). Hill did disappear about the same 
 time as catastrophe in Acton. Queer. Son and girl 
 very frightened. Should think so. Swear secrecy. Go 
 straight and tell old nurse (terrible ancient with a 
 tongue). 
 
 “ Monday, son tells a Miss Starkey, lately in his 
 father’s shop (bit of a tartar by her message and the 
 Trotmans’ opinion). Ramshorn Hill found gone. News 
 of Acton affair reaches Trowbury by Halfpenny Press . 
 Nobody seems to have connected the two. Dull people 
 round here. 
 
 “ Tuesday, old nurse comes to Trowbury and breaks 
 secrecy because local squire lost a couple of lambs when 
 hill disappeared. Couple of dead sheep were found on 
 the Acton Hill. Queer again. 
 
 “ Tale fits like a Chinese puzzle (mem . — the phrase 
 that). Must be something in it. Nurse’s evidence of 
 Sunday evening, and entire ignorance of Acton catas- 
 trophe, conclusive. Perfect corroboration and no possi- 
 bility of collusion. 
 
 “ Q.E.D. Son must have moved the hill. Girl certain 
 he did, though she denied it till he said he did. Is he 
 mediumistic ? ” 
 
 “ Good haul, this.” 
 
 At a quarter to three the Halfpenny Pressman sent 
 a very long telegram to his head- quarters. “You 
 know the penalty, I suppose, for divulging telegraphic 
 messages,” he said to the counter clerk in the Post 
 Office. “ Not exceeding one year's imprisonment .” 
 
 Just after three o’clock the Mayor, the Mayoress, Alec, 
 Miss Jepp, Nurse Parfitt and the Halfpenny Pressman 
 sat down to a lunch of burnt beefsteak and onion and 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 61 
 
 tinned eatables, followed by stuff from the pastry- 
 cook’s and some of the Famous Grocer’s best Anglo- 
 American cheese. 
 
 “ I always knew,” said Alderman James Trotman, 
 first magistrate of Trowbury, “ that my son had it in 
 him to do something, though whether it would come out 
 or not I could not tell, of course. What’s bred in the 
 bone, you know. . . . Take some wine, Alec, won’t 
 you ? and pass it on.” 
 
 XIII 
 
 Later in the afternoon the Halfpenny Pressman found 
 waiting for him at the Post Office a telegram which 
 caused him to say with a saddened savageness : 6 4 The 
 idiots never can leave a poor devil to do anything on 
 his own ! ” He bought a cap and a one-inch ordnance 
 map of the district. He took a hasty uncomfortable tea 
 at the pastrycook’s. He hired a bicycle. Then, with 
 his coat-tails carefully arranged on either side of the 
 back wheel, he cycled out of the town, towards the 
 Downs. The road was so bad, owing to the driving of 
 sheep over it, that, in trying to ride without the handle- 
 bars while he compared the map with the surrounding 
 country, he very nearly fell, silky coat and all, into the 
 dust. So he rode on, putting his trust in fortune rather 
 than maps. When he came to the open road — and a 
 very inharmonious object he looked upon it — he gazed 
 around him once more, and once more unfolded the 
 map. He stopped a labourer going home from work. 
 
 “ Where is it that — that the hill was ? ” he asked. 
 
 “ Ay ? ” 
 
 “ Where is it that the hill went away from ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, ay ! You d’ mean the hill as went — got losted 
 
62 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 like. Ramshorn Hill they calls it, wi' a dewpond on 
 the top. Wonderful thing, that ! Wer' is 'er ? Now 
 look you here. If you d’ go along the road till you d' 
 come to the third milestone, from Trowbury that is, 
 you can see the top o' the hill vrom just there. Least- 
 ways, you could zee 'em, vor I've a-zeen Squire Bur- 
 drop's shepherd a-eating his dinner on it when I been 
 crackin' stones hereabout." 
 
 Of all this, the Halfpenny Pressman caught practically 
 nothing except the words c third milestone.' He re- 
 mounted his bicycle, and with something very like des- 
 pair in his soul he made towards the place where the 
 hill should have been. Then he dismounted, examined 
 the map again, and decided from the contour lines that 
 the hill ought to be visible from where he was. If not 
 . . . But it was not. The telegram, however, and the 
 rough road had for the moment clouded his interest in 
 the whole matter. He threw his cap on the bank, sat 
 down, gathered his coat-tails into his lap, and lighted a 
 cheroot. 
 
 Very curious — as curious as a mummy in a modern 
 glass case — did he look, squatting in his silky black 
 clothes among dusty grass tufts, and cornflowers whose 
 blueness nothing seems able to sully. The light evening 
 winds, sometimes smelling of the crops, sometimes of the 
 dusty road, just chilled his half-bald pate. The magic 
 of the Downs gripped him. Where he was, there he 
 seemed to have been always. He forgot how the people 
 at head- quarters were about to snatch a good haul out 
 of his hands. He reverted to his youthful days when 
 such a thing as the Half penny Press had neither sullied, 
 nor become the instrument of his dreams of success. 
 He thought of his two children growing up pale-faced 
 in the inner ring of London's suburbs ; he swore a little 
 more, then felt inclined to pray, and then meditated 
 on his health. He even called to mind his dead re- 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 63 
 
 lations ; conjured up the face of his deceased mother. 
 His eyes moistened. The Downs stripped his soul and 
 left it naked ; left it shivering indeed. A spot in the 
 midst of their long heaving lines, their far-off noises 
 and their beautiful clear dry lights — their immemorial 
 spaciousness — he was so small as to be almost great. 
 
 Twilight came on slowly. Tobacco took precedence 
 over deceased kinsfolk. The Halfpenny Pressman 
 peered up the road till his eyes ached. Nothing moved 
 on it except a bird or two and a hare. Then suddenly, 
 as if by an optical illusion, the road became trans- 
 formed into the likeness of a monstrous snake, with two 
 bright eyes, winding dowm the hills. The resemblance 
 was uncanny. But the professional side of the Half- 
 penny Pressman was now uppermost. He stepped into 
 the centre of the road. He waved his handkerchief. 
 A six-cylinder motor-car — the head of the snake — 
 slowed down. 
 
 “ Fulton ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ” 
 
 “ Anything fresh ? ” 
 
 “ No. . . . Yes. The evidence. . . 
 
 “ Where is the hill ? ” 
 
 “ That’s where it was, there.” 
 
 “ Nothing to see ? ” 
 
 “ Only a big hollow, they say.” 
 
 “ Haven’t you been there then ? ” 
 
 “ No time.” 
 
 “ H’m ! See you again. Got a bicycle there, haven’t 
 you ? Where does that Mayor live ? ” 
 
 “ The grocery shop in the middle of Castle Street. 
 Impossible to miss it.” 
 
 With a sustained hum, the motor-car sped on to the 
 Famous Grocery Establishment. 
 
 Fulton hastened after them, denouncing to the hills 
 the abrupt ways of the Director of the Halfpenny Press , 
 
64 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 who rode — so he put it — over the mangled bodies of 
 starved and disappointed journalists. 
 
 At all events, the phrase had a fine journalistic ring. 
 The Halfpenny Pressman felt the happier for it. 
 
 XIV 
 
 The Mayor of Trowbury received the Director of 
 the Halfpenny Press — famous, wealthy, powerful and 
 notorious, and a baronet — whose motor-car could not 
 have cost a penny less than a thousand pounds. A 
 point, that, for the Blue Bores ! 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley was humbly and proudly pressed 
 to take a little supper at the Famous Grocery — ‘ pot- 
 luck, plain food but the best * — and Mrs. Trotman was 
 set cooking her utmost, the Famous Grocer himself 
 fetching from the shop several delicacies which she knew 
 not in the least how to use. In support of his invitation, 
 Mr. Trotman mentioned jovially that the cook 6 at our 
 antient hostelry 9 had just been discharged for drunken- 
 ness, that the kitchenmaid was far from fit to take her 
 place in cooking for gentlemen, and that the whiskey 
 there was not so mature as formerly. He promised all 
 the aid that the Mayor of Trowbury could give towards 
 elucidating the mystery of Ramshorn Hill. He had, 
 indeed, some very important, some most important, in- 
 formation. They would discuss the matter. . . . 
 
 The Director prepared to make the best of a bad job, 
 to remain at the Famous Grocery for supper ; but he 
 decided that nothing should induce him to sleep the 
 night in a house which, to tell the truth, smelt more than 
 the least bit cheesy and fusty. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 65 
 
 Meanwhile, high-falutin tragedy was working itself 
 up in another part of the town — in a small back up- 
 stairs room of a small house in Augustine Terrace. 
 
 When Miss Starkey had been dismissed from her 
 situation at the Famous Grocery, she walked aimlessly 
 to the bottom of Castle Street, full of indignation against 
 4 old Trotman and all his beastly place/ Then with a 
 sudden revulsion from rage to self-pity, she found her- 
 self weeping and went quickly home. She sat down on 
 her bed and looked out of the window, at a red-brick 
 wall with tufts of grass growing in its unpointed crevices. 
 She got up and walked about the room, touching things. 
 It was a neat clean little place, its prevailing colour 
 drab — a tint beloved of landladies because, even when 
 it cries for washing, it doesn't show it. An oil-stove in 
 the fender and a spirit lamp on the washstand denoted 
 at once the bachelor's or spinster's apartment. But the 
 most noticeable, the only really striking thing about 
 the room was the pictures. Besides a faded photograph 
 of a consumptive-looking man with fluffy side-whiskers 
 (Miss Starkey's father), and a text or two about 
 God's love, supplied by the landlady, the walls were 
 decorated entirely by pictures of classical statuary and 
 paintings. 44 A nasty naked lot ! " the landlady called 
 them. 
 
 After gazing for some time at nothing in particular, 
 Miss Starkey dried her eyes, took a dose of sal volatile , 
 arrayed herself before the glass, and walked out to 
 Clinch's Emporium. Making straight for Miss Jepp's 
 counter, she bought twopennyworth of black hat-elastic, 
 and whispered : 44 1 want you after shop. Come round. 
 Old Trotman's sent me going. I'll tell you this even- 
 ing." 
 
 Miss Jepp looked startled. 
 
 44 All right. . . ." 
 
 44 You come round," Miss Starkey repeated with a 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 grim catch in her voice not unmixed with a certain note 
 of triumph, “ and I'll tell you everything ! " 
 
 An eavesdropping male assistant was edging near. 
 Miss Starkey tossed her head and went out 
 
 XV 
 
 Women like Julia Jepp run in where angels keep aloof. 
 Yet even she might not have gone to her friend's lodging 
 had she known what was in store for her. Miss Starkey 
 was waiting, leaning over the bannister, on the dingy 
 little landing. “ Oh, Julie! It's quarter to nine. I 
 thought you weren't coming." A squeak in the voice 
 at nine, and a little snuffle at the end, warned Julia that 
 tears were not far off. She opened her arms, so motherly 
 for her age and occupation, and led Miss Starkey into 
 the little room. It was in darkness, except for the sickly 
 reflection of the moonlight. Lighting the smoky lamp 
 did but increase the atmosphere of something impending. 
 Long afterwards Julia shivered slightly at the smell 
 of an ill-cleaned lamp. 
 
 Edith Starkey began her tale of woe : 
 
 “ He turned me out at dinner-time with a week's 
 wages. He was in an awful temper." 
 
 “ What for ? ' With you, dear ? " 
 
 “ Yes, I think. ... I don't know. Not at first. 
 Anyhow, he sent me going, and he stayed hanging 
 about to see that I went. He said dreadful things. Just 
 like he does when he's . . ." 
 
 “ But what for, Edie ? " 
 
 “ Yes," said Edith Starkey, continuing her own tale. 
 “ And Julie ... I don't know what to do ! I don't a 
 bit. There's Mother. . . . That old beast, Trotman, 
 said my father was I don't know what, and I called him 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 67 
 
 a devil. I did ! I could have hit him. But he wasn't 
 so far wrong. My stepfather is, anyhow. That's it. 
 He's a bigger beast than old Trotman. I haven't told 
 you ever. . . . Listen ! He's nearly always in liquor. 
 And he doesn't allow Mother any money, except to buy 
 food for him to eat, and she has to have his leavings — 
 sometimes he won't let her sit down to table with him, 
 — and if I hadn't sent her money — I used to post it to a 
 shop near our house, — she wouldn't have had anything 
 at all for herself. And now I shan't be able to any more. 
 She won't have anything — not a penny — not enough to 
 eat. Oh, Julie, I don't know what to do ! " 
 
 Edith Starkey was more than snuffling now ; she had 
 her handkerchief out and was blowing her nose vigor- 
 ously. 
 
 “You must try and get Mr. Trotman to take you 
 back," Julia suggested. 
 
 “ He won't. I called him too much when he told his 
 lies about my father." 
 
 “ Perhaps he will. What was it all about ? " 
 
 “ He found me in the passage talking to Alec." 
 
 “ Oh. . . 
 
 “ Alec was only helping me off with my jacket. 
 He's such a polite boy. We hadn't been talking a 
 minute." 
 
 “ Really ! " Julia's characteristic really . 
 
 “ Oh, Julie, don't you believe me ? " 
 
 Julia became aware that she had been hardening her 
 heart. She softened. 
 
 “ Yes, my dear, of course I believe you. But if that's 
 all, Mr. Trotman 'll be sure to have you back — when 
 he's in a better temper. Just you try, dear." 
 
 “ It's no good if I did," Miss Starkey wailed. “ I 
 should have to go soon." 
 
 “ Perhaps someone else will give you a berth." 
 
 “ That wouldn't be any good either. I should have 
 
68 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 to go from them as well. Mother won't get any more 
 clean money from me. Julie ! ” 
 
 Miss Starkey sprang up from the bed with a strange 
 gesture of pride and abasement. She put her arms 
 round Julia's neck and whispered. . . . 
 
 Did she indeed whisper ? Julia found herself aware 
 of something, yet with no recollection, no echo, of 
 speech in her ears. “ Oh, Edie ! " she exclaimed. There 
 was an indefinite, undirected note of anger in her 
 voice. 
 
 Miss Starkey drew away and stood in the middle of 
 the room like a weeping child waiting to have some 
 clothes tried on. 
 
 “ Yes, that's it ! " she said. 
 
 “ You haven't been and got married secretly ? " 
 
 “ No — I — haven't ! Can't you understand. I ought 
 to." 
 
 “ Edie ! How could you ? And not tell me ? " 
 
 “ Tell you l " 
 
 Miss Starkey laughed through her sobs. 
 
 Julia was very white in the face. With effort she con- 
 trolled herself lest she should lose her head and weep 
 too. Though she seemed to be thinking deeply, she was 
 in reality much more like a piece of blotting paper into 
 which ink has soaked ; which is not yet dry, but still wet, 
 soft, and easily to be broken. She would have liked a 
 good cry there and then. 
 
 But Miss Starkey had to be considered. She sat down 
 on the bed once more. For a time everything was 
 quiet, except for her sobbing and the meg- meg of voices 
 downstairs and the wauling of cats in the back-yard. 
 Then she began to talk in a machine-like wail that 
 mingled with the voices of the cats, like a sad and 
 thoughtful echo of their savage feline love-making. 
 
 “ Don't look at me like that, Julie. I was so lonely. 
 I'd have given anything — anything, for just a kiss like 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 69 
 
 most girls. I couldn't help it. I used to look in the 
 glass and think how old I was looking. He talked nice 
 to me. You don't know how lonely I was. And I hadn't 
 any money to go anywhere because I'd sent it all to 
 Mother. I only had you for a friend, and since you've 
 taken up with Alec Trotman ... I used to come 
 home after shop and make some tea and sit down and 
 look at my pictures — and then I couldn't sleep for 
 thinking. And I'm anaemic, you know. I dreaded 
 looking at myself, I was so peeky and old. I thought 
 I should go off my head. Mad ! So I went out, like 
 the rest of them, instead of keeping myself to myself. — 
 Julie ! What are you looking at me like that for ? 
 Julie ! " 
 
 “ Who was it got you into trouble ? Who was it 
 betrayed you ? " 
 
 The language of these young ladies is none the less 
 sincere because, on high occasions, it resembles that of 
 the novelettes they are accustomed to read. 
 
 “ Who was it, dear ? " Julia asked again. 
 
 “ 'Twas . . . No, I shan't tell you . — Julie, don't 
 look like that." 
 
 Miss Starkey roared with laughter. 
 
 “ I shall bear a son and he shall be called Unwanted ! 
 — No, we'll call him James Alexander Trotman Starkey, 
 Son of Loneliness and Bad Luck. It wasn't my fault, 
 Julie." (Here she cried.) “ 'Twas the Trotmans' fault ; 
 the horrid old father and the pimply-faced fool of a 
 son ! Julie, don't look ! " (And here she laughed 
 again.) “ I'll take my baby down the town, dressed 
 in white, in a green mailcart with a leather hood. And 
 people will say, c There she goes ! ' and perhaps they’ll 
 pity me then. I shan't be lonely any more. A baby's 
 better than an old maid's cat." 
 
 Miss Starkey was flinging herself round the room. 
 She cried and laughed together. She knocked over the 
 
70 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 lamp, which went out. Julia, gathering up the pieces 
 of glass, saw her white face by the moonlight, and her 
 mouth opening and shutting, like a shadow-show on the 
 wall, as she gabbled and laughed. It seemed as if the 
 mouth had no connection with the voice that filled 
 the room. 
 
 “ Mother, Mother ! " she called out, twitching and 
 twisting like someone poisoned with strychnine or dying 
 of lockjaw. “ Julie . . . I've heard a clergyman say 
 that our friends in heaven can see us, what we do. Do 
 you think my father saw me — then ? Julie, speak ! 
 Did he ? I wonder what he thought. . . ” 
 
 She burst into laughter. 
 
 “ Sh, sh ! " went Julia. “ The landlady will hear." 
 
 “ I don't care. Mother ! Father ! Mother ! God ! 
 God ! Everybody ! " 
 
 A scream. 
 
 Julia forced her to lie down and undid her collar ; 
 slapped her, scolded her, and poured cold water on her, 
 after the manner, approved in drapery establishments, 
 of treating hysterical young women. “ Who was it, 
 Edie ? " she asked, being full of suspicion. 
 
 Miss Starkey was not so far gone but she could catch 
 at her friend's meaning. It needs knowledge of the 
 depths of the hysterical mind to explain why she raved 
 on : “ 'Tis the Trotmans who've ruined me — Trotman 
 father and Trotman son ! Cursed be the house of Trot- 
 man ! I hate the old man, and I hate his son, and I 
 hate — oh, I hate — that old cat, Mrs. Trotman. If I 
 kill myself, say it was the Trotmans made me. — Julie ! " 
 
 But she was beginning to calm down. Physical ex- 
 haustion was gaining the upper hand. The muscular 
 contortions subsided to a tremor, the strident voice and 
 wild laughter to a dull muttering. Julia would have 
 gone, had not pity, and an aching curiosity, kept her. 
 Julia was a good woman. She suffered, perhaps, greater 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 71 
 
 pain than her friend. But she wanted to know, to 
 know. ... If she could only know. 
 
 “ Was it Alec Trotman ? ” she asked. 
 
 “ I didn’t say so,” and a sly cruel smile was the only 
 reply. 
 
 Restraining an impulse to bully a plain acknowledge- 
 ment of the truth out of Miss Starkey, she calmed her 
 until sleep came, and then only did she leave the lodg- 
 ing-house — to face the infliction of a one shilling fine 
 for being late in at the Emporium. 
 
 “ Is Miss Starkey ill, Miss ? ” asked the landlady as 
 Julia went downstairs. 
 
 “ Yes. But she's asleep now. Don't disturb her, 
 please.” 
 
 “ Nothing very serious, Miss ? ” 
 
 Julia pretended not to hear. Nevertheless, the land- 
 lady had overheard enough to go upstairs, awaken Miss 
 Starkey, and give her a week's notice to quit a respect- 
 able house. 
 
 This proceeding had the most beneficent effect possible 
 in bringing that young lady to her senses. 
 
 XVI 
 
 The supper at Alderman Trotman's was a great and 
 memorable success. A real Sir — The Director of the 
 Halfpenny Press — Sir Pushcott Bingley, Bart. — was 
 their guest. It made them feel as if they were, and 
 always had been, in the centre of the world's affairs. 
 Certainly he was rather short with Mrs. Trotman's 
 string of ladylike social sayings and with the Mayor's 
 disquisition on how the Council ought to act, and ought 
 not to have acted, for a progressive Trowbury. But 
 what could the Trotmans do, other than follow the 
 conversational lead of so honourable a guest, who made 
 
72 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 himself so thoroughly at ease in their happy humble 
 home ; who was, as for months afterwards Mrs. Trotman 
 said, such a gentleman ? 
 
 He began by interrogating them like a smiling Old 
 Bailey barrister. He sauced his meat with questions 
 and washed it down with replies. He even prevented 
 the Mayor from answering questions addressed to 
 Alec. That in itself is a most convincing testimony 
 to his genius, for no one else had ever succeeded in 
 making Alderman Trotman hold his tongue. 
 
 When the Halfpenny Pressman entered, just as they 
 were nibbling cheese, Sir Pushcott turned to him and 
 remarked pleasantly : “ There's something in it, Fulton." 
 
 “ I was sure of it from the first," said the Halfpenny 
 Pressman. 
 
 “ You had better go and get a little rest. I shall 
 want you at the hotel at ten o'clock and you will go 
 up to town in my car." 
 
 Fulton retired. The conversation went on. 
 
 The Trotman family had never seen its head in so 
 genial a mood. His waistcoat bulged ; his eyes twinkled ; 
 his bilious complexion flushed with colour. One end 
 of his moustache looked heavenward, and the other 
 end looked the other way. It was My son this , My son 
 that , I this , I that , I something else , /, /, /. And Mrs. 
 Trotman succeeded in telling Sir Pushcott what trouble 
 she had had with Alexander's stomach. 
 
 The table was cleared, the whiskey decanter being 
 left upon it. “ 4 Fine old liqueur, guaranteed twelve 
 years old,' Sir Pushcott," said the Famous Grocer. 
 “You will do me the honour of taking a glass ? " 
 
 Then an unprecedented thing happened. Sir Push- 
 cott Bingley was seldom in his life tricked into showing 
 his cards ; he played them instead ; but on this occa- 
 sion . . . The Mayor's decanter held one of those clever 
 blended whiskeys which are soft and clear to the palate, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 73 
 
 but treacherous in the drinking ; whiskeys which get 
 into a man's head unawares and cause him to surprise 
 himself. In vino veritas is especially true of such liquor. 
 No more than one glassful will sometimes render a man 
 visibly true to himself. So, perhaps, it was with Sir 
 Pushcott Bingley after supper. Whether his journalistic 
 haul, or his exhilarating ride across the Downs, or 
 Trowbury air, or his tiredness, aided the whiskey can- 
 not be determined. At all events, he lay back in Mr. 
 Trotman’s own arm-chair and stretched his long legs 
 across the rug. He ruffled his hair, his eyes brightened, 
 and his dark thin face lighted up. As he talked he be- 
 came, so to speak, an ordinary man astonished at the 
 great exploits of one Sir Pushcott Bingley. Therefore, 
 to the Mayor’s respectful questions, he gave replies both 
 gracious and cynical. He spoke like a man so assuredly 
 successful that he can afford to pick holes in the means 
 of his own success. 
 
 “ I can remember,” said the Mayor, rolling a banded 
 cigar between his lips, “ when the Press was very different 
 to what it is now. In my young days we had news- 
 papers for every shade of opinion, but nowadays they 
 all seem to be on one side. At least, all the go-ahead 
 papers do.” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Sir Pushcott. “ All on the side of 
 the angels. Eh ? As a matter of fact there are no real 
 parties. Liberalism and Conservatism are obsolete. 
 There is the party in, and the party out ; and not a 
 pin’s difference between them, except in their names 
 and election cries. Of course, there is the Labour Party, 
 but in trying to manage Labour they have succeeded 
 in representing anything except labourers ; nothing 
 except themselves ; they are negligible. The Press is 
 party. First the Press puts one side in and then the 
 other side. Parties have become simply the machinery 
 — and a deuced clumsy one at that — by which the Press 
 
74 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 rules the country. The electorate, it is true, decides 
 upon some quibble or other which party shall go in next ; 
 but it is the Press that invents the quibble. In point 
 of fact, I, as Director of the Halfpenny Press , I am the 
 true, free, independent and democratic voter. I am 
 the real ruler. I am like the trusty butler of an old 
 and fussy dowager. She does the fussing and I rule.” 
 
 “ I see perfectly, quite see,” remarked Mr. Trotman. 
 “ I always suspected as much.” (He had done nothing of 
 the sort.) “ But this amalgamation of newspapers in 
 the last ten years or so ... Is that also due to the 
 parties becoming obsolete, as you say ? I never could 
 understand how one man could own a Conserva- 
 tive newspaper in one place and a Liberal paper in 
 another. It doesn't seem right, if I may say so. Con- 
 victions are convictions. . . .” 
 
 “ If one man does serve two parties,” said the Director 
 with a smile of doubtful meaning, “ I admit there may 
 be an element of dishonesty. But suppose two parties 
 serve one man. . . . That alters the case. There is no 
 dishonesty in being served by two parties, or forty 
 parties. It is the parties themselves that are dishonest 
 with their absurd humanitarian pretensions and their 
 electioneering claptrap. And as for the amalgamation 
 of the Press, the so-called intellectual trust — as if 
 newspapers were intended to be intellectual. . . . 
 Unity is strength : it's money.” 
 
 “ Yes, it is,” observed the Famous Grocer. “ I have 
 found it so myself. When I started business, I . . .” 
 
 “ And now we may practically say that there are only 
 three newspapers in the kingdom : the Times — Old 
 
 Tuppenny, as they call it since I bought the controlling 
 interest in it and reduced its price to twopence — the 
 Penny Press, and the Halfpenny Press . Other news- 
 papers do survive, but they have only a technical or 
 faddistic circulation, like Science, The Motor , Excelsior , 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 75 
 
 vegetarian pamphlets, religious journals and sweetness- 
 and-light magazines. There’s the Labour Press, of 
 course, but that cannot afford an efficient news service 
 and it wastes its wits in making ignorant men guffaw. 
 
 “ The Times is unchanged, except that it gives the 
 minimum of news and all the advertisements it can get 
 at prices it is afraid to reduce. For, as it told the world 
 in 1912, it feels that its old-established energies are 
 best directed towards the dissemination of really useful 
 literature — cookery books, illustrated bibles, and pub- 
 lishers’ remainders furbished up ; encyclopaedias, dic- 
 tionaries, home-dressmakers, and so forth. It is the 
 organ of the deferred payment system, unrivalled even 
 by the Halfpenny Press , at selling unnecessary com- 
 modities to people who can’t afford them. It still re- 
 mains the national journal — and rightly so — but you 
 will notice that the foreign journals now quote the Half- 
 penny Press . Poor old Times ! We’ve run it very hard.” 
 
 “ I have the Encyclopaedia Anglicana ,” said Mr. 
 Trotman proudly. 
 
 “ Have you ! It’s nice to know what our grand- 
 fathers thought. The Penny Press , as I was saying, has 
 a circulation, and a large one, among maiden ladies, 
 clergymen, small shareholders and people who think 
 they think. They revel in its platitudes and timorous 
 respectability. One page of tall talk to two pages of 
 advertisements is its recipe for amusing the British 
 public, and to do it justice the public does turn to the 
 advertisement pages first. It is the organ of the small 
 investor, but it has now too little influence even to 
 make a successful scare. I shall kill it altogether soon 
 with my projected Imperial Advertiser — advertisements, 
 and births, deaths and marriages, every single one of 
 them in the kingdom ; several correspondence pages 
 and two serials with a strong love interest and no 
 naked sexuality to offend the middle-class. That is the 
 
76 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 sort of newspaper for fighting the Penny Press on its 
 own ground. That's the paper the man in the street 
 will take home to the woman in the suburbs. The 
 freely opened correspondence pages will draw to it 
 ninety per cent of those who think they think." 
 
 “ A great many people," said Mr. Trotman with re- 
 sentment at Sir Pushcott's cocksureness, “ run down 
 the Halfpenny Press too." 
 
 “ Of course they do. It is successful. It knows 
 what it wants and gets there. It has more energy 
 put into it than all the other newspapers taken 
 together, and energy still counts in large affairs if 
 prudence has taken its place in small. They talk 
 about education everlastingly, as if it were a cure-all 
 instead of a process for making unfit nations unfitter : 
 the Halfpenny Press has done more to educate the 
 masses than all the education bills that were ever ela- 
 borated to death. It has given them innumerable items 
 of knowledge as useless as the contents of school books, 
 and profitable to nobody except the shareholders of 
 the Halfpenny Press. But, mind you, it has made the 
 masses conscious of the world at large as well as of 
 their own parish, of other nations as well as their 
 own families. Granted that the world revealed to 
 them by the Halfpenny Press is part imaginary : what 
 world, what revelation, is not ? I don't say it has 
 been done the best way possible. It could only be done 
 on a satisfactory financial basis ; and the Halfpenny 
 Press has done it efficiently and quickly, largely no 
 doubt because it is a halfpenny ; for ha'pence can often 
 do what pounds cannot. And perhaps in becoming 
 world- conscious, the masses have lost consciousness of 
 the universe and of their own souls, if they've got any. 
 . . . Who can tell ? That is not my business." 
 
 The magnitude of the baronet's arguments was putting 
 Mrs. Trotman into a respectful confusion of mind. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 77 
 
 “ Then/ 5 she asked, “ is your Halfpenny Press , Sir 
 Pushcott, going to be the only paper ? ” 
 
 “ I trust so, madam, eventually. One imperial nation, 
 one God, one Church, one King, one newspaper, and one 
 Director of the lot ! That is the watchword for our 
 great and glorious race. It was I who prevented a 
 disastrous war with Germany, though I should have 
 been three-quarters of a million in pocket had we won, 
 and perhaps if we had lost. But the issue of the war 
 was too uncertain. It was I who brought about the 
 triumphant war with the East African negroes. It was 
 I who suppressed, till after peace, the disasters of the 
 war against Turkey. It was I who created, who con- 
 secrated I might almost say, the Archbishop of All the 
 Empire. It was I . . .” 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley dropped off to sleep. And the 
 Trotmans sat obsequiously around him. 
 
 The Managing Director of the Empire was asleep ! 
 
 “ Poor man,” said Mrs. Trotman, “ he's so tired that 
 he's fallen asleep.” She spoke in such a way that it 
 would be all the better if he were not too far gone to 
 hear her. “ He's a very nice gentleman, isn't he, 
 James ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied her worshipful husband. “ Not a bit 
 proud.” 
 
 “ Don't you think we'd better wake him ? He told 
 that man he wanted him at the Blue Boar at ten o'clock, 
 and it’s ten-to now.” 
 
 “ Perhaps we had. — Sir ! ” 
 
 Mr. Trotman called the sleeper gently. 
 
 “ Sir Pushcott ! ” 
 
 There was no response. 
 
 “ Sir Pushcott Bingley ! Sir ! ” 
 
 The Mayor touched him as respectfully as if he were 
 a piece of damp toffee, or someone else's pocket hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
78 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 44 Sir Push-co^ / " 
 
 44 Oh, yes, . . . I've been thinking. . . . Was I 
 asleep ? No, surely ? Room a little warm. Headache. 
 What time is it ? I must be going. Very many thanks 
 for your hospitality, and help. Where is that young 
 man, your son ? Alexander ? Yes. I should like to 
 see him a moment. Don't trouble to come out. No, 
 thank you. Your son will show me the way to my 
 hotel, I've no doubt." 
 
 “ I will do so myself." 
 
 “ No. Pray don't trouble. Indeed ! Good night. 
 Good night, Mrs. Trotman, and very many thanks. I 
 will give myself the pleasure of calling to-morrow morn- 
 ing, when I have settled one or two matters. Now then, 
 Mr. Alexander, if you please." 
 
 Thus neatly was the Mayor of Trowbury left behind. 
 But all that Sir Pushcott Bingley said to Alec was : 
 
 46 Well, and what do you think about it ? " 
 
 <c Don't know," Alec appeared to reply. 
 
 44 That's right," said Sir Pushcott with much tactful 
 encouragement in his voice. 44 Now I want you to- 
 morrow to write an article for the Halfpenny Press : 
 4 How I Moved the Hill,' or something like that. 
 Tell the whole truth, you know. And make it crisp. 
 Fulton will polish it up for you. Good night, my boy. 
 You don't seem to know that you are a celebrity. . . ." 
 
 44 1 beg your pardon, sir ? " 
 
 44 Never mind. Good night. Take care of that diges- 
 tion of yours. Come to the hotel and inquire for me 
 to-morrow morning at a quarter to nine. You can ? 
 Good night." 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley had ten minutes’ talk with the 
 Halfpenny Pressman. Then the six-cylinder motor-car 
 sped up to London, where Fulton dictated much im- 
 portant news to a linotype operator. 
 
 James Trotman questioned his son magisterially as 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 79 
 
 to what the Director of the Halfpenny Press had said 
 to him, and because Alec could give no coherent account 
 of nothing in particular he was called a liar. His father, 
 however, offered himself to help him with the article. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley went to bed with a more than 
 half-formed plan in his mind for using Alec Trotman 
 and Ramshorn Hill to his own purpose and profit. 
 A capitalist, both in brains and money, he was 
 now preparing to create an investment. The matter 
 required care and swift action. He slept badly and 
 awakened with a most metallic taste in his mouth. He 
 solemnly warned himself against the Famous Grocer's 
 whiskey. 
 
 Several other people in Trowbury slept indifferently 
 well that night — Mrs. Trotman, Alec, poor Julia worst 
 of all. The disappearance of Ramshorn Hill had never 
 touched her so nearly as the hysterical chatter of Miss 
 Starkey. 
 
 She was, as I have said, a good woman ; of a 
 sentimental unreasoning goodness perhaps ; but funda- 
 mentally good in intention for all that. Life behind 
 drapers' shops, with its silliness, its pathos, and some- 
 times its rank beastliness, had sharpened her native 
 sensibilities. That she was inclined to suspiciousness 
 and jealousy is excusable, seeing that those are traits 
 less of the individual than of the race. In regard to 
 joy, she was not a miser with a hoard, but a very poor 
 person, compelled to be thrifty. Her appreciation of 
 what she supposed to be good was strong, however 
 limited in breadth ; and it was founded on all sorts of 
 curious things, such as sermons, proverbs, paternal 
 
80 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 sayings, cheap novels and the influence of a school 
 teacher whom she had dearly loved in her happier 
 younger days. Her dislike of evil, on the other hand, 
 and her great interest in it, was wide in scope and was 
 founded on experience rather than on opinion and 
 theory. Women in her position see many more problem 
 plays than the keenest of theatre-goers. 
 
 The result of this outlook, combined with an almost 
 sleepless night, was quite characteristic. She decided 
 that she neither could nor would ever marry Alec Trot- 
 man. She imagined herself saying fine pathetic things 
 to the traitorous Miss Starkey, and giving up Alec with 
 a lofty contempt for his weakness together with ab- 
 solute forgiveness of his sin. Separating the sin and 
 the sinner is a task peculiarly congenial to such women. 
 At the bottom of her mind, below anything she was 
 able to put into definite thought, Julia hated Miss 
 Starkey and loved Alec. Consciously, she did precisely 
 the opposite ; she nursed a dislike for Alec and pitied 
 Miss Starkey ; and took up for herself the position of 
 Julia, Saint and Martyr. A good laughing talk with a 
 worldly acquaintance and due consideration of the 
 polygamous instincts of menfolk in general, and of lady- 
 killing youth in particular, would have done her much 
 service. But such a view was beyond the powers of 
 her unaided self, and therefore she wept silently in her 
 bed and twisted and turned about whilst the other 
 young ladies slept and sighed and snored and snuffled 
 around her. 
 
 It is sufficiently wonderful that the fight between 
 her goodness and her vital instincts ended in a truce. 
 To discredit Miss Starkey's ravings had not entered 
 her mind. 
 
 * Over breakfast she fainted. That worried and wronged 
 lady, Mrs. Clinch, with whom she was a favourite be- 
 cause she was not constantly giving notice to leave, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 81 
 
 prescribed a day's holiday. Mr. Clinch pooh-pooh’d 
 the idea. Fainting was nothing in young girls, he 
 said ; they were always at it ; they did it on purpose. 
 Mere laziness ! But when Mrs. Clinch pointed out that 
 she had no time for nursing and that another young 
 lady was leaving within three days, after which addi- 
 tional work would fall on Miss Jepp, then with a damn 
 to save his dignity he reluctantly consented. 
 
 Julia set out for Miss Starkey's. 
 
 A cordial “ How are you, dear ? " and a gentle kiss 
 were present in her mind. She intended to play the 
 saint in a perfectly thoroughgoing manner. This course, 
 however, was nipped in the bud by Miss Starkey's ap- 
 pearance and manner. She was no longer hysterical 
 and clinging : she was cool, collected and desperate ; 
 apparently herself again. She at any rate had slept. 
 
 “ However did you get here at this time of day ? " 
 she asked ; and then, without waiting for a reply, she 
 continued : “ After you went last night, Mrs. Smith 
 came up and gave me a week's notice, saying that her 
 house has always been most respectable. You didn't 
 tell her anything, did you ? " 
 
 “ I only told her not to disturb you because you 
 weren't well." 
 
 “ Then she must have been listening again. I shall 
 go before the week's up." 
 
 “ But where are you going to, my dear ? " asked 
 Julia with some concern. 
 
 “ That's what I don't know. And I don't care ! I 
 can't go home because of Mother. There's a clergyman's 
 wife gives her something sometimes and she'd stop dead 
 if she knew about me. Besides, my stepfather would 
 turn me out. He's always holy and righteous when he's 
 not sober. I don't know where I'm going. And I don't 
 care ! Under a hedge. . . ." 
 
 “ But we must do something/' 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Anyhow, we can't talk about it here. That old 
 woman will be eavesdropping again. Let's go out." 
 
 Julia could have wept — not wholly from a feeling of 
 helplessness. It occurred to her to take a situation in 
 another town, to run away from the whole affair ; 
 but a desire to stay by Alec, although she was quite, 
 quite sure she would have nothing further to do with 
 him, and a notion that she ought to be good to Miss 
 Starkey just because it was all Alec's fault, decided her 
 to remain in Trowbury. In her heart of hearts, of course, 
 she felt that Alec was more sinned against than sinning, 
 and possibly a wish to save him from Miss Starkey had 
 also something to do with her decision. At all events, 
 she was worried and baited by fate to the point of 
 feeling tragical and very nearly of fainting again. 
 
 Just as Trowbury is the market town for mile upon 
 mile of downland, so the Downs are the place where 
 Trowbury takes its — not recreation, for that to the 
 semi-educated mind of the townsfolk implies some gaiety 
 like dances, plays, fetes or tea-fights; — but Trowbury 
 takes its sedate Sunday walks and airs its stuffy-minded 
 population upon the Downs. Of the many pretty paths 
 around, only those which lead to the hills are really 
 foot-worn. It is the unconscious tribute of the town 
 to something greater and more spacious than itself. 
 
 So it was natural that the two girls should insensibly 
 direct their footsteps towards the hill sky-line. Having 
 a momentous subject in waiting for discussion, they were 
 almost silent. They were afraid of what they would 
 have to say when they did talk. Two black figures, 
 they were, on the white winding road — two spots of 
 strife upon the tranquil hills. 
 
 When Miss Starkey remarked that they were nearing 
 Ramshorn Hill the truth of it struck Julia almost with 
 a shock. 
 
 “ This," she said, not wanting to speak more to the 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 83 
 
 point, “ This is where me and Alec Trotman came last 
 Sunday evening.” 
 
 “ Of course 'tis. You know, I know, dear.” 
 
 “ Who told you ? ” 
 
 “ Young Trotman.” 
 
 Julia became silent again. 
 
 They went and looked into the hollow, standing on 
 the brink like two children, bowed wonderingly over a 
 grave. It was great and horrible even by day. It 
 caused them to feel reverent. It invaded their minds, 
 diminishing their daily life and preoccupations to 
 something of small importance. On a sudden impulse 
 they kissed each other. 
 
 “ You will be late for dinner,” said Miss Starkey with 
 characteristic inconsequence. 
 
 “ Never mind. I needn't go back at all to-day if I 
 don't like — not till shut -up time, I mean.” 
 
 Instead of taking a quick path to Trowbury, they 
 descended towards Mrs. Parfitt's cottage. 
 
 Not far from it, Julia stopped suddenly in the middle 
 of the trackway. She brightened up. “ I think I know,” 
 she said. “ You wait outside, Edie. I won't be long.” 
 
 Nurse Parfitt met her with a “ La, my dear ! how be 
 'ee ? ” The old woman had a swarm of questions ready, 
 many of them with stings in their tails. Julia, however, 
 went straight to the point, dragging Mrs. Parfitt willy- 
 nilly after her. 
 
 Had Mrs. Parfitt a spare room in her cottage ? — Yes, 
 a tiny one she had never properly furnished, where she 
 hung up her little bit of washing on wet days. 
 
 Would Mrs. Parfitt take a lodger ? — Well, she'd never 
 thought much about it. 
 
 Yes, but would she ? — She didn't know, but she was 
 a bit lonesome, especially on dark winter nights. She 
 thought she would, if she could get one so far from 
 the town. 
 
84 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Julia knew of a lodger. Julia would make sure the 
 payment was all right. 
 
 Was the lodger Julia herself then ? 
 
 No, but it was a very dear unfortunate friend who 
 had nowhere else at all to go to. 
 
 But Mrs. Parfitt had been thinking that a young man 
 lodger would be nicer — out all day and more protection 
 by night, like. 
 
 Julia rose to the situation. She had never known 
 herself so skilful in acrobatic argument. By whatever 
 way Mrs. Parfitt tried to escape from her half-given 
 promise, there she found Julia stationed with a plea 
 directed at her charity, at the increasing wrongness of 
 things since the old woman was young, at her woman- 
 liness, at her loneliness, at her pride in the Trotman 
 family. For in the heat of words, Julia had mentioned 
 her suspicion of Alec and Miss Starkey. She gave the 
 old woman to understand that it was Alec's fault. 
 (Mrs. Parfitt would have been proud beyond measure 
 had it not been so irregular. As it was, she could not 
 conceal her pleasure in the notion that Alec had got a 
 child.) It must never be mentioned, urged Julia, or 
 it would ruin Alec ; and if Miss Starkey stayed on in the 
 town, he would probably be ruined that way too. Only 
 Nurse Parfitt — no one else — could save the honour of the 
 Trotmans, and at the same time befriend the poor girl 
 ( alias the said hussy) who was at that very moment 
 waiting outside the cottage because she didn't know 
 how good and kind Nurse Parfitt would be. 
 
 “ There, my dear, you've been and quite got over 
 poor old me. Go an' fetch her in, to be sure. You be a 
 good girl, that you be, to offer to pay and all. I'll be 
 bound I'd never ha' done like you if I'd a-been the young 
 man's young 'oman. There's things us females can't 
 put up wi', religion or no religion, I say ; an' I hope 
 you won't never be sorry, my dear," 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 85 
 
 Julia kissed the stubby old face. She did not say, 
 however, that she had decided not to embark on married 
 life with Alec at the oars. 
 
 She fetched in Miss Starkey. Mrs. Parfitt looked her 
 up and down like a suspicious bird, and wished her a 
 very good day. But when Miss Starkey heard what had 
 been arranged, and wept, this time healthily, then the 
 old woman's motherliness bobbed uppermost. She kissed 
 the girl and fondled her with hard wrinkled hands, 
 and took off her outdoor things, and tried to console 
 her with freely expressed opinions on the nature and 
 ways of menfolk. Moral faddiness does not usually 
 obtain any great hold in cottage life. 
 
 Mrs. Parfitt had not much food in the house, but 
 what there was the three of them ate with better 
 appetites than they had had for some time. They sat 
 together far into the afternoon hatching protective lies 
 that nobody but a fool could possibly believe. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 The copy of the Evening Press bought by Julia and 
 Miss Starkey on their way back from Mrs. Parfitt's, re- 
 minds one of nothing so much as of a brass band tourna- 
 ment. Its separate instruments were not at all bad, 
 for the Halfpenny Pressman was a clever enough 
 journalist even though he did squat by the roadside 
 and sentimentalise over life and death. But the total 
 effect — the total effect was in the highest degree as- 
 tounding. And like the noise of brass band tourna- 
 ments, it occupied that evening to the exclusion of all 
 else the brains, or rather the mental ears, of everybody 
 within earshot, of a couple of millions of English news- 
 paper readers ; and, moreover, after the music had 
 
86 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 ceased, it left in the mind a horribly sticky residue, a 
 persistent after-echo of blaring sound. 
 
 Ramshorn Hill was now first called, in huge capitals, 
 The Holy Mountain — a name very cleverly pirated 
 from one of the obscure and despised religious journals. 
 Other headlines were : — 
 
 trowbury’s wonder-worker 
 THE mayor’s SON 
 A MIRACLE 
 
 THE ACTON TRAGEDY 
 THE CONNECTION 
 
 ADAMANTINE CHAIN OF EVIDENCE 
 
 TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION 
 
 SCIENTIFIC OPINIONS 
 A BISHOP ON THE MIRACLE 
 
 FULL DETAILS 
 
 eye-witnesses’ accounts 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley and the Halfpenny Pressman 
 had indeed done their work most excellently well. Julia 
 did not think very highly of a photograph of Alec Trot- 
 man, but she was extremely proud of an interview with 
 him in which Alec, at ordinary times so wordless, was 
 made to speak like a voluble yet modest commercial 
 traveller. 
 
 One scientist questioned whether some undiscovered 
 action of the law of gravity had not been at work, 
 whilst another opined that an unknown property of 
 radium, accidentally stumbled upon by Mr. Alexander 
 Trotman, had been the cause of the apparent miracle. 
 A Fellow of the Royal Society reserved his opinion for 
 the next meeting of that society. Theoretic science, in 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 87 
 
 fact, was as helplessly conjectural as it usually is when 
 confronted with something of greater magnitude than a 
 laboratory experiment. 
 
 Religion, on the other hand, maintained its accus- 
 tomed certainty and disagreement. A minister of the 
 Free Churches confidently expected the end of the 
 world, basing his declaration on certain verses of the 
 Booh of Revelation and the composition of the Cabinet. 
 Another asserted that the Higher Criticism was now 
 finally bankrupt, because if the modern miracle was 
 true, why should not also the miracles of Holy Writ 
 be true ? Yet another thanked God for all His mercies 
 — which was all he desired to say until he knew more 
 about it. The most practical suggestion religion had 
 to offer was that a world -mission or revival should be 
 held on the top of the Holy Mountain, in the eye of 
 the modern Babylon. By such means the message of 
 God through His churches was to resume its sway in 
 the hearts of men, and doubtless the Lord would bless 
 our England for initiating an international soul-revival, 
 if indeed he had not in his lovingkindness expressly 
 designed that our England should be so privileged. 
 Commercial prosperity and the solution of the unem- 
 ployment problem would follow. 
 
 It was suggested that the stability of the Holy Moun- 
 tain should be efficiently tested, and, if found good, 
 that the National Observatory should be removed 
 thither from Greenwich, or that an entirely new obser- 
 vatory should be built there and equipped by some 
 Yankee millionaire with money to spare for the Old 
 Country. To this the editor of the Evening Press ap- 
 pended a note saying that a progessive industrial city 
 in the north had recently erected two costly observa- 
 tories on the tops of new public buildings, and had 
 found the instruments quite useless on account of the 
 dirtiness of the city's atmosphere. Many other sug- 
 
88 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 gestions were aired in the correspondence columns, in- 
 cluding one, that a stream flowing down the hill might 
 supply hydraulic and electric power to the whole of 
 London. How the stream was to be got to the top of 
 the Holy Mountain the correspondent — a distinguished 
 author with a book about to appear — did not explain. 
 
 Julia and Miss Starkey read through the paper very 
 carefully. They even examined the cricket news for 
 possible references to Alec Trotman. They were so 
 astonished by it all that they sank their own troubles 
 and spent the remainder of the evening, until it was 
 time for Julia to return to the Emporium, in talking 
 over and over again Alexander Trotman and his miracle ; 
 in playing at bat and ball with the tittle-tattle of his 
 life and the details of his ways. 
 
 But Julia Jepp was noticeably reticent with regard 
 to what had really happened when she and Alec were 
 on the Downs. 
 
 XIX 
 
 On Wednesday morning Alderman Trotman went out 
 before breakfast and himself purchased a copy of the 
 Halfpenny Press . The merest peep at its news-page 
 showed him that the Mayor of Trowbury's son was the 
 topic of the day. He returned to the shop, asked if the 
 Halfpenny Press was not having a good sale, and bought 
 two more copies. Another early-bird at the news- 
 agent's saluted him so respectfully that he walked the 
 length of Castle Street with the two copies under his 
 arm and the third half-open in his hands. With what 
 dignity he walked ! He forgot to bully his house- 
 hold for breakfast, and even let his wife help the rashers 
 as well as pour out the Famous Blend of tea. 
 
 A shaft of morning sunshine, filtering in through the 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 89 
 
 grubby window-pane, lit up the peaceful motes that 
 danced in the air. Mrs. Trotman had dusted the room 
 betimes. Other signs were not wanting that something 
 extraordinary was agog. She had donned her mayoral 
 costume — the one she wore for opening bazaars and 
 giving away prizes — and had waved her hair with the 
 curling-tongs. She had laid out upstairs her husband’s 
 church-parade tail-coat — two clean linen shirts in one 
 week ! — and she had brought down his top-hat, that 
 was usually reserved for Sundays and funerals, and had 
 hung it in the passage. 
 
 For Sir Pushcott Bingley, Bart. — the Director of the 
 Halfpenny Press — was expected at the Famous Grocery 
 Establishment, on business. 
 
 44 What time did Sir Pushcott say he was coming ? ” 
 the Alderman asked in a mellower voice of command 
 than he was accustomed to use over breakfast. 
 
 44 Indeed, I don’t know, dear,” answered his wife. 
 44 You must wait,” she added with an elegant tran- 
 quillity. 
 
 44 H’m ! Listen to this. . . . And this. . . .” 
 
 Mr. Trotman had never before troubled to read aloud 
 from his morning paper, unless it were an occasional 
 Stock Exchange quotation when an astute investment 
 of his was going up in price. Now, however, he read on 
 and on whilst his goodwife purred to hear him. It was 
 perhaps as well that he did not grasp the full purport 
 of what he was reading. 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley ’s plan for rewarding first Sir 
 Pushcott Bingley and then the mover of the Holy 
 Mountain was very subtly foreshadowed in the leader 
 for the day. The man who could move mountains, it 
 said, was an invaluable asset to any imperial nation. 
 Compared with him, the government dealt in molehills. 
 Such an eminence, overhanging the metropolis of the 
 Empire, would be of incalculable benefit in the cause 
 
90 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 of invasion by a foreign power. The man who could 
 move mountains might well prove the saviour of the 
 nation, and his services should at any cost be strictly 
 reserved for the British Empire. No penny wise, 
 pound foolish, policy ! No driving him into the hos- 
 pitality of alien arms. The chain of evidence which 
 proved the Mayor of Trowbury's son, Mr. Alexander 
 Trotman, to be the mover of the Holy Mountain was 
 unbreakable. Skilled research by Special Commis- 
 sioners of the Halfpenny Press was still in progress. The 
 young man himself, with characteristic modesty, seemed 
 as yet hardly aware of the miracle he had wrought. 
 Which was not to be wondered at. But he was in com- 
 plete accord with “ A Country Pastor '' (see Correspon- 
 dence) and desired nothing so much as that religion, 
 which had inspired his work, should be the first to 
 reap the benefit. Christianity was the foundation of 
 British greatness and prosperity. Religion before war- 
 fare ! The Prince of Peace before the warrior ! “ Let us 
 sweep aside/' continued the leader, “ all petty questions 
 as to the proprietorship of Ramshorn Hill and of the 
 ground at Acton on which it stood. A thing is sanctified 
 by its use. How can a grateful nation reward such a 
 man ? How can a nation in its gratitude make the 
 best use of his wondrous work ? '' 
 
 In another column, Mr. Trotman read that the 
 Halfpenny Press , ever to the forefront in voicing popular 
 sentiment and ideals, was now, as always, prepared 
 to lead at whatever expense. It would increase its 
 size temporarily and would open its correspondence 
 columns to the hundreds of men and women who were 
 prepared to help the nation in its task. Moreover, an 
 article by Mr. Alexander Trotman himself would appear 
 in the next day's issue, and it was possible, indeed, that 
 he would even deliver an address at a public meeting to 
 be convened for that purpose in London. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 91 
 
 Mr. Trotman read to the end, then looked up. “ They’re 
 smart, aren’t they ? ” he observed judicially. “ That’s 
 what I call very smart — very ! I say, Lilian ; send the 
 girl for the Penny Press and the Times . I should like 
 to see what they say. — Where’s Alec ? ” 
 
 “ I’ve taken him up a cup of cream cocoa. It will 
 do him good after last night. The child’s run down.” 
 
 “ Better see he runs down from his bedroom pretty 
 soon. I want him. Cream cocoa ! I wish I could drink 
 cream cocoa. Liver, liver ! And he’s got that article 
 to do before Sir Pushcott comes, and I expect he’ll 
 want my help. He never was a good hand at writing.” 
 “ Oh, I’m sure he is ! He got a prize for writing at 
 school.” 
 
 “ He’s never been any good since, anyhow. I could 
 write when I was his age. D’you remember my letters 
 to you ? Have you got ’em treasured up with your 
 marriage lines ? Eh ? ” 
 
 Mrs. Trotman blushed. 
 
 “ Here,” said her husband. “ Let’s see.” 
 
 He was referring not to those love letters which had 
 brought to his wife’s face one of her rare blushes, but 
 to the newspapers just brought in by the servant. 
 He spread out the ponderous Times in front of him. 
 “ The damn thing’s all advertisements and govern- 
 ment twaddle ! ” he snarled. He folded it up and passed 
 it to his wife to look at. 
 
 Small wonder, indeed, that he was disappointed. 
 The Times contained merely a note to the effect that 
 no one had explained satisfactorily the upheaval in 
 Acton, and another note to the effect that no one had 
 explained satisfactorily the disappearance of Rams- 
 horn Hill in Wiltshire ; which was, the Times observed, 
 very remarkable. Apart from these two highly re- 
 strained paragraphs, there was nothing at all about 
 the momentous subject, except a full page advertise- 
 
92 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 ment which stated with obese circumvention, among a 
 mass of statistics and testimonials, that the Times , 
 having ever before it the duty of educating, instructing 
 and amusing the public, had decided to offer on the in- 
 stalment system a limited number of copies (apply 
 early !) of the latest edition of the magnificent transla- 
 tion of the monumental scientific work of the eminent 
 Herr Professor Dr. von Bocktrinker, on Earthquakes 
 and Earth-Disturbances , in six volumes — a mass of 
 popular erudition which no enlightened man could afford 
 to be without. One shilling with the Order Form ap- 
 pended, and sixpence a month (one-fifth of a penny 'per 
 diem ) would secure this priceless possession to the pur- 
 chaser and his heirs for ever. It would pay for itself 
 in thirteen days. 
 
 The Penny Press , on the other hand, was exceedingly 
 interested in what it supposed to be c a widespread 
 seismic disturbance having its twin centres beneath 
 Acton and Wiltshire/ Alderman Trotman appreciated 
 to the utmost a long dignified letter, from the head of an 
 Oxford college, replete with profound commonplaces 
 about the unprecedented in life and in fiction, the 
 intentions of a Beneficent Deity, and the possible effect 
 on industry and scholarship. There was also (but this 
 only roused the Mayor's contempt) an article by a pro- 
 fessional pathos-monger describing the unhappy fate 
 of the unfortunate families of Acton : 
 
 O’erwhelmed beneath a million tons of earth ! 
 
 An article illustrating by means of elaborate diagrams 
 the geological formation of Acton and of the chalk 
 Downs was followed by an announcement that the 
 publication of a scientific investigation, instituted by 
 and at the expense of the Penny Press , was pending. 
 
 “ Pooh ! " said Mr. Trotman. “ These other rags 
 ain't got a spice of go. Sir Pushcott Bingley's the man. 
 — Just go'n tell Alec to hurry up down." 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 93 
 
 XX 
 
 The Mountain Mover — Chop-Allie Trotman — came 
 downstairs about nine o'clock. 
 
 “ Well, my boy," said his father. 44 How are you this 
 morning ? Fit ? " 
 
 So surprised was Alec at his father's politeness, a 
 thing unexperienced by him since he won a prize at 
 school for good (i.e. colourless) conduct, that he could 
 only mumble, “ I don' know," and make an effort to 
 escape the paternal presence. 
 
 “ Now, my boy, you know you've got that article to 
 write for Sir Pushcott Bingley. Better start at once, 
 hadn't you ? No time like the present, that’s the motto 
 of a successful man. Ask Sir Pushcott if it isn't. Get 
 a pen and ink and some paper, and sit down to it. Let's 
 see what you can do. I never spared expense over your 
 schooling, as I've often told you and your mother. 
 D'you think you can make something of it — How I 
 moved the Hill — How I worked a Miracle — or something 
 of that sort ? " 
 
 The paternal affability was too much. Alec looked 
 up furtively at his smiling father. He mumbled again, 
 “ I don’ know," and slouched round the room for writing 
 materials. It was not a voluble, scarcely a promising, 
 beginning. It is to be feared, indeed, that the Mountain- 
 Moving Wonder-Worker, although the son of a Pamous 
 Grocer, was not in all things the equal even of the 
 Halfpenny Pressman. 
 
 “ Get at it, my boy," his father repeated, “ or else 
 Sir Pushcott will be here before you've begun. I'm 
 just going down to the Blue Boar to inquire for Sir 
 Pushcott and see when he is coming. Get at it. Be 
 business-like. Sit down. See if you can get it done by 
 the time I come back," 
 
94 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Alec did try to be business-like ; or rather, he tried to 
 begin doing what the Director of the Halfpenny Press 
 demanded. For he too, in spite of his apathy in regard 
 to everything unconnected with Miss Julia Jepp, was 
 slightly carried off his feet by Sir Pushcott’s wealth, 
 energy, motors and greatness. No sooner did the Mayor 
 perceive that his son had really ‘ got at it/ than he 
 bustled away, beaming with gratified excitement, to 
 the Blue Boar bar, where he certainly inquired after 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley and as certainly partook with 
 pleasure of a sleever of brandy and soda. 
 
 As for Alec : like many a better man before him, he 
 remained seated, ready and waiting for inspiration, in 
 front of a fair white sheet of paper — white except for 
 the imprint of the Famous Grocery Establishment. 
 There is, as we know, a tide in the affairs of men which 
 taken at the flood leads on to victory. But what man 
 can say that those who content themselves with float- 
 ing on that tide are not wiser than those who try to 
 swim in it ; kicking themselves out to sea instead of 
 allowing themselves to be cast up on the golden 
 strand. That must be the secret of masterly inactivity, 
 which often enough is nothing but incapacity in 
 the retroprospect. To-day you cannot do something ; 
 to-morrow you will have the sense not to have 
 done it. Alec practised such masterly inactivity. 
 He did nothing; that is, he left time and tide to do 
 everything. 
 
 But along came Mrs. Trotman — a kicker-out in the 
 waves of fate if ever there was one. 
 
 “ Alec, my dear, you must begin. Your father will 
 be so angry and say it's my fault. Now — there’s a 
 dear. . . 
 
 “ All right. I’m going to. I’m thinking what to 
 put.” 
 
 Twas not true. He was thinking what not to put — 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 95 
 
 what he couldn't put — Julia Jepp — a well-remembered 
 kiss. He plucked up desperation and began floundering : 
 
 How the Hill Moved. 
 
 I went up over the Downs last Sunday evening 
 with a friend and when we got up there I wished 
 Ramshorn Hill was in London near Acton as I am 
 going to near Acton and I wanted to go walking on it 
 because I like the Downs. And when I looked the 
 hill was gone which I have heard it is gone to near 
 Acton but I do not know. 
 
 Poor Alec ! his mountainous ideas were like cats' 
 meat — calves' lights — pulmonary tissue, if the expres- 
 sion is more acceptable — and shrank to a rag in the 
 boiling. One page of commercial note-paper filled, and 
 three words on the next ! But he kept at it ; he drew 
 whirligigs on the blotting-paper and inked his fingers 
 pulling the pen to pieces. He could have wept from 
 sheer helplessness, and might have done so had he not 
 read his little article again and thought it by no means 
 so bad after all. 
 
 In that state of mind, common among literary men, 
 did his father find Alec. 
 
 “ Now then, me boy ! " said the Mayor as if 
 he were carving a sirloin chosen by himself at the 
 butcher's. 
 
 Alec let him take the sheet of note-paper, and Mr. 
 Trotman perused the article. He re-perused it. “ But 
 Alec," he said, “ this won't do at all. You're not writing 
 a letter to your mother. You want to be smart for the 
 Halfpenny Press — stuff it with facts and be picturesque. 
 Make it like an advertisement. D'you see ? And 
 what's this about a friend. I haven't heard anything 
 about a friend ! Who was it ? Eh ? " 
 
 Alec hung his head and was silent. 
 
96 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Oh, well, never mind ! I will help yon. Get a 
 clean sheet of paper and I'll dictate while you take it 
 down. Sir Pushcott dictates all his important articles, 
 I expect. Now then ! Head it. . . . H'm ! " 
 'Mendment Trotman lighted one of his seven re- 
 maining sixpenny cigars and looked as if infinite wisdom 
 was being conceived within him. 
 
 “ Ah ! I have it. That's better. Much ! Head it, 
 How I Moved the Holy Mountain . That's what they call 
 it. A taking title that. Always approach your subject 
 gently. Worm your way in, my boy. It reads better. 
 Put . . . Are you ready ? Put : 
 
 44 4 Though I received from my father, the present 
 Mayor of Trowbury, the best education that could be 
 got — procured, I was — I was — absolutely ' — yes — 4 ab- 
 solutely unaware of my power to move mountains, and 
 I am completely unable to decide whether my power ' 
 — ah ! — 4 to do so, is ' — ah ! — 4 inherited or acquired.' 
 Got that ? 4 On Sunday last, the seventeenth instant, 
 
 together with a friend, it being a beautiful evening, I 
 repaired to the Downs near the progressive market- 
 town of Trowbury. . . .' Who did you say was with 
 you ? Eh ? — What's that ? " 
 
 It was Mrs. Trotman at the door. 
 
 44 Sir Pushcott Bingley's coming. Make haste." 
 
 44 All right. Be quiet. I'm dictating. Show him up 
 to the drawing-room. I'll be there in a minute. — Now 
 Alec, d'you think you can go on like that ? Put some 
 go and smartness into it. Tell them everything. 
 Everybody's ready to tell everybody everything nowa- 
 days. That's a good sentence. . . . Let 'em see your 
 fighting weight on paper." 
 
 Mr. Trotman strutted away with the gait of a man 
 of importance. How unusually jolly he was ! He felt 
 quite national — veritably in medias res. 
 
 Alec was left to himself, seated before the hatching 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 97 
 
 article. But lie was no hen, nor yet an incubator ; he 
 was only the Mountain Mover. In about ten minutes, 
 he got up and went out. 
 
 XXI 
 
 Mr. Trotman found Sir Pushcott Bingley in the 
 drawing-room, not seated and rather pale in face. 
 
 “ I should/' he said, “ have been earlier, but 
 business . . 
 
 “ Oh, don't mention it, Sir Pushcott ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Trotman with one of her sweetest smiles. 
 
 “ Not at all, my dear sir/' added Mr. Trotman 
 blandly. 
 
 “ I should like to have a chat with you about this 
 extraordinary affair of your son's." 
 
 “ You think . . 
 
 “ It might perhaps be made very advantageous to 
 him." 
 
 “ You think, Sir Pushcott . . ." 
 
 “ And, indeed, to all of you." 
 
 “ Really, Sir Pushcott . . ." 
 
 “ Or, on the other hand, it might involve you in 
 extremely awkward legal consequences — interference 
 with landed interests and so forth, you understand." 
 
 “ He might be summonsed for moving the hill ? " 
 asked Alec's mother. 
 
 “ Exactly. Somebody else's hill — Crown land — and 
 the owners of the present site of the hill in Acton — a 
 mass of litigation. . . 
 
 “ Oh, what can we do, Sir Pushcott ? " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Trotman in accents of ladylike despair. “ It's like 
 stealing ! " 
 
 “ Precisely, Mrs. Trotman ; or worse." 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Oh ! Sir Pushcott ! ” 
 
 “ In any case your son can do nothing, defensive or 
 aggressive, without capital — a large sum of money.” 
 
 Mr. Trotman had been listening intently with his 
 most intelligent expression on his face. “ All my little 
 capital is invested in the development of my business,” 
 he hastened to say. 
 
 “ But for Alec ! ” Mrs. Trotman began. 
 
 “ Impossible, Lilian. Quite ! Sir Pushcott Bingley — 
 a business man — will understand. . . .” 
 
 “ Yes, certainly.” 
 
 “ I,” continued the Director of the Halfpenny Press , 
 “ I happen to have both capital and influence. Possibly 
 I can help him to do something. . . .” 
 
 “ Oh, Sir Pushcott ! ” 
 
 The Trotmans, had they been as wise as they thought 
 themselves, would have taken warning from the extreme 
 impassiveness of the Director’s face. His eyes, even, 
 hardly moved. They simply looked. “ Something very 
 advantageous,” he said, “ possibly. Perhaps it would 
 be better to see the young man himself. Alec, is it 
 not ? ” 
 
 “ Alexander, after the hero. ‘ Some talk of Alex- 
 ander, and some of Hercules. . . / ” 
 
 “ Ah, yes ; of course.” 
 
 Forthwith there was a hue and cry after the hero 
 throughout the Famous Grocery Establishment. The 
 uncompleted articles lay on the table in the dining- 
 room, but Alec, he was nowhere to be found. The 
 Mayor and Mayoress were full of apologies. Alec was 
 unsettled, they said ; and Mr. Trotman showed signs of 
 preparing to air his intellects before the Director of the 
 Halfpenny Press while Mrs. Trotman was looking for 
 her boy. Sir Pushcott, however, with that practical 
 sense which ever distinguished him, insisted that the 
 whole of the household should join in the search ; 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 99 
 
 by which means Mr. Trotman was got rid of. “ Time, 
 no doubt, is precious to you, Sir Pushcott,” remarked 
 Mr. Trotman as he left the drawing-room. 
 
 Alexander Trotman was found in the Station Road. 
 There is no record of what his father said as to the idiocy 
 of neglecting great men and great opportunities. 
 Suffice it to say that the Mayor acted a whole town 
 council towards his son, whom at length, in no very 
 supple frame of mind, he led into the presence in the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 “ Now Mr. Alexander,” said the Director of the Half - 
 'penny Press , “ I have been talking to your father and 
 mother, and we think that you and I may be able to 
 arrive at an agreement — a sort of partnership — which 
 may turn out greatly to your advantage.” 
 
 Mrs. Trotman gave vent to a series of exclamatory 
 expressions from which stood out the words : “ Partner- 
 ship — Sir Pushcott Bingley — Alec dear ! ” Mr. Trot- 
 man looked more business-like than ever ; as if he had 
 an amendment or two in his pocket. But Alec, he looked 
 guilty and rather sullen. 
 
 “ The revivalists at the Crystal Palace are anxious 
 to hear you next Sunday evening ; in fact, some 
 monetary result is assured you, even if my plan for your 
 advantage miscarries. I should be glad to take you to 
 London with me ; this afternoon, if you can be ready ; 
 as soon as my car returns from Town.” 
 
 “ Oh, Alec ! ” Mrs. Trotman exclaimed again. “ Go 
 to London with Sir Pushcott ! In his motor-car ! — 
 Of course he can be ready, Sir Pushcott. I can send 
 some more clean things on after him.” 
 
 “ But first of all we may as well sign our agreement 
 of partnership.” 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley produced a long envelope. 
 
 “ I don't like agreements,” said 'Mendment Trotman. 
 “ They only make work for lawyers.” 
 
100 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Read it, sir. I fancy there is nothing in it you can 
 find fault with/' 
 
 The document purported to be a memorandum of 
 agreement between Alexander Trotman, Esquire, of 
 Castle Street, Trowbury, on the one part, and Sir Push- 
 cott Henry Bingley, Baronet, of 104, Park Lane, 
 London, W., Newspaper Proprietor, on the other part. 
 
 In effect, it stated that in all matters relating to the 
 ownership and development of the Hill, lately arisen in 
 or appeared at or removed to Acton, near London, the 
 said Alexander Trotman and the said Sir Pushcott 
 Henry Bingley were to be partners with equal rights in 
 all profits, proceeds and benefits arising therefrom, the 
 said Alexander Trotman in consideration of his having 
 removed the said Hill, heretofore called Ramshorn Hill, 
 from Wiltshire to Acton, and the said Sir Pushcott 
 Bingley in consideration of his supplying the capital 
 for the due development of the said Hill under the joint 
 ownership or tenancy of the said Alexander Trotman and 
 the said Sir Pushcott Bingley. 
 
 Nothing was said about possible damages or respon- 
 sibilities ; nothing as to how the ownership or tenancy 
 of the hill was to be acquired. The document was, in 
 fact, totally invalid, almost farcical ; one of those deeds 
 which only stand until lawyers have been paid to prove 
 that they don't stand. With the horses of capital, a 
 coach and four might have been driven through it ; 
 but, as Sir Pushcott Bingley well knew, that capital was 
 precisely what the Mountain Mover and his relatives 
 lacked. 
 
 Alderman Trotman adjusted his eye-glasses, held the 
 document at arm's length as if it were a grocery sample, 
 read it through twice to himself and once aloud. When 
 that ceremony was ended, his wife said in tones of 
 rapture : “ How lovely ! — But I don't understand it 
 a bit." 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 101 
 
 44 Be quiet, Lilian/' said the Mayor shortly. 
 
 Then turning to the Director of the Halfpenny Press : 
 44 This, sir, is a very serious matter." 
 
 44 How ? Why ? It's plain and brief." 
 
 “ I never believe in signing important documents 
 without due deliberation. I do not pretend to expert 
 legal knowledge, but I have been the means of saving 
 the Council from . . 
 
 44 Pig-headed provincial " was the phrase that flashed 
 through Sir Pushcott Bingley's mind. He stood up and 
 spoke. 44 Listen to me, please. You can do nothing, 
 not even defend yourselves, without capital and in- 
 fluence. You have neither." 
 
 44 Considerable influence here," the Mayor was heard 
 to say. 
 
 44 Which you will carry with you no further than 
 the railway station, believe me. I, on the other 
 hand, have both influence and capital to apply to 
 this business. Your son's action is, as I have said, 
 fraught with the gravest legal consequences, only to 
 be avoided by capital and influence. In a matter 
 like this, they are eleven-tenths of the law. You 
 stand to gain much or to lose everything ; or 
 at least, your son does. You can choose. You can 
 have my help or go without it. Those are my 
 terms." 
 
 “ Do you wish to threaten me, sir ? " asked the Aider- 
 man in his best municipal fighting tones. 
 
 44 Don't talk nonsense," rejoined the Director of the 
 Halfpenny Press , with a laugh that disconcerted Mr. 
 Trotman far more than all the talk. 44 Besides, it is 
 your son who has to decide." 
 
 44 My son will do what I tell him." 
 
 44 Is your son of age ? " 
 
 44 Alec came of age last January — the 16th," said 
 Mrs. Trotman. 
 
102 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Then your son can do as he likes. — Now, Mr. 
 Alexander/' 
 
 Alec had been a confused spectator of the scene. 
 Business, especially legal business — something more 
 than the sale of half a pound of the Famous Blend — was 
 utterly beyond him, so closely and tenderly had he been 
 fed and nurtured at the Famous Grocery Establishment. 
 Lately, however, he had grown in at least one direction. 
 He was beginning to have a mind of his own ; a mind 
 bolstered up by the image of Miss Julia Jepp ; a 
 young mind, and therefore obstinate rather than force- 
 ful in getting its own way. A spice of his father's 
 overreaching business methods suddenly appeared in 
 him. He walked forward with a firm timidity which 
 would have been rather fine in a handsomer young 
 man. 
 
 “ Shall I," he demanded, “ get cash out of it ? " 
 
 “ Of course," said Sir Pushcott kindly. 
 
 “ Enough to live on ? " 
 
 “ Certainly." 
 
 “ Enough to get married on ? " 
 
 “Alec!" 
 
 “ Alec ! " 
 
 “ Enough and a good deal more probably." 
 
 “ Give it here then, please." 
 
 “ Alec ! " commanded Mr. Trotman. 
 
 “ Alec ! listen to your father," cried Mrs. Trotman. 
 
 “ Be quiet," said Alec. “ I shall ! " 
 
 Whereupon he signed the document. 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley hastened to add his signature, 
 said he would call for Mr. Alexander and his luggage in 
 the early afternoon, and departed to his rooms at the 
 Blue Boar. When the Mayor attempted to expostulate 
 with his son, Alec sulked ; when the Mayoress followed 
 suit, Alec merely said, “ Shut up ! It's done, isn't it ? " 
 and walked out. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 103 
 
 The question of the legality of the deed itself not 
 occurring to them, Mr. and Mrs. Trotman were obliged 
 to admit, that it was done. 
 
 They should have said, “ Alec has outgrown us.” 
 
 XXII 
 
 Men of a certain type, when cornered, have a merci- 
 ful habit of thinking afterwards that their failures were 
 in reality rather clever successes. They do this to such 
 a degree that frequently they are able to indulge in a 
 slightly contemptuous, even kindly, feeling towards 
 those who have got the better of them. Thus they make 
 the best of their bad jobs ; idealise them, in short, 
 which is a very human thing to do. Mr. Trotman did 
 it. When his wife said, “ I suppose it is all right ? ” 
 he replied with a snap : 
 
 “ Of course it is. Sir Pushcott Bingley's a smart 
 man, I can tell you, and smart men like being treated 
 smartly. I can always do business with a business- 
 like person. If it had been Clinch or Ganthorn, we should 
 have wrangled for a week and have had heavy lawyers' 
 bills into the bargain.” 
 
 Since Alec's clothing was already prepared for a 
 much less promising journey to London, the packing 
 went apace. A little bustling on the part of Mrs. 
 Trotman, a little hustling of the servant, who for some 
 reason not known was so well disposed to Master Alec 
 that she sniffed a tear or two — and the portmanteau 
 was tumbled downstairs into the passage. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Trotman completely forgot about the Halfpenny 
 Press article. Alec took care not to remind them. 
 
 Mrs. Trotman would have liked to give her son many 
 a warning about the naughty city of London, had not a 
 
104 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 rather curious hearsay knowledge of its moral byways, 
 a characteristic virtuousness of tongue, and a strange 
 feeling that her boy was now a man, prevented her from 
 speaking freely. She therefore requested the Alderman 
 to talk to him, indicating, as marital intimacy allows, 
 about what. 
 
 Had she heard what her husband did in fact say, she 
 would have been troubled. He told the young man 
 never to miss the main chance, and, since morality 
 means money — had meant it in the case of the Fajnous 
 Grocery — to look after his morals. He instructed him 
 to hold his own with all men, and in any difficulty to 
 write home for his father's advice. He thought that 
 Alec, if his handwriting improved — “ Buy a copybook, 
 my boy ! " — might be given a berth on the Halfpenny 
 Press , perhaps as private secretary to Sir Pushcott. (For 
 Mr. Trotman's imagination was incapable of following 
 out the possible results of the partnership, and with a 
 tradesman's sagacity he wanted Alec to look after the 
 bird that was supposed to be in his hand rather than 
 the flock of birds that was undoubtedly in the bush.) 
 So pleased was the Alderman at talking without let or 
 hindrance, that he finally exhorted his son to beware 
 of women. There was, he hinted, a weakness for women, 
 a sort of inextinguishable gallantry, in the Trotman 
 family. 
 
 “ My father always used to say that my mother 
 trapped him against his will, and I'm certain your 
 mother married me five years before I wanted to. We 
 had a hard pull for a long time with the double ex- 
 penses and yourself, Alec. Your mother hadn't a 
 penny to her name. Now you, Alec," — the Mayor 
 spoke with ineffable sententiousness — “ don't you marry 
 for money ; I don't mean that : you go where the 
 money is." 
 
 Alec thought his father very smart indeed ; clever. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 105 
 
 yet more than clever. . . . Smart is the word. When 
 afterwards in homesick moments he pictured to him- 
 self the Famous Grocery, he saw his father standing 
 monarchically in the dining-room and saying those 
 smart things. 
 
 The Trotman family was in a highly disturbed con- 
 dition when the great motor-car drew up in Castle 
 Street at about a quarter past two. The head of the 
 household was drinking spirits in the dining-room. 
 The mother and son were wandering up and down the 
 stairs with frequent looks at the trunk squat obstinately 
 in the passage. Time after time they had been at the 
 point of beginning one last affectionate conversation ; 
 time after time they sheered off again. Alec had the 
 lump in his throat. His mother wept outright. 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley was well received. Whiskey 
 and the above-mentioned reaction against stupidity 
 had removed all traces of anger from Mr. Trotman’s 
 mind. Alec was quite ready, was going out to the door, 
 when the Alderman suddenly thought of the article, 
 that is to say of his own version of it. Sir Pushcott 
 glanced down it in a professional manner, and remarked 
 that modern education was playing the devil with the 
 youth of the country. He caught sight of the other 
 piece of paper, picked it up, and read that too. 
 
 “ My son's idea of it," remarked the Mayor jocularly. 
 
 “ It's direct at any rate," said Sir Pushcott. “ It 
 does say something. The other is like a leader in the 
 Penny Press — all wind and good intentions. You 
 must get Fulton to help you with the article, young 
 man. He'll write it up for you, and then you can 
 sign it." 
 
 The Mayor’s face was not pleasant to see. | His 
 article ! Alec’s better ! Words rose within him like 
 a little fountain, and as harmlessly fell back again. 
 Only his wife knew what was going on in his mind, 
 
106 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 and prognosticated what was to come forth from his 
 mouth when Sir Pushcott Bingley's restraining presence 
 should be removed from the Famous Grocery. 
 
 A man was called out from the hinder part of the shop 
 to place the portmanteau on a spare seat in the body 
 of the car. Alec bade his parents good-bye absent- 
 mindedly. His defiance of his father seemed to have 
 given him reserve. His mother kissed him secretly 
 and pressed into his hand a little tin of meat lozenges : 
 “ For the journey, Alec dear." Mr. Trotman shook 
 his son's hand with stage cordiality, told him to get on 
 well, and said with a glance at Sir Pushcott : “ Write 
 to the old folks at home, my boy." 
 
 Alec made a pretence of listening. 
 
 The Director of the Halfpenny Press and the Mountain 
 Mover settled themselves in the car. The chauffeur set 
 the engine in motion. Mrs. Trotman waved her hand, 
 gradually receding into the doorway as people ran out 
 from their shops to the pavement. The car started — 
 slowly, as befitted its long powerful unwieldiness. 
 
 Alec touched Sir Pushcott on the arm. “ I want to 
 go down the Station Road. Please turn round." 
 
 “ What for ? " 
 
 “ I want to say good-bye to someone." 
 
 “ Oh. ..." A smile. “ All right." 
 
 The gearing rattled ; the car backed and jerked, 
 then glided down the street. 
 
 “ Stop there, please," said Alec, pointing to Clinch's 
 brilliant Emporium. 
 
 They drew up at the main entrance where someone 
 ever stands to throw open the door. On one side was a 
 window full of the politer articles of ladies' under- 
 clothing, and on the other a collection of marvellous re- 
 ductions in coats and hats. Alec noticed himself 
 noticing them. He entered the shop and looked down 
 the long aisle between the counters, each with an 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 107 
 
 assistant behind it and some with customers perched on 
 chairs. One young man was bumping rolls of cloth 
 about. A young lady was snipping up cloth for remnants. 
 And there was Miss Julia Jepp, tall, ample and pale, 
 standing at the end of the shop and rolling some salmon- 
 coloured ribbon upon an oval white spool. Alec began 
 impulsively to walk down the shop. Then he stopped 
 short — a blushing wrapped-up figure in the midst of the 
 summery Emporium. He went up to the tall frock- 
 coated shopwalker, the silky gentleman with pins in 
 his coat-lapel. 
 
 “ I want to see Ju — Miss Jepp.” 
 
 “ Very good, Mr. Trotman. This way, if you please, 
 sir. — Miss Jepp ! Forward, please ! ” 
 
 A week ago Alec might possibly have been permitted 
 to deliver a note when Mr. Clinch was known to be not 
 about. Perhaps, even, he would have been directed to 
 take that to the side-entrance. 
 
 ^The shopwalker showed them into a fitting-room. Sur- 
 rounded by mirrors, stacks of white boxes, and black 
 headless dummies, with one fat leg each to stand upon 
 and wire skirts, the lovers met to part. 
 
 “ Mr. Trotman, you oughtn't to come here. . . .” 
 Chilly indeed ! 
 
 “ Julie, I'm going to have enough money for us to get 
 married on. I am, I tell you, sure, certain.” 
 
 Julia sighed. “ Mr. Trotman,” she said meaningly and 
 sadly, “ I have been and seen Miss Starkey.” 
 
 “ What's that to do with it ? ” 
 
 “ I shall never marry you. Never ! ” 
 
 Here is to be perceived again the influence of the 
 surreptitious novelette, read by the stump of a candle 
 after lights-out. 
 
 “ But Julie ! I thought ...” 
 
 Alec flustered. 
 
 “ I shall never marry. We can never be anything 
 
108 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 else but friends. We can be that, even after what has 
 happened. You are young. . . 99 
 
 “ But, Julie, Fm going to have plenty of money. Sir 
 Pushcott Bingley says so. What d'you mean ? 99 
 
 “ Alec/' said Miss Jepp with a religious solemnity, 
 “ search into your own conscience and you will know 
 why. — Now you must go. Write to me if you like, and 
 I'll write back. God bless you ! ” 
 
 She led the helpless Alec to the door. He walked 
 back, up the shop, shamed now by the inquisitive eyes 
 around. 
 
 The shopwalker had afterwards considerable pleasure 
 in holding a bottle of salts under Miss Jepp's nose. 
 Meanwhile the motor-car, with a dejected young man 
 seated all of a heap in it, swung past the Famous 
 Grocery Establishment and up Castle Street. 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley spoke pleasantly to Alec ; who 
 made no answer. His eyes were watery, as if the rush 
 of air was inflaming them. 
 
 Faster and faster went the motor-car, up the London 
 road, up to the foot of the Downs. Soon it was going 
 full speed ahead. Over the winding white road of the 
 Downs it whizzed, followed and veiled by a cloud of 
 dust. The dry sunshine lit up the slopes of the hills, 
 heightened the larks' song, and glinted on the broken 
 sides of Ramshorn Hollow, as it was already beginning 
 to be called. 
 
 A moment or two, and there was nothing on the road 
 but a hay- wain, a shabby dog-cart, a tramp, a smell of 
 burnt petrol and a haze of dust. The young man whose 
 airy fabric had exploded, the Mountain Mover, the 
 Wonder-Worker, the jilted, had left Wiltshire for 
 London. 
 
BOOK II 
 
/ 
 
I 
 
 If the average father in one of his semi-pious moods, 
 when he feels a paterfamilias to the marrow of his bones, 
 can only be enticed into talking, it will be found that 
 he knows a deal more about his very average son's mis- 
 deeds than the son himself. He will, especially if it is 
 the son that has irritated him into frankness, produce 
 more allegations of wrong-doing than a policeman who 
 is prosecuting for promotion. The cause, which is 
 fairly plain, though it seldom occurs either to the 
 fathers or to the sons, is that every father has been also 
 a son. Hence a mother's homily never stings like a 
 father's ; never hits so many nails crookedly on the head. 
 
 Alderman Trotman, for instance, set himself hard at 
 work picturing all the things his sole son, Alexander, 
 would do in London if — and Mr. Trotman could not 
 imagine it otherwise — he was at all the bright young 
 fellow his father, the respected Mayor of Trowbury, 
 had been before him. Mrs. Trotman, on the other 
 hand, indulged on her son's behalf in vague grandiose 
 dreams of spangled wickedness. 
 
 The lives of those aforesaid average young men 
 seldom appear in print without, at least, the addition 
 of a fog of romance and reticence. For literature 
 has its hypocrisies no less than the unco guid, and being 
 man-made will never allow man to be quite the animal, 
 thwarted animal, that he not infrequently is. Perhaps 
 it is just as well. The young man's misdeeds lightly 
 come and lightly go : print would make them top- 
 heavy. It is only right that he should find out the 
 
 111 
 
112 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 lurking-places of the world, the flesh and the devil, in 
 order that he may know how to avoid them after he 
 has settled down, a respectable married man in a red- 
 brick villa. His instinct is doubtless right. “ Enough's 
 as good as a feast," says the well-tried proverb. “ You 
 cannot know what is enough unless you know what is 
 more than enough," said the good philosopher. At the 
 same time, the spectacle of old men scenting out the 
 young men's imprudences is not pleasant ; it is too much 
 like that of toothless curs nosing about for carrion. 
 
 Alderman Trotman had a fine nose for the hunt. He 
 set his memory and imagination to work, and com- 
 municated the results, with marital candour, to the 
 wife of his bosom. He told her what young men had 
 been used to do in London in his day, delicately hinting 
 that he himself, though buck enough not to lag behind, 
 had yet pulled up when with unusual wisdom he had 
 seen the worthlessness of it all. Alack, Mother Trot- 
 man, how wert thou frightened for thine Alexander ! 
 
 In the upshot, Mrs. Trotman convinced her husband 
 that he was a very light to lighten the Gentiles. He 
 wrote, with the palpitating mother at his elbow, a long 
 letter to Sir Pushcott Bingley, pointing out that Alex- 
 ander had been most carefully brought up ; that his 
 education had been the best (and most expensive) 
 procurable ; and that the boy had had little or no 
 experience of great cities. Would Sir Pushcott keep an 
 eye on him, not allow him out late o' nights, nor let him 
 taste strange liquors, and oblige his Very Obediently, 
 James Trotman ? That was written on borough note- 
 paper, headed with the Trowbury arms stamped in 
 black. Mrs. Trotman sent a perfumed little heliotrope 
 note to Alexander Trotman, Esqre., c/o Sir Pushcott 
 Bingley, Bart., begging him never, never to do anything 
 he would not like his mother (in her official capacity) to 
 see him do. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 113 
 
 And Alec — Alec was a good boy. He had only the 
 defects of his one quality. It needed not the image 
 of Julia to keep him in the strait and narrow path. 
 He was far too timid among human beings to stray from 
 it. He stuck to Sir Pushcott Bingley, whom he did 
 know, until the enterprising baronet was tired of him, 
 and instructed the Halfpenny Pressman to act as male 
 chaperon. When the fumes of Sir Pushcott's wine began 
 to mount into his head, he thought himself unwell, 
 and drank peppermint and water on top of vintage 
 claret. He was used to his mother's cream cocoa and 
 his father's fruity port. 
 
 One sin only can be laid to his charge : the food was 
 good and he over-ate himself. 
 
 II 
 
 It is the prerogative of the Press to supply at a cheap 
 rate simple thoughts for empty heads. Not for nothing 
 have generations of people called themselves lost sheep. 
 When the Press goes Baa ! the vast flock of sheep, the 
 nation, goes Baa ! after it, and the Press goes Baa ! 
 again. And so we say that the Press both leads and 
 reflects the opinion of the people. 
 
 This the Director of the Halfpenny Press was well 
 aware of, for he had, in his own mind at all events, no 
 illusions whatever about his profession. It was his 
 brilliant idea to make Alexander Trotman bleat, and to 
 surround him with such an echoed bleating that the 
 whole empire should utter one united Baa ! And 
 incidentally contribute to the fat and honourable purse 
 of Sir Pushcott Bingley, Bart. 
 
 Alec’s article, How I Moved the Holy Mountain , duly 
 appeared in Friday's Halfpenny Press . Needless to say, it 
 
114 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 was neither like his own first attempt nor like his father’s. 
 It was a model of succinct journalistic autobiography : 
 modest but not shy ; emphatic but not very boastful ; 
 proud but not vain ; coloured but not smudged ; 
 detailed but not diffuse. It was, in short, one of the 
 very best things that had ever come in haste or at leisure 
 from the Halfpenny Pressman’s pen ; and to it was 
 appended a photographic reproduction of the signature 
 of Alexander Trotman. 
 
 There was excitement in Trowbury ; a double excite- 
 ment and a generous admiration. Chop-Allie Trotman, 
 whom they all knew, though they had not usually 
 taken much notice of him, had moved Ramshorn Hill, 
 had really done it, and had also written a column in 
 the Halfpenny Press . Different people felt differently 
 as to which was the greater achievement. On thinking 
 it out, no doubt, the moving of Ramshorn Hill ; but 
 the other achievement, the article, was easier to grasp 
 mentally, for it came well within the great Baa ! 
 tradition. Chop-Allie’s own words about himself, 
 mightily headlined and heavily printed, in the great 
 daily paper. . . . Who’d ha’ thought it ! Every one 
 objected to some item or other ; every one could have 
 shown him how to put this or that a little better ; 
 but then and thenceforward the young man, the Moun- 
 tain Mover, became for Trowbury c our fellow-towns- 
 man.’ He was honoured in his own country. 
 
 About Ramshorn Hill, on the other hand, and the 
 Holy Mountain. . . . Well, Trowburians knew all 
 about that. They had known all about it from the first, 
 being nearest. And after all, the article did not say 
 how the Holy Mountain was really moved. Mr. Alex- 
 ander Trotman, they learnt, was to say more, was 
 to describe the whole affair fully, on the morrow, 
 Saturday, at the Crystal Palace. Faith, he said, 
 faith had done it. Very curious. . . . Faith is not 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 115 
 
 a marketable commodity. An advertisement of the 
 Crystal Palace Empire Mission Revival Meetings 
 was inked over the whole of the front page of the same 
 Halfpenny Press . Who was going? How were they 
 going to go ? Was there an excursion up ? 
 
 Mr. Clinch of the Emporium strolled down to the 
 railway station. He saw the station-master as if by 
 accident. 44 It would pay your company to run cheap 
 trains/' he volunteered. Mr. Ganthorn gave a precisely 
 similar piece of advice, as regards motor buses, to the 
 manager of the Trowbury Garage and Motories Co. Ltd. 
 It was more to these gentlemen to go on the cheap than 
 to go at all. They desired their spoke in the wheel. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Mr. Trotman was accustomed to buy all the news- 
 papers now. Reading them gave him spasms of ad- 
 miration and of contempt. He felt at times quite sub- 
 editorial, ready to teach any ignorant pressman his 
 business. His praise of the Halfpenny Press was with- 
 out bounds ; his disdain of the Penny Press and the 
 Times was the disdain of a famous grocer. On the 
 Friday morning he read Alec's article twice through, 
 and glanced over the other news. Then he handed the 
 newspaper to his wife. 
 
 44 Very good ! Excellent, by Jove ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 44 It doesn't seem to me much like Alec," Mrs. Trot- 
 man remarked, placing the paper on the table and read- 
 ing by snatches whilst she poured out her husband's third 
 cup of tea. 44 It's not Alec's way of saying things." 
 
 44 Damn sight better ! He's done what I . . 
 
 44 James ! " 
 
 44 Much better. The boy's improving. He's got some- 
 
116 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 thing in him. I always thought so. Where's my cap 
 and shop-slippers ? 99 
 
 Mrs. Trotman tilted back her chair and reached out 
 to the bell. “ Your master's cap and heavy slippers. 
 Now then ! don't stand mooning there ! Your master's 
 cap and slippers. Look alive ! " 
 
 The Mayor slopped up the street to a little shop, the 
 counter of which was entirely occupied by swollen 
 bundles of the Halfpenny Press , by a largish pile of 
 the Penny Press and by a genteel packet of the Times . 
 Hung round the window, with pencils, pens, indiarubbers 
 and cheap note-paper, were copies of some of the other 
 surviving journals — the Christian Endeavour er, the 
 Food Reformer , Health and Disease , the Police News, 
 and a late invention of Sir Pushcott Bingley's to make 
 the man in the street and the slut in the alley imagine 
 that they were outdoing Scotland Yard in the detection 
 of crime, namely, Murder Will Out . 
 
 The woman who kept the shop was unfastening a 
 third bundle of the Halfpenny Press. Mr. Trotman asked 
 for two copies, and then peeping into the window, his 
 eye fell on the back cover of the Christian Endeavourer. 
 
 THE CONEY ISLAND MISSIONERS' MONSTER SERVICE 
 CRYSTAL PALACE, SATURDAY, JULY 23 
 AT 8.15 P.M. 
 
 MR. ALEXANDER TROTMAN 
 will explain 
 HOW HE MOVED 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 COME AND HEAR THE MOUNTAIN MOVER 
 THE MODERN MIRACLE 
 
 Him that cometli unto me, I will in no wise cast out, saith the 
 
 Lord . 
 
 Reserved Seats (a limited number), One Guinea, 
 
 Five Shillings, and One Shilling. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 117 
 
 “ I'll have that too/' said Mr. Trotman. 
 
 “ Yes, your worship. That'll be two ha'pennies and 
 fourpence : fivepence, please. The Christian ’ Deavourer 
 is fourpence instead of threepence this week." 
 
 “ Why's that ? " asked his worship. 
 
 “ Well, you see, sir, I don't quite know," replied the 
 old woman plaintively. 44 Sometimes they puts the 
 price up and I don't see it and I sells out all I've got 
 at a loss before I find out. It depends on the sermons 
 in it, I think, or else the serial. In this week, they find 
 the murderer of Dyllys Davies, and so it's fourpence. 
 But 'tisn't right." 
 
 4 4 1 should think not ! " said the Mayor. 44 Most un- 
 business-like." 
 
 He himself went home to carry out a piece of the 
 business-like enterprise he so admired. Having cut out 
 the advertisement of the mission and a copy of Alec's 
 article, he pasted them with his own hands one on each 
 window of the Famous Grocery. 44 Two birds with one 
 stone," he murmured. 44 Jim," he called, 44 put those 
 American cheeses and that bacon on the counter. We 
 ought to be able to get rid of 'em to-day." 
 
 Whereupon he went off to the Blue Boar bar. 
 
 Miss Cora Sankey's voice was as cheerful as ever 
 when she piped out : 44 'Morning, Mr. Trotman. How's 
 the Wonder-Worker ? " 
 
 44 Who d'you mean ? " 
 
 44 Why your son, of course." 
 
 44 My son is in Town — in London — at present. He 
 went up with Sir Pushcott Bingley in the motor." 
 
 “ He — he — he ! And you not up there to look after 
 him ! Don't I wish I was there ! I'd snap him up. I 
 say, is it true he's made fifteen hundred pounds over 
 the business ? " 
 
 44 He's minding his business." 
 
 44 HE-He-he-he-he ! Funny man ! That's just ex- 
 
118 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 actly what he ain't done, isn't it ? Chip of the old 
 block ! " 
 
 Mr. Trotman turned to Mr. Ganthorn, who was also 
 waiting in my Lord Alcohol. “ Good morning , Gan- 
 thorn." 
 
 “ I say, Mr. Mayor, are you all mad together ? 
 Hanged if I should like to be mixed up with such a 
 pack of yellow press lies ! Is the world coming to an 
 end ? Is it, I say ? " 
 
 Mr. Trotman drank up in a gulp and walked out. It 
 was an outrage on his feelings, this. Yet what head- 
 way could he hope to make against plain unbelief ? 
 You can argue, he thought, with a truthful opponent, 
 whether he is right or not ; but with a liar . . . Un- 
 less you lie too, you are lost. 
 
 The crowd around the windows of his shop recom- 
 pensed and mollified the Famous Grocer. People might 
 say what they liked about his modesty and good taste. 
 The upper hand was his. He was above taste and such- 
 like. As he passed by they said, 44 There he is ! " 
 One man raised a cheer for 6 our mayor.' Another, a 
 base fellow, said 44 Yah ! " It was like the progress of 
 a cabinet minister into No. 10, Downing Street. It was, 
 indeed, the grand climax of Mr. Trotman's private and 
 public life, two sides of a man's existence which seldom 
 enough have one and the same apotheosis. 
 
 Breakfast was not cleared away. Mrs. Trotman was 
 still sitting over the tea-cups with the Christian 
 Endeavourer. 44 They say here," she read, “ that 
 Alec's miracle is to be made sacred to the cause of 
 religion." 
 
 44 Is it ? " said the Mayor with elaborate coolness. 
 44 No doubt Sir Pushcott will do what is best." 
 
 Mr. Trotman wrote out a shilling telegram to Alec, 
 telling him that his father and mother would both be 
 present at the Crystal Palace. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 119 
 
 In less than an hour they received the reply : “ Don't 
 letter follows." 
 
 “ We should make him nervous," said his mother. 
 
 “ I'm not certain I shan't go incognito," said his 
 father. 
 
 IV 
 
 Saturday evening, the evening for Alec’s lecture, or 
 sermon, or discourse — call it what you will — was come. 
 
 Never had there been such a well- advertised religious 
 attraction in or near London. Progressively, for some 
 years, the religious bodies had been losing their hold 
 on the people. Freedom of worship, which each de- 
 plored and each took advantage of, had been followed 
 by an even greater freedom in thought. Hardly could 
 five hundred men and women be gathered together who 
 wished to worship a Supreme Being in exactly the same 
 fashion, with exactly the same accretions and excres- 
 cences on primitive pagan ceremonial, so superficially 
 complex, and muddled with whimsicalities, had the 
 modern religious mind become. The greatest eccentrici- 
 ties were tolerated provided they amused more people 
 than they annoyed. Indeed, they were applauded and 
 paid for if they captivated the classes or entertained and 
 brought together the masses over whom religion pure 
 and simple had no longer any power. Priests and pastors 
 consigned people to hell when they dared, and called 
 them to heaven when they didn't. They hurt nobody 
 and their blandishments attracted nobody except the 
 already faithful. The churches lived on themselves, 
 ever praying God and the heathen to enter ; who both 
 held aloof. No one, not even the bishops whose in- 
 comes were assured to them, thought the Sermon on the 
 Mount sufficiently practical for modern needs. Some- 
 
120 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 thing more in the nature of music-hall attractions was 
 desiderated. The up-to-date advertisement agent was 
 called into consultation, his tricky methods being re- 
 named, for the occasion, psychology of the crowd. 
 The end was to justify the means. “ Better heaven in 
 a motor bus than hell in a carriage and pair ! ” was a 
 catchword that spread from pulpit to pulpit like an 
 infectious disease, and thanks to a careful education 
 by the Press in illogicality, it occurred to few people 
 that there might be other ways of getting to either 
 place. 
 
 Being desperate, all the sects in the land, with the 
 exception of the Catholics, the Quakers and the Christian 
 Scientists, joined in a vast revival mission. “ Now or 
 never ! ” was their watchword. Newspapers lent their 
 aid, thereby gaining a considerable increase in adver- 
 tisements and circulation. All was well that was to end 
 well. 
 
 Englishmen not being sufficiently business-like, a 
 party of thirteen Yankee revivalists who had met with 
 astounding success on Coney Island, especially amongst 
 the niggers, was hired to come and convert London, 
 and to deliver it up once more unto the churches, 
 washed in the tears of repentance and hysterics. So 
 swift was the movement, so noisy and so well engineered, 
 that the state church itself forgot for a moment that a 
 bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. It ceased 
 its dignified whimper on the subject of infidelity, and 
 drew into line. It determined once and for all to be- 
 come popular. 
 
 A prominent financier, as an unacknowledged penance 
 for the misery created by his operations on the money- 
 market, arranged with the railway companies that 
 everyone who wished to travel to the Crystal Palace 
 Empire Mission should be conveyed, third-class, free of 
 charge. He was afterwards knighted. And the rail- 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 121 
 
 way companies, by running a small proportion of third- 
 class carriages, and those of the horse-box variety, 
 induced so many people to travel first-class, in order 
 to avoid the crush, that an appreciable percentage was 
 added to the year's dividend. 
 
 The revival itself, however, like so many before it, 
 fell somewhat flat. Neither the huge admonitory 
 texts hung from the walls and roof, nor the assembled 
 people, succeeded in making the Crystal Palace other 
 than the huge glass barn it is, more suitable for dog-shows 
 than God-shows. London was prepared to be amused. 
 It was prepared to sing when the hopping, bawling men 
 on the platform, erected in front of the great organ, 
 called upon it to sing. It was prepared to kneel on 
 one knee on clean hassocks. It had no objection to 
 repenting in the quietude of its own mind, provided 
 the insanitary sackcloth and ashes were not insisted 
 on. And it did not mind putting its hand in its pocket, 
 to do the thing properly. But be publicly converted. 
 ... No ! London preferred to leave that to those who 
 made a pastime or profession of it. 
 
 The mission languished. The divine spark, the precise 
 line of enterprise, was wanting. 
 
 What joy there was, therefore, among the faithful 
 when Sir Pushcott Bingley notified privately by tele- 
 phone from Trowbury to the wire-pullers of the Empire 
 Mission that Mr. Alexander Trotman, the Worker of the 
 only authenticated Modern Miracle, might haply, at a 
 cheap rate, appear at the Revival to support the dis- 
 tinguished revivalists and to give a short account of 
 how he moved the Holy Mountain ! Strong support on 
 the part of the Half penny Press , hitherto cool for want 
 of advertisements, was guaranteed. 
 
 “ Bone ! '' said the chief missioner through the tele- 
 phone. “ He'll have to speak with the magnogramo- 
 phone. When can we take his record ? " 
 
122 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Make it yourselves/' replied Sir Pushcott, “ but let 
 me hear a proof cylinder." 
 
 A godsend ! A godsend ! 
 
 London was plastered with bills. Sandwich-men dis- 
 organised the traffic. The Halfpenny Press agreed to 
 act as ticket agent. London was about to capitulate 
 before the onslaught of the intrepid revivalists. “ That 
 a young man of unique genius," said Saturday morning's 
 Halfpenny Press , “ should be powerful enough to move 
 mountains and unselfish enough to lay his work and 
 his genius at the feet of religion is an event of para- 
 mount national importance, worthy of national recog- 
 nition." 
 
 In the correspondence columns a certain John A. 
 Jenkins of Upper Norwood suggested that the Holy 
 Mountain be offered, as a national thanksgiving, to him 
 who had moved it. 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley had not hitherto exhibited Alec 
 to the multitude, much less invited people to meet him 
 at dinner. The public appearance of the Mountain 
 Mover was to be dramatic ; and besides, he was not a 
 very presentable young man. On Saturday evening, 
 attended only by the Halfpenny Pressman, they travelled 
 together to the Crystal Palace High Level Station. A 
 few loungers, recognising them at Victoria, raised a 
 faint cheer. That was all. 
 
 At the Crystal Palace they were received by a bevy of 
 men in low collars and white ties, who combined a busy 
 practical manner with an inspiring amount of sancti- 
 moniousness. “ We shall be ready (D.V.) in about 
 fifteen minutes," said one of them to Sir Pushcott 
 Bingley. 
 
 A young man with light curly hair, a pale pushful 
 face and an ecclesiastical tie the colour of the day, drew 
 Alec aside. “ We are so thankful to you," he said in 
 soft peculiarly suspended tones. “ Through you the 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 123 
 
 Lord’s Will will be done. Whom the Lord hath sent 
 . . He looked like a High Church curate and snuffled 
 like a hell-fire ranter out of the pulpit. 
 
 An old bishop of the Evangelical type who seemed 
 very worried and confused, clasped Alec’s hand in both 
 his own — tremulous soft wrinkled old hands they were — 
 murmuring hurriedly, “ God bless you, my boy ! ” The 
 gentle-faced old man was out of place at the Palace ; 
 flustered, weary, nearly overcome ; and there was 
 something in his voice and manner which brought 
 tears to Alec’s eyes. Perhaps he was reminded of 
 Nurse Parfitt, perhaps of a nice old clergyman at Trow- 
 bury who used to give him sweets and, in spite of Mrs. 
 Trotman’s polite anger, had persisted in doing so. 
 
 The vigorous young man, the Reverend Algernon 
 Jones, easily snatched Alec away from the old helpless 
 bishop. “ Perhaps you would like to see the service, 
 only the congregation must not see you , else they 
 would attend to nothing else. They are praying now, 
 and then they will sing a revival hymn. Keep your 
 overcoat on and come up here. Pull down your hat a 
 little — so.” 
 
 They ascended to a gallery whence they could take 
 a full view of everything : the revivalists, backed by a 
 half-moon of serious-faced clergy, on the platform 
 before the great organ ; the semicircle of plush - 
 covered reserved seats (one shilling, five shillings, and 
 a guinea), guarded by a crimson rope from the inferior 
 souls to be saved ; and the multitude which, for con- 
 version purposes, was admitted free, stretching on either 
 side to the uttermost ends of the Palace. High on the 
 glass walls texts were hung, and four revolving search- 
 lights illuminated them in turn, so that they shone like 
 the wall-advertisements of patent foods in the squares 
 of great cities, and the strength of God was blazoned 
 forth like the strength of concentrated ox. A fifth 
 
124 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 searchlight illuminated continuously an enormous text 
 painted red, white, and blue, and hung in mid-air 
 above the pipes of the organ. Alec read with a feeling 
 very akin to fear : If ye have faith as a grain of mustard 
 seed , ye shall say to this mountain , Remove hence to 
 yonder place : and it shall remove ; and nothing shall 
 he impossible to you. 
 
 Most noticeable of all was an apparatus placed in 
 the centre of the hall. Four large shining funnels 
 stretched out from it towards the four walls of the 
 building. It stood over and above the people, burnished 
 and still, a power sent from the inexorable law-ordered 
 world of science to the emotion-tossed and wavering 
 world of religion. 
 
 A few moments after Alec and the Rev. Algernon 
 Jones had arrived in the gallery, prayer came to an 
 end. The congregation arose from its knees, or from a 
 crouching position, as the case might be. What Alec 
 saw was numberless white faces, and hymn-papers like 
 butterflies — a multitude of insignificant human beings 
 affixed to a multitude of significant hymn-papers. 
 The searchlights turned to notices placed on either side 
 of the platform — Hymn No. 7 — then turned to the 
 revivalists and remained playing on them. The organ 
 from a wild prelude in imitation of a storm sank to a 
 weird catchy march. 
 
 The revivalists placed themselves in a row — black 
 clothes, white ties, and strenuous faces, all in a row. 
 Aided by professional singers artfully distributed among 
 the audience, they began to sing in penetrating nasal 
 voices a hymn that had been concocted out of Robert 
 Stephen Hawker’s ballad, The Silent Tower of Bottreau : 
 
 Tintagel bells ring o'er the tide. 
 
 The boy leans on his vessel's side ; 
 
 He hears that sound and dreams of home, 
 
 Soothe the wild orphan of the foam. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 125 
 
 The strains of the organ changed to an emphatic 
 march in the minor. The revivalists made as one man 
 a half turn to the right. Keeping time with the music, 
 they marched round the platform in a sort of goose- 
 step or pedestrian cake-walk. As they tramped the 
 searchlights followed them. And they sang in a loud 
 voice, beckoning to the audience with their hands and 
 white cuffs : 
 
 “ Come to thy God in time ! ” 
 
 Thus saith their pealing chime : 
 
 Then they turned right about face, marched the other 
 way, and continued : 
 
 Youth, manhood, old age past, 
 
 ‘ f Come to thy God at last.” 
 
 Those who could not enjoy the words of the ballad, 
 because they could not catch them for the din, had at 
 least unparalleled effects on the organ to amuse them. 
 The revivalists went on in the same voices and with 
 the same ceremonial : 
 
 But why are Bottreau’s echoes still ? 
 
 Her tower stands proudly on the hill ; 
 
 Yet the strange chough that home hath found, 
 
 The lamb lies sleeping on the ground. 
 
 “Come to thy God in time ! ” 
 
 Should be her answering chime : 
 
 “ Come to thy God at last ! ” 
 
 Should echo on the blast. 
 
 The ship rode down with courses free. 
 
 The daughter of a distant sea : 
 
 Her sheet was loose, her anchor stored. 
 
 The merry Bottreau bells on board. 
 
 “ Come to thy God in time ! ” 
 
 Ring out Tintagel chime ; 
 
 Youth, manhood, old age past, 
 
 “ Come to thy God at last ! ” 
 
 The pilot heard his native bells 
 Hang on the breeze in fitful swells ; 
 
 “ Thank God,” with reverent brow he cried, 
 
 “ We make the shore with evening's tide.” 
 
126 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Come to tliy God in time ! ” 
 
 It was his marriage chime ; 
 
 Youths manhood; old age past; 
 
 His hell must ring at last. 
 
 cc Thank God; thou whining knave; on land; 
 
 But thank; at sea; the steersman’s hand;” 
 
 The captain’s voice above the gale : 
 
 “ Thank the good ship and ready sail.” 
 
 “ Come to thy God in time ! ” 
 
 Sad grew the boding chime ; 
 
 “ Come to thy God at last ! ” 
 
 Boomed heavy on the blast. 
 
 Uprose that sea ! as if it heard 
 The mighty Master’s signal-word : 
 
 What thrills the captain’s whitening lip ? 
 
 The death groans of his sinking ship. 
 
 “ Come to thy God in time ! ” 
 
 Swung deep the funeral chime : 
 
 Grace; mercy, kindness past, 
 cc Come to thy God at last ! ” 
 
 Long did the rescued pilot tell — 
 
 When grey hairs o’er his forehead fell. 
 
 While those around would hear and weep — 
 
 That fearful judgment of the deep. 
 
 “ Come to thy God in time ! ” 
 
 He read his native chime : 
 
 Youth, manhood, old age past. 
 
 His bell rang out at last. 
 
 Redoubled storm effects on the organ shook the whole 
 glass palace. It was as if the heavens were about to 
 fall through the roof, or as if the whole vast edifice was 
 going to ride off to hell like a witch on a broomstick. 
 More and more had the audience joined in. The last 
 verse was executed with an appalling roar, such that 
 it seemed the revivalists must be crushed by the waves 
 of sound advancing against them : 
 
 Still when the storm of Bottreau’s waves 
 Is wakening in his weedy caves : 
 
 Those bells that sullen surges hide. 
 
 Peal their deep notes beneath the tide : 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 127 
 
 tc Come to thy God in time ! ” 
 
 Thus saitli the ocean chime : 
 
 Storm, billow, whirlwind past, 
 
 “ Come to thy God at last ! ” 
 
 The audience came to an end of the words on the 
 hymn-paper. The organ hushed itself to a whining 
 melody afloat in the treble ; then died out. “ Come 
 to thy God in time ! ” the revivalists continued, singing 
 in unison, unaccompanied, and beckoning with a great 
 sweep of the arms to the congregation. 
 
 Come to thy God in time ! 
 
 Oh, that will be so fine ! 
 
 Now make your anchor fast. 
 
 Come to thy God at last ! 
 
 They bowed their heads ; and suddenly, to an in- 
 articulate screech of the organ, they stretched out their 
 cuffs, as if to buffet or to embrace the multitude, and 
 shouted : 
 
 “ Now — is — the time ! ” 
 
 Silence ! with the revivalists looking like broken 
 monkeys on sticks. 
 
 Some among the audience fainted. Some shrieked. 
 One or two had epileptic fits. Unconscious persons were 
 hustled out of the doors by stewards. "Twas a magnifi- 
 cent success. The Holy Spirit, it was said, was in their 
 midst. 
 
 The Crystal Palace Empire Revival Mission was 
 catching on. 
 
 V 
 
 The revivalists pulled themselves together, hitched 
 their disarranged coats into position, and stood ex- 
 pectantly in a row across the platform, as if to say : 
 “ We will do without your applause if we can have 
 
128 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 your selves. How long, O people, how long ? " When 
 the emotional disorder created by the hymn had some- 
 what died down, the chief revivalist took up a large 
 megaphone, and waving it from side to side, like an 
 elephant's trunk with a very swollen end, he spoke as 
 follows : — 
 
 “ Dear brothers and sisters in Christ, — thank — you ! 
 — Mr. Alexander — Trotman [applause] — has come — 
 amongst us to-night — to tell us — something — about 
 that great deed — of faith — in God — which moved — the 
 Hill — the Holy Mountain — from Wiltshire — to London 
 [applause]. — As Mr. — Alexander Trotman — could — not 
 hope — to make — himself — audible — to so mighty — a — 
 concourse, — he has spoken — his — address — into — the — 
 magnogramophone, — a powerful — instrument — kindly — 
 lent us — by Messrs. — Edwards and Bellay, — the cele- 
 brated makers of acoustical instruments. — You will see 
 — the modern doer — of miracles — on the — platform, — 
 but the magnogramophone — will speak — his speech — 
 for him — so that — you — may all hear [applause]. — All 
 ye works — of the — Lord, — praise ye — the Lord ! " [Pro- 
 longed and loud applause.] 
 
 Alec, accompanied by the Halfpenny Pressman, 
 walked on to the platform. The searchlights, which had 
 been flashing about among the texts, turned their rays 
 full upon him. That, together with the crackling ap- 
 plause, overwhelmed him so much that he blushed, 
 closed his eyes, put his hands up like a man who has 
 been hit and finds himself bleeding, and turned to go. 
 He would have fled altogether had not one of the 
 revivalists caught him by the arm and seated him 
 forcibly in a chair, saying with a strong Yankee twang, 
 “ Young man, sit there and do the Lord's work." Alec 
 sat there, dumbfounded, and the searchlights were 
 turned away so that not even those in the guinea seats 
 could see him quite plainly. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 129 
 
 A cockney voice came from the other end of the 
 palace : “ Young feller, does your mother know you're 
 out ? ” 
 
 Instantly a revivalist picked up the megaphone and 
 replied, “ Sir, do you know that this may be the most 
 solemn evening of your life ? 99 
 
 “ Ay, ay ! Yes, yes ! 99 groaned many of the faithful. 
 
 “ Damn'd if I du ! " retorted a voice with a strong 
 Devon accent. 
 
 “ Throw them out ! Throw them out ! " was shouted. 
 
 Before there was time for a general laugh to gather 
 force, the organ began to play, and the cockney and 
 Devonian so in need of conversion were bundled out of 
 doors. 
 
 “ Now — dear — friends, — listen ! 99 shouted the mega- 
 phone. 
 
 The searchlights were shuttered and many of the 
 electric lights switched off, until the Palace seemed like 
 a vast glass cavern. In the centre, from the apparatus 
 with the four shining funnels, there emerged a faint 
 whirr of electrical machinery ; then a mechanical voice 
 of that peculiar timbre which reminds one of card- 
 board. 
 
 It was like a voice from the other side of the grave. 
 It made sensitive people shudder. Yet behold ! before 
 the audience was Alexander Trotman, the owner in a 
 sense of the voice, seated very awkwardly on the plat- 
 form with the revivalists in a semicircle round him, 
 and the respectable clergy, who envied the revivalists' 
 results but could not bring themselves to imitate their 
 methods, seated in a larger semicircle round the re- 
 vivalists. 
 
 “ Friends," the machinery said, “ I have come here 
 to-night to tell you something about the Holy Mountain, 
 as it is now called. How the hill, containing many 
 thousand tons of earth, was actually transported, I 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 cannot say. We do not know what actually did the 
 miracles recorded in Holy Writ. All we know is what 
 happened, and that the miracles were done. We must 
 not inquire too closely into the workings of the divine 
 Mind, into the actions of the divine Hand. 
 
 “ We must have faith. Faith ! 
 
 “ All we know is, that a miracle needs faith for its 
 accomplishment. 
 
 “ And it was by an act of faith that I moved the 
 Holy Mountain. It was not my strength, but His. 
 
 “ Let me tell you how it happened." 
 
 A threatening ebullition of applause was suppressed 
 by the man with the megaphone. 
 
 “ I walked up to the Downs," the magnogramophone 
 continued, “ near Trowbury, my native place, last 
 Sunday evening, with a young lady to whom I was 
 tenderly attached. We had been to church, and had 
 heard the preacher speak on those beautiful hopeful 
 words, c If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, 
 ye shall say to this mountain, Remove hence to yonder 
 place ; and it shall remove ; and nothing shall be im- 
 possible to you/ And when we were on the Downs with 
 naught but the free air between us and heaven, be- 
 tween us and God, I felt filled with prayer and faith. 
 I guess I was lifted above myself. 
 
 “ With faith I prayed that the hill before us, Rams- 
 horn Hill, should remove to Acton, where I was about 
 to go myself. 
 
 “ Dear friends, it did remove. 
 
 “ Great is the power of the Almighty ! " 
 
 The mechanical voice was drowned in a chorus of 
 applause and ejaculations. “ There is — something — 
 more, — dear friends. Listen — to — the rest ! " shouted 
 the megaphone man. 
 
 Two or three sentences being lost, the magnogramo- 
 phone concluded with : “ I only hope to be able to 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 131 
 
 devote the power God has given me, and the miracle I 
 have wrought with God's help, to the sacred cause of a 
 new, powerful and non-sectarian Christianity, without 
 which our ever-glorious British Empire cannot hope to 
 stand." 
 
 With a final whirr and click, the machinery ceased 
 talking. The organ struck up another hymn. Unfor- 
 tunately for the decorum of the revival, some coarse 
 fellow in the audience began to sing For he’s a jolly good 
 fellow ! The infection of it spread like the plague. 
 Soon all those who were not laughing or crying, or 
 drawing long faces, joined lustily in singing : 
 
 For he’s a jolly good fel-low ! 
 
 For he’s a jolly good fel-low ! 
 
 For he’s a jolly good fel-l-ow ! 
 
 And so say all of us ! 
 
 It rang through the huge glass Palace, defying the 
 utmost efforts of the revivalists, who with much gesticu- 
 lation attempted to sing. It was repeated and re- 
 iterated. Over and over again the audience roared it. 
 Handkerchiefs waved. Hats flew. A rush to view Alec, 
 on the part of the third-class people in the free seats, 
 all but ended in panic. 
 
 At length, when the uproar had nearly ceased, owing 
 to the audience's attention being diverted to those who 
 were taken ill, a revivalist addressed the people with 
 the megaphone : 
 
 “ Let — us — pray ! " 
 
 And the British audience, with propriety — in which 
 lies safety — ever waiting somewhere at the back of its 
 mind, squatted in prayer. 
 
 At this moment, Alec (the magnogramophone's ad- 
 dress had surprised no one so much as its reputed 
 author), Sir Pushcott Bingley and the Halfpenny Press- 
 man left the Palace. As they moved along the railway 
 platform towards the special train which had been kept 
 
132 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 ready for them, a tall red-faced man, whose silk hat 
 was exceedingly lustrous, planted himself before them. 
 
 “ 'Evening, Sir Pushcott. Well ! Eh ? I'll give him 
 three hundred a week for one appearance nightly at the 
 Neapolitan." 
 
 “ Oh ! " said Sir Pushcott in non-committal fashion. 
 
 “ Will he sign the contract, three hundred pounds a 
 week ? " 
 
 The music-hall manager was taking from the pocket of 
 his fur-lined coat a paper and a fountain pen. 
 
 “ No contracts," said Sir Pushcott. 
 
 “ Well, will he come ? " 
 
 “ He won't speak." 
 
 “ Then what the devil's the good of him ? — Look 
 here, Sir Pushcott, will he be the central figure in a 
 patriotric ballet ? " 
 
 “ Very well. Fifty pounds a night. No speaking. 
 No formal obligation to appear : that'll be all right. — 
 You'd better close with him, Mr. Alexander." 
 
 “ All right," said Alec patiently. 
 
 He had a stomach-ache. 
 
 VI 
 
 Sunday morning in Trowbury — at Sir Pushcott 
 Bingley's Alec lay in bed thinking about Trowbury — 
 was very fair and restful. Rains during the night had 
 cleared and cooled the air. Only an occasional footstep, 
 or some milk-cart rattling along behind a young horse, 
 and the tinkling of single bells for early service, woke 
 the stillness that did indeed seem to be hallowed. 
 When Julia Jepp raised an upper window at the Em- 
 porium in the Station Road, she heard the clocks of the 
 town one after another strike seven. The unpunctuality 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 133 
 
 of the chimes, which could not all have been correct, 
 gave her, who seldom had the opportunity of noticing 
 such things, a very blessed sense of leisure. Sunday 
 means so much to young people at Emporiums. 
 
 On a bed the other side of the room, a head, almost 
 hidden between a quantity of loose yellow hair and the 
 bedclothes, stirred itself. 
 
 “ Do shut that window, Miss Jepp." 
 
 “ It’s a lovely morning." 
 
 “ There's such a thing as fresh air ; but some people 
 don't seem to think there's such a thing as draughts." 
 
 “ All right," returned Miss Jepp with a touch of des- 
 pondency in her tone. 
 
 It is not to be denied that Julia shut down the win- 
 dow more noisily than she need have done. Having 
 slept badly, she welcomed the fresh cool air on her face. 
 For several nights now she had slept badly. Years 
 spent in drapery establishments had taught her to 
 wade lightly down a stream of petty jealousies, spites 
 and squabbles, which would have worried many a 
 stronger and more fortunate woman to distraction. 
 Miss Julia Jepp was notoriously a cool hand, and was 
 also an object of admiration, strictly secret, on the 
 part of the more hysterical ; an admiration which 
 chiefly showed itself in envy when things went well, and 
 calls for help when they did not. 
 
 Nevertheless, all in one week to concern herself 
 charitably with Miss Starkey, and to break off an en- 
 gagement which, though tacit, had been none the less 
 a lantern to her thoughts . . . That was too much, 
 even for Julia Jepp's equanimity. Though she felt 
 proud and at times happy at being in the middle of things 
 — real, live, romantic affairs ; — though she certainly 
 seemed less stagnant to herself ; she was harassed and 
 fevered, and, therefore, she was cross because the other 
 inmates of the room would not let her remain, her head, 
 
134 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 bubbling with thoughts and schemes, poked out into the 
 morning air. 
 
 She got back into bed, sneezed once or twice, and 
 dreamed that she was preventing Edith Starkey from 
 committing suicide. 
 
 At breakfast she rapped out a very caustic remark 
 to the young lady who had wanted the window shut. 
 That made her feel better. She decided to go to church 
 in the morning and to go and see Miss Starkey, at 
 Mrs. Parfitt's cottage, in the afternoon. It occurred 
 to her that considering all that had happened, and what 
 was about to take place, she ought in prudence not to 
 have overmuch to do with the unfortunate girl. “ Never 
 mind ! " she said to herself resolutely. The same mother- 
 liness which had first attracted her to Alec, now 
 caused her also to go and see, and to scheme for, Edith 
 Starkey. 
 
 At five minutes to eleven she found herself entering 
 St. Thomas's Church. She had no qualms as to the 
 appearance of her yellow costume. It fitted her per- 
 fectly. She followed the verger up the carpeted aisle, 
 went to the remotest corner of the pew indicated, knelt 
 down, and prayed wordlessly. 
 
 It is a tendency of almost all grown-up people, when 
 they are distressed, to revert to the comforters of their 
 youth. So with Julia. When a girl she had not liked 
 church any better than most children ; but to-day St. 
 Thomas's, which reminded her of quiet childish hours 
 and of one or two childish attempts to talk to God like 
 real holy people, calmed her magically. The prosperity 
 of the congregation, who looked as if they had never 
 known what heart-fret was; the noiselessness and the 
 good manners ; the General Confession, which by in- 
 cluding all sinfulness made each sin seem as naught ; 
 the Te Deum, the hymns, and the deliberate voice 
 of the preacher, not one of whose words she could 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 135 
 
 recollect a moment after it had been spoken — all this 
 settled her thoughts and comforted her. And after- 
 wards, to come out from the dim porch into the brilliant 
 July sunlight, among the chattering people, greeting 
 one another heartily ; to walk back in the sunshine 
 with the only good dinner of the week awaiting her . . . 
 A strength of purpose (in regard to Alec and Miss 
 Starkey) and a feeling of Sunday peace, the calm of 
 ceremonies that had been repeated from time im- 
 memorial, took possession of her mind. 
 
 In the late afternoon she walked slowly out, beneath a 
 yellow parasol with lace trimmings, to see Miss Starkey. 
 According to all expectation that young lady ought to 
 have been tragic, or at least hysterical. Julia was 
 almost shocked to find her tolerably comfortable ; 
 merely a little discontented and querulous on account 
 of the cottage's distance from town goings-on. She 
 seemed entirely to have forgotten the scene which 
 had taken place at her Trowbury lodgings. She talked 
 about clothes, about Mrs. Parfitt, about the dust. She 
 laughed gaily. 
 
 Mrs. Parfitt had in some ways rather taken to her. 
 She said the young lady was cheery for a lonely old 
 'oman and praised the way she bore up under her bad 
 luck. 
 
 At tea, Julia herself almost forgot the real state of 
 affairs, until Mrs. Parfitt asked her : “ Now do 'ee, my 
 dear, tell I all you d' know about Master Alec. They say 
 as he be givin' an entertainment at the Crystal Palace. 
 I did go there meself before nursin' Master Alec. 'Tis 
 a wonderful place, for sure ; all glass — clear as crystal — 
 and they got a lucky-bag there what you dips into." 
 
 Julia repeated all she knew, but the subject of 
 Alexander Trotman distressed even while it pleased 
 her. She wondered above all how Miss Starkey could 
 chatter about him so freely. She felt she had to get 
 
136 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 away from the cottage — there was no guiding the old 
 nurse's tongue ; — and though it went sadly against the 
 grain to be seen in the town itself with Miss Starkey she 
 proposed church. 
 
 “ I'm chapel," said Miss Starkey. 
 
 “ I've never been to chapel in my life." 
 
 “ Let's go. I want to see a bit of what's going on." 
 
 “ But I shan't know what to do in chapel," Julia pro- 
 tested. 
 
 “ Oh, never mind that. No one does much. I'll 
 poke you when you've got to get up and down." 
 
 They walked back to Trowbury — Miss Starkey 
 seemed shamefully unashamed — and joined the people 
 who were flocking into one of the chapels. The stern 
 pale old men, successful tradesmen of a retired genera- 
 tion, the very provincially smart wives and the un- 
 naturally decorous children were all somewhat alien to 
 Julia. She was astonished at the earnestness and at 
 the apparently soul-tearing groans of approval ; most 
 astonished at the extemporary prayers. The vigour 
 of the service, the heavy ugliness of the building, made 
 her feel light-minded by contrast — who had been so 
 calmed by the morning's service at St. Thomas's. It 
 made her serious, if it did not make her worship. It 
 certainly increased her sense of the gravity of life. In 
 other words, it upset her again, and it was distinctly 
 a relief when, on regaining the street, Miss Starkey 
 remarked flippantly : “ There ! That's the first time I've 
 been to chapel for ages, and I daresay it'll be the 
 last. Not bad, is it ? " 
 
 Miss Starkey would again have talked about Alexander 
 Trotman had not Julia revolted. The conversation 
 flagged. Julia worried in silence. Though she ached to 
 know something for certain, they were nearly at Mrs. 
 Parfitt's gate before she brought herself to ask : “ Edie, 
 tell me who it was." 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 137 
 
 “ Who what was ? ” 
 
 “ Who he was — you know.” 
 
 “ Catch me ! ” said Miss Starkey. “ You wouldn’t.” 
 The peaceful day had, of its very peacefulness, given 
 Julia a hope that it was not Alec after all who was 
 responsible for her friend’s misfortune. But now ... 
 “ Ah ! ” she said to herself, “ she’s forgotten that she 
 let it out when she had hysterics the other night.” 
 And Julia imagined herself saying all sorts of tragic 
 things to all sorts of people. 
 
 When she was in bed, she wept because she would not 
 — could not, she put it to herself — marry Alexander 
 Trotman. 
 
 VII 
 
 Another, a far less edifying but much more amusing 
 scene was enacted that Sunday evening. 
 
 Mr. Ganthorn’s servant spent her time from half- 
 past nine to ten o’clock in bidding a long “ So long ! ” 
 to her sweetheart. Then, as the clock struck, she said : 
 “ Bye-bye, ’Arry. You must go now. Ta-ta.” 
 
 Whereupon the young man peeped outside the gate, 
 returned to take another kiss from his fair lady, and did 
 go. The front door banged. A light flitted about. With- 
 in five minutes the dwelling and its precincts were quite 
 quiet. 
 
 Such an idyllic little scene could hardly have taken 
 place had Mrs. Ganthorn been at home. She was visit- 
 ing her unmarried sister, where, indeed, the childless 
 woman stayed during the greater part of the year ; 
 for she found that distance lent a very considerable 
 enchantment to her sharp little husband. He, on his 
 side, quickly lived down the gossip which had its origin 
 in an absentee wife. Away, she could not gall his cool 
 
138 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 sceptical intellect with her sloppy emotionalism ; and 
 the arrangement was particularly happy in that it left 
 him a much greater freedom to entertain his friends. 
 
 Mr. Ganthorn's back sitting-room was a place outside 
 the meaning of the Acts which have from time to time 
 been passed in the hope of putting a check to drinking 
 and gambling. It was, in fact, an unregistered, unin- 
 spected club. When completely sober, he was an ob- 
 jectionable little man ; everybody in Trowbury knew 
 that ; but when he had taken something to drink he 
 was the best of hosts ; hospitable, pungent and amusing, 
 according to the standards of Trowbury ; and, above 
 all, when his wife was away he could without let or 
 hindrance invite anybody and everybody to take a 
 glass or glasses at his house at any hour of the day or 
 night. 
 
 Shortly after the maidservant had gone to bed, he 
 came up the street attended by Messrs. Trotman, Clinch 
 and Borbell — the last-named being a cattle dealer of 
 astonishing dimensions and reputed wealth. The time 
 of night was five minutes past ten ; precisely five 
 minutes, that is, after the closing of the Blue Boar 
 bar. 
 
 The merry party stood outside the gate for a while, 
 looking at the stars, smoking, and waiting for Mr. 
 Ganthorn formally to invite them in. 
 
 “ Young George Potterne's going it, isn't he ? " Mr. 
 Clinch was saying. 
 
 “ Ought to have been turned out an hour before clos- 
 ing time to-night," said Mr. Trotman. “ I'd have a 
 law to prevent all young fellows drinking before they're 
 twenty-five or so." 
 
 “ Did you ? " Mr. Ganthorn asked. 
 
 “ I knew when to stop. . . 
 
 “ More than you do now, old chap." 
 
 There was a hearty laugh, broken into by the husky 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 139 
 
 voice of Mr. Borbell, who said in his hearty fashion, 
 “ He's like his grandfather. . . ." 
 
 “ You didn't know his wusshup's grandfather." 
 
 Another laugh. 
 
 “ Young George Potteme, I means. I mind buying 
 scores of beasts from old John James Potterne. I've 
 driven many a hard bargain with him when he was 
 sober, but when he was a bit in liquor . . . Lor' bless 
 you ! he always got the top hand o' me then." 
 
 “ Who’s that got the better of you, Borbell ? " 
 
 “ Why, as I was saying a old John James Potterne 
 did — when he'd had a drop. And what's bred in the 
 bone comes out in the flesh, I say. All they Potternes 
 be twice the men drunk to what they be sober." 
 
 “ So are we all. All ! " said Mr. Ganthorn. “ Now, 
 gentlemen, what brew of wet damnation is it to- 
 night ? " 
 
 By this time they were all well inside the house. “ Try 
 another chair, Borbell," said Mr. Ganthorn. The general 
 laugh was increased to a roar of merriment when he 
 added, “ My wife bought that little one at the Em- 
 porium the last time she visited me." 
 
 It is not difficult to understand why Mr. Ganthorn, 
 in spite of his acidity, was accounted the best enter- 
 tainer in Trowbury. He dug at all his guests im- 
 partially, so putting them at ease with one another ; 
 and when that can be brought about, of what import- 
 ance comparatively is the nature of the host ? 
 
 A violent knocking at the door was heard. 
 
 “ George Potterne himself, I'll lay five to one — in 
 threepenny bits," exclaimed Mr. Ganthorn. 
 
 “ Done ! " replied Mr. Borbell. — “ Damme, 'tis ! I 
 thought I knew his knock better than that." 
 
 George Potterne lurched in. “ Thought you'd given 
 me the slip, did you ? " he greeted them. “ I was up 
 to your little tricks. Trust me ! The three of you won 
 
140 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 seventeen and tenpence out of me last Thursday. Now 
 you've got to give me my revenge." 
 
 “ No cards on Sunday," said Mr. Trotman, “ or I 
 
 Si 
 
 go. 
 
 Mr. Ganthorn took up the cue. “ Look here, George, 
 you're in my house, and I shan't have card-playing on 
 Sunday." 
 
 “ Course not," Mr. Borbell added. “ You youngsters 
 don't care for hog, dog, or devil nowadays." 
 
 George Potterne was fumbling in his inside breast- 
 pocket. “ Look here, you chaps," he went on with un- 
 sober inconsequence, “ I've got something to show 
 you 'll make you sit up." He pulled out a red morocco 
 pocket-book. 
 
 “ Who gave you that, George ? " 
 
 “ My sister. Rather nice, ain't it ? Better 'n most 
 women's presents. — There look ! How d'you like that ? 
 Latest from Paris. Got it when I was up in Town." 
 
 “ What were you up in Town for ? " 
 
 “ Never you mind." 
 
 A card, shaped like a folded butterfly, was handed 
 round. 
 
 “ Pretty toy for boys," Mr. Ganthorn remarked. 
 “ I've seen better." 
 
 Mr. Clinch turned it over and over, opened it and 
 shut it two or three times, as if he would have liked to 
 stock it at the Emporium. “ Cleverly got up," he 
 observed. 
 
 Mr. Borbell said he had done with things of that sort, 
 whilst the Mayor, after a lengthy and rather shame- 
 faced examination, said emphatically : “ If I had my 
 way, I'd soon put an end to things of that sort. Dis- 
 graceful ! " 
 
 “ Get out, you old fool ! " George Potterne exclaimed. 
 “ You’d like one if you could get it quiet — and on the 
 cheap." 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 141 
 
 “ You or me had better go, I think/' said his worship 
 with dignity. “ If ever you get brought up before 
 me . . 
 
 “ Dry up ! " 
 
 “ Look here, George," Mr. Ganthorn interposed ; 
 “ you and your butterfly had better go. Time all young 
 people were in bed. Sunday too." 
 
 “ Shan't ! I want a game o' nap." 
 
 “ Let's see. . . . How much is it you owe me ? 
 Two five-pound notes, six pounds in gold, ten-and-six 
 for whiskey. . . ." 
 
 “ All right, old chap. You've got security — took 
 good care of that. I'm going. You needn't throw a 
 fellow's debts in his face." 
 
 “You try throwing what you owe me into mine." 
 
 “ Oh, shut up ! " 
 
 Exit Mr. George Potterne, Junior. 
 
 For a few minutes the remaining four men sipped 
 their drinks in silence. 
 
 Said Mr. Clinch at last : “ Who's going to be mayor 
 next year ? " 
 
 “ You, of course. It's your turn." 
 
 “ I can't, I tell you. I can't. Expenses of enlarge- 
 ment and bad debts. . . ." 
 
 “ You'll have to if we make you, or else pay up the 
 fifty-pound fine." 
 
 “ Look here, I can't ; not next year. I can't really. 
 A bit later — then I'll be mayor willingly, and do the 
 job well." 
 
 “ Who is to be mayor then ? " 
 
 “ I tell you what, gentlemen," said Mr. Borbell with 
 mock solemnity. “ Mr. Trotman here is always talking 
 about Trowbury, and saying it only wants to be known 
 how progressive and pretty and cetera the town is for 
 people wdth money to come and live here, and works 
 and businesses and such-like. Well, his son's been 
 
142 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 and got hisself known with a vengeance if the news- 
 papers is true. Why don’t you make Mr. Alec Trot- 
 man mayor ? ” 
 
 44 What ! ” cried Mr. Trotman. But it was evident the 
 idea pleased him. 
 
 44 Make young Trotman mayor,” continued Mr. 
 Borbell. “ No reason as I can see why a son shouldn’t 
 follow his father. You were pleased enough when young 
 Paton was mayor just before his father died and only 
 a year after his father too.” 
 
 “ The expense . . .” Mr. Trotman began. 
 
 “ Pooh ! ” exclaimed Mr. Ganthorn. “ Don’t tell 
 me you haven’t made anything out of the mayor’s 
 salary. I’d keep the office in the family if I were 
 you.” 
 
 44 He’ll make some money out of this Holy Mountain 
 job, won’t he ; or you will ? ” 
 
 “ I can’t say,” replied Mr. Trotman. “ And I’m not 
 at liberty to tell you anything about it. You can see 
 all there is to be known in the newspapers.” 
 
 44 In the Halfpenny Press? ” Mr. Ganthorn jeered. 
 
 “ Let’s have a rubber of whist,” said Mr. Trotman. 
 
 44 Thought you didn’t play cards on Sunday ? ” 
 
 46 ’Twill be Monday by the time you’ve got the cards 
 out and dealt.” 
 
 44 Well, anyhow, is it settled young Trotman’s to be 
 mayor next year ? ” 
 
 44 Yes, of course ’tis. Isn’t it, Trotman ? ” 
 
 44 If the town confers that honour. . . .” 
 
 44 Drat the town and its honour ! We’re the honour- 
 able town. If we say so, he will be, and then let ’em 
 object if they like and how they like. That’s done. 
 Cut for partners. Shilling points ? Refresh your glasses, 
 gentlemen. Forget yourselves.” 
 
 With full glasses, free tongues, and a merry pack of 
 cards, will we leave the leading burgesses of Trowbury. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 143 
 
 The game obliterated all discussion about the Holy 
 Mountain. The petrified brains of Trowbury were, 
 indeed, unfitted to deal with anything that had de- 
 veloped to such dimensions and intricacy. London 
 might stir itself ; but Trowbury ... It was the centre 
 of the storm and, as such, calm. 
 
 VIII 
 
 On Monday morning both Mrs. Trot man and Julia 
 received Sunday letters from Alec. 
 
 He told his mother shortly that he was enjoying him- 
 self awfully in London and that everybody was aw- 
 fully nice ; that Sir Pushcott Bingley was very nice and 
 very busy ; that Mr. Fulton took him all about London 
 on a motor car ; that lots of people seemed to know 
 him ; that a gramophone thing had spoken for him at 
 the Crystal Palace, where the light had hurt his eyes 
 and he didn't know whether it was supposed to be 
 minstrels or a service. Finally, he said that he didn't 
 much like wine and that he had a rather awful stomach- 
 ache. He omitted to say that he was engaged to appear 
 in a patriotic ballet at a music-hall. In fact, he hardly 
 realised it himself. 
 
 The stomach-ache took up the major part of Mrs. 
 Trotman's attention. She greatly feared that stomach- 
 ache, and would at once have set out for London had not 
 her husband pooh-poohed the idea and called her a 
 silly old hen — the one gibe which always tamed her 
 solicitude for her son. After much worry and more 
 talk, she contented herself with sending to Alec by 
 express post a large-sized bottle of the local chemist's 
 Electric Stomach Elixir. 
 
 His letter to Julia Jepp was considerably longer : — 
 
144 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Dear Julie, — You did not mean what you said 
 when I was leaving Trowbury, did you ? I do love you, 
 Julie, Write and say you did not, I cannot think why 
 you did. 
 
 “ Julie, Fm having such an awfully jolly time and 
 everybody is awfully kind and lots of people know me. 
 They are not so stuck up in London as they are in 
 Trowbury. 
 
 “ You never saw such a lot of people as there were 
 at the Crystal Palace to hear me speak. I should think 
 there were nearly a million or at least 10,000, all there 
 to hear your Alec speak and I didn't make a speech 
 after all, I'll tell you really only you must not split or 
 else Mr. Fulton says the game will be up if people get 
 to know. Mr. Fulton and a clergyman from the mission 
 made up a speech for me and made me read it out 
 twice for practice. Then I spoke it into a gramophone 
 thing and it was a great big one with four big funnels that 
 spoke it for me at the Crystal Palace, only it wasn't 
 mine really. I never saw such a lot of people, you could 
 not nearly see to the end of them and their faces were 
 like conffetti what they throw at weddings. There 
 were a lot of bishops there and all sorts, when the 
 machine had finished talking they clapped and made 
 such a noise and sang for he's a jolly good fellow several 
 times and then a man said let us pray through a speak- 
 ing trumpet and Sir Pushcott Bingley said for God's 
 sake let's get out of this and we went. 
 
 “ I've got to go to the Neeopolitan Music Hall to- 
 morrow, but not speak. Sir P. says speaking is not my 
 strong point, he says it is better for me to be ornamental. 
 He has not asked me to write an article for his paper 
 yet, but I expect he will soon. He says I shall have 
 quite enough money to do what I want to on and per- 
 haps more if things go all right, I wish I could go with 
 you on the Downs to-night. I have been on a motor 
 
145 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 with Mr. Fulton to see Ramshorn Hill in Acton, it 
 looks miserable and dirty. Hoping this will find you 
 well as it leaves me only I have got a stummycake. — 
 Your loving ever and ever 
 
 “ Alexander Trotman." 
 
 Nothing but real love could have given Chop-Allie 
 Trotman the energy to make such a prodigious effort 
 in the way of letter writing. 
 
 Julia was proud and frightened and softened by 
 turns. But Alec's success did in the end only strengthen 
 her determination to go on being a martyr. It made 
 her feel a good and disinterested onlooker. It overcame 
 her motherliness. The worst vices of such women as 
 Julia Jepp are virtues out of place. 
 
 IX 
 
 Whilst Mrs. Trotman was suffering from suppressed 
 solicitude for Alexander's digestion — was taking the 
 servant into her confidence and pouring forth a tale of 
 gastric woe — Mr. Trotman sat over his third cup of tea 
 with the calm air of a philosopher and man of sense, 
 and read the morning's Halfpenny Press . 
 
 “ If Alec is really ill," he said, “ you can be quite sure 
 Sir Pushcott will have the best doctors. There's 
 nothing second-rate about Sir Pushcott Bingley." 
 
 “ No, I know there's not," said Mrs. Trotman in 
 tones of unconviction. 
 
 “ Well, then, for goodness' sake be quiet ! " 
 
 The Halfpenny Press was indeed most interesting. 
 It contained a special four-page supplement, filled with 
 pictures of the Crystal Palace Empire Revival Mission 
 and a squib-like account thereof. No less than one 
 
 h 
 
146 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 whole page was given up to correspondence, From Our 
 Headers — a score of donkeys nibbling at a carrot. 
 
 One busybody of the parasitical world which collects 
 and administers subscriptions said at great length 
 that, in the case of the Wonder Worker being left unre- 
 warded, he was prepared to receive sums of money from 
 a halfpenny (only the price of a newspaper) upwards, 
 towards the cost of purchasing a life annuity for him 
 who had shown mankind that miracles were as possible 
 in this our twentieth century as in the olden days. 
 Such a demonstration, the busybody pointed out, could 
 but infuse courage into the hearts of all those who were 
 fighting the good fight on behalf of the immutable 
 truths of religion. 
 
 An editorial note, however, while commending the 
 busybody as a truly religious patriot, mentioned that 
 proposals were already afoot in high and influential 
 circles to give the Holy Mountain to Mr. Alexander 
 Trotman, the mover of it ; or, at least, to lease it to 
 him from the Crown on very advantageous terms. 
 Ramshorn Hill, now justly called the Holy Mountain, 
 being Crown land, was national property, and, therefore, 
 this brilliant proposal would enable every British man, 
 woman, and child substantially to show their gratitude 
 to Mr. Trotman — whether they wished to or not. 
 Vox populi, vox Dei ! In such a way the right-minded 
 majority could compel the careless, unpatriotic, irre- 
 ligious minority to contribute towards that recognition 
 which no Britisher should wish to deny. There could 
 be no shadow of doubt that Mr. Trotman would use 
 the gift in such a way that the best interests of religion 
 and the glory of the British Empire would be equally 
 advanced. So said the Halfpenny Press . 
 
 Notice was given that the Neapolitan Music Hall 
 would be closed on that (Monday) evening in order to 
 prepare a grand patriotic Church and Empire Ballet 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 147 
 
 in which Mr. Alexander Trotman would take part. The 
 Mountain Mover would thus be visible to all who were 
 unable or unaccustomed to attend revivals. The Half- 
 penny Press would book orders for seats by telephone. 
 A letter from the Archbishop of All the Empire’s 
 chaplain ran : “ His Grace desires me to say that he 
 considers the Church and Empire Ballet, reverently 
 treated, to be an excellent idea.” 
 
 On the morrow, the only authorised biography of 
 Mr. Alexander Trotman would commence in the columns 
 of the Halfpenny Press . It would be written, under 
 Mr. Trotman’s supervision, by that brilliant journalist 
 and litterateur , Mr. John Fulton. 
 
 The front page of the newspaper was taken up in its 
 entirety by an advertisement of the Neapolitan Music 
 Hall — refined, mirthful, beautiful, national, fully 
 licensed. Half the back page was devoted to a glowing 
 advertisement of the Times's monumental work on 
 earthquakes. The remaining portions of the paper 
 were occupied by short synopses of foreign affairs and 
 parliamentary proceedings, and accounts of three in- 
 teresting murders and two peculiarly distressing suicides. 
 Publicity was given to an unconfirmed telegram which 
 reported that an Indian fakir had succeeded in over- 
 turning the summit of Mount Everest. 
 
 It was very noticeable that the Halfpenny Press , 
 hitherto in frantic opposition to the inefficiency and 
 inertia of the government, was now’ become a supporter 
 of the ministry and looked forward to a long life of 
 beneficence for it. 
 
 “ That is curious, if you like ! ” remarked Mr. Trot- 
 man judicially. 
 
148 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 X 
 
 The Neapolitan, famous even among music-halls for 
 its topicality and its original turns, did not now belie 
 its reputation. There was no precedent in the theatrical 
 world for the energy with which the Church and Empire 
 Ballet was hustled upon the stage nor for the vigour 
 with which it was advertised. The properties of a 
 patriotic ballet were sorted out on the Sunday. Eccle- 
 siastical costumes and apparatus were gathered to- 
 gether on the Monday morning. One or two clergymen, 
 believers in the possibilities of stage influence for good, 
 gave ready help in matters of which the management 
 possessed but little experience. Scene-painters worked 
 day and night with pneumatic paint-brushes, inventing 
 and adapting. Opticians busied themselves with 
 dissolving views and novel effects in stage lighting. 
 The orchestra practised with its food and drink on stools 
 beside it. Rehearsals were almost continuous ; the 
 stage manager’s voice filled the hall without inter- 
 mission. The production of the Church and Empire 
 Ballet was, indeed, a work of concerted theatrical genius. 
 
 One grand dress rehearsal — and that without the 
 central figure of the ballet — took place on Tuesday. 
 Alec, in fact, was the most indispensable and the least 
 necessary personage in the whole affair. Sir Pushcott 
 Bingley’s stipulation that he should have nothing to 
 say and nothing to do, except be present on the stage, 
 was ridiculed by the manager, who staked his reputation 
 on being able to drill the young man into something 
 that would catch on. Sir Pushcott therefore invited 
 him to meet Mr. Alexander Trotman at lunch. There 
 the manager drew him affably into conversation, and 
 soon became finally convinced that the Wonder Worker 
 had better remain quite a lay figure. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 149 
 
 Nevertheless, he kept one small item up his sleeve. 
 
 Alec was duller than usual. The unwonted stir and 
 excitement had completely dazed him. Besides which, 
 he was in pretty constant pain, and now that the bloom 
 of his visit to London had worn off, he was also rather 
 homesick. He hungered after the ministrations of his 
 mother. The delights of Sir Pushcott's table kept up 
 his spirits somewhat ; but his appetite was failing, and 
 at lunch on Tuesday he would take nothing except a 
 little lobster salad. 
 
 44 We shall have to get the doctor to you, young man, 
 I can see,” said Sir Pushcott Bingley. 
 
 44 Dr. Vere M'Lloyd ? ” Alec asked. 
 
 It was the name of his mother's favourite physician 
 at Trowbury. 
 
 Most successful men attribute their success to some 
 one virtue that comes easy to them. In Sir Pushcott's 
 case, the fetish was punctuality. Arriving at the 
 Neapolitan rather too early, they were shown into a 
 stage box. 
 
 44 Sit back,” the manager told Alec. 44 We shan't 
 want you till the last moment. But be ready when 
 you're called. There'll be a row if we're too long getting 
 it on. Our house isn't used to much curtain. Sit back — 
 here.” 
 
 Alec sat back as requested, and watched a ibare- 
 chested woman in black tights showing off her troupe of 
 performing cats. The band played ; the woman strutted 
 about the stage, tapping the cats with a beribboned 
 cane, bowing to the music, to the cats and to the audi- 
 ence like a mechanical toy. How much more dignified 
 the snarling cats than the swaggering woman ! Alec 
 was delighted with them, and would have clapped 
 naively had not the Halfpenny Pressman touched him 
 on the arm and held up a warning finger. 
 
 The performer kissed herself and her cats off the stage 
 
150 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 amid a moderate applause. She was a falling star. 
 The Church and Empire Ballet was to come. 
 
 For some time the curtain remained down to the 
 music of the orchestra and the stage hammers. The 
 audience began to be impatient. They whistled, they 
 stamped, they boo’d. Somebody flung a ginger-beer 
 bottle at the curtain. It hit a painted languishing 
 Italian lover on the nose so neatly that one of the gallery 
 gods cried out, 44 Give ’em another just there ! ” An 
 orange followed. A penny bun, being less weighty, fell 
 short and hit the conductor of the orchestra on the head. 
 The most softly captivating, and the loudest, strains 
 of the orchestra were alike powerless to check the rising 
 enthusiasm for this music-hall version of Old Aunt 
 Sally. Turning down the lights only made the musicians’ 
 heads into the target, instead of the lovers on the cur- 
 tain. A flautist had a tooth knocked out and his skilful 
 lip cut. 
 
 Suddenly Long Willie, the popular comedian of the 
 moment, bounced along the stage before the curtain. 
 He stretched out a ragged skinny arm, made a familiar 
 face, and shouted, 44 Just you wait a minute. I’ll revive 
 you ! ” 
 
 A quick change and he re-entered as a typical re- 
 vivalistic parson. The audience, at the gleeful sancti- 
 moniousness of his face and walk, burst into a roar of 
 laughter. 
 
 The painted lovers and the musicians’ heads were 
 saved. 
 
 Long Willie pulled some underclothing out of the 
 end of his trouser-leg and placed it on the ground to 
 imitate a little hill. On the top of it he carefully planted 
 a flower. Then, having retired a few paces, he walked 
 towards the little hill, his eyes cast heavenwards and 
 his finger downwards, saying : 44 Get thee to the George 
 and Dragon. I am coming.” He tripped, fell back- 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 151 
 
 wards on the little hill, squashing it, and rose like a 
 schoolboy after a caning. “ How I move mountains ! ” 
 he shouted. 
 
 The audience shrieked with merriment. Alec hid his 
 head. Sir Piishcott Bingley reddened and rang the 
 bell. 
 
 The manager himself appeared. 
 
 “ Stop that ! ” Sir Pushcott commanded. 
 
 “ What ? ” 
 
 “ That travesty. * Stop it.” 
 
 “ But I can't.” 
 
 “ We go at once. . . .” 
 
 “ Well . . . Can't see what there is to object . . . 
 All right.” 
 
 Long Willie was called off the stage. 
 
 Before long the manager returned to the box for 
 Alec. Already the orchestra was playing Rule Britannia. 
 Alec was led behind the scenes, among a marvellous 
 complexity of girders, beams, ropes, and properties — • 
 all the hastily prepared paraphernalia of the Church 
 and Empire Ballet. Right at the back of the stage 
 they came to a large mound, an imitation hill, against 
 which there rested a ladder. The manager placed in 
 Alec's hand a stick with a bit of red, white and blue 
 cloth nailed to it. “ Look here,” he said, “ when you 
 hear them begin God Save the King , you stand up and 
 wave this. D'you see ? That's all you've got to do. 
 When they play God Save the King , mind ; not before.” 
 
 Alec took the stick. He was just sufficiently confused 
 to do what he was told without demur ; to put his trust 
 in anybody and nobody. And that gnawing pain. . . . 
 
 “ Now then, up you go ! You'll find a place to sit on 
 at the top. Stay there till you hear God Save the King , 
 and then . . . You know.” 
 
 “ All right,” said Alec. The pain made his breath 
 short. 
 
152 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 He climbed the ladder on all fours, like a dog going 
 upstairs, sat down, and waited. The ladder rose on its 
 end, turned over, disappeared. Time seemed long up 
 there, and the place all the darker for the little light 
 that filtered in. He was almost frightened ; was won- 
 dering indeed whether the hill was safe to slide down, 
 until a voice came up from below : “ Y'all right there ? ” 
 “ Yes/' replied Alec manfully. 
 
 “ They've started. Remember ! " 
 
 A young man, sitting on an artificial eminence in 
 semi- darkness at the back of a London stage, and wish- 
 ing himself at home in a sleepy country town. . . . 
 
 XI 
 
 Never in theatrical history had exceedingly powerful 
 magic lanterns, cinematographs and dissolving view 
 apparatuses been so brilliantly combined with all the 
 ordinary spectacular and panoramic resources of the 
 stage. Hardly any among the enormous and enthu- 
 siastic audience which crowded the Neapolitan Music 
 Hall — sitting, standing, lounging, in defiance of County 
 Council regulations — hardly any, except some scientists 
 present, could tell where illusion ended and make- 
 believe began, so triumphantly had stagecraft and 
 optics come to the aid of Church, Empire and the manage- 
 ment. 
 
 To the strains of Rule Britannia the curtain rose, dis- 
 closing another on which was painted (or optically cast) 
 a map of the world, on Mercator's projection, with the 
 British Imperial Possessions coloured a very k bright red. 
 
 A moving finger appeared, pointing to the British 
 Isles. It travelled to the prairies of Canada, and thence, 
 across the continent of North America, down the 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 153 
 
 Atlantic Ocean, to the malarial West Coast of Africa. 
 By way of St. Helena, it proceeded to the Transvaal ; 
 then crossed the Indian Ocean and Australia to anti- 
 podal New Zealand. From the northern islands of 
 Australasia it moved to India and up the Red Sea to 
 Egypt. It traversed the Mediterranean, resting a 
 moment at Gibraltar. Finally, ascending the Bay of 
 Biscay and the English Channel it pointed exactly at 
 London. 
 
 Whereupon the finger changed to the Royal Standard 
 and the Union Jack, interlaced, with a cross between 
 them ; and the emblem swelled and grew till it spread 
 all over the world. Rule Britannia was repeated at the 
 orchestra's loudest. Everything faded. The music ceased. 
 
 There was much applause. 
 
 The curtain rose again on a scene of embarkation. 
 To the tune of See the Conquering Hero Comes there 
 passed slowly and with dignified gait across the stage, 
 to a great ship, missionaries with rapt looks, bearing 
 crosses, and privates of the army in fighting kit with 
 rifles ; colporteurs bearing Bibles of all shapes and 
 sizes, and engineers with matlocks, spades and survey- 
 ing instruments ; red-cross nurses and sisters of medical 
 missions ; clergymen and merchants carrying Brum- 
 magem ware wrapped up in the flag ; dignitaries of the 
 Church and pipe-clayed officers of the army ; finally a 
 field- marshal in full uniform together with a bishop in 
 cope and mitre, who had borne before him a richly 
 jewelled pastoral staff on which the lights of the music- 
 hall flashed and glittered. 
 
 The martial music changed imperceptibly into a 
 hymn, and, whilst the audience listened in wonder to the 
 noises of a ship getting under way, the stage became 
 totally dark. 
 
 A transfused glimmer brightened into sunshine and 
 disclosed an Indian encampment in old Canada. Afar, 
 
154 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 snow-clad mountains were brightly visible ; in the fore- 
 ground stood several wigwams about which squaws 
 were busy with their primitive household work. A 
 party of Red Indians approached warily with hostile 
 intent. One of them sprang forward, yelling his war-cry, 
 and seized by the hair a beautiful girl who was reclining 
 in the entrance of the largest wigwam. To keep her 
 quiet, he knocked her on the head. The owners of the 
 wigwams returned bearing spoils of the chase from 
 which blood dripped. There was a fierce fight, so wild 
 that the audience could distinguish plainly neither the 
 combatants nor what they were about. They saw only, 
 with tight apprehension, the beautiful girl being dragged 
 backwards and forwards across the stage. Tomahawks 
 flourished. Bloody scalps swung on high. Then it was 
 that the Church and Empire Procession passed along 
 the side of the stage, rifles to shoulder and the em- 
 blems of religion held aloft. The fighters were stricken 
 into stillness. The light died down. 
 
 When next the stage was illuminated, the Indians 
 were seen squatted by their wigwams and smoking the 
 pipe of peace. Certain members of the Church and 
 Empire joined in the ceremony, whilst the remainder 
 stood by, singing a hymn. The beautiful girl and a fine 
 young chief were married by the bishop according to 
 Christian rites. The Indians arose and fell in with 
 the Church and Empire Procession, which once more 
 crossed the stage, in a solemn manner, to the sound of 
 triumphant music. 
 
 Through the succeeding darkness there came a 
 monotonous throbbing and jarring that made the more 
 sensitive among the audience shudder. The sound, the 
 horrible beating sound, gradually developed into a 
 savage and voluptuous music, made up of rhythmic 
 discords. When the stage lightened a little, so that 
 black figures could just be distinguished, flitting about 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 155 
 
 in the darkness, the rattling wail of the music became 
 as furious as a tropical storm. The scene was a small 
 clearing between the tree-trunks and tendrils of a 
 swampy West African forest — one of those orgies to 
 which from time to time frenzied negroes abandon 
 themselves. A dim fire in the centre of the clearing 
 threw strange streaks of light on the dancers around it, 
 who were apparently naked ; on the foliage and tree- 
 trunks and on the slimy ground ; but it illuminated 
 nothing. The music alone, beating ever and ever more 
 fiercely, suggested the weird depravity of the dance ; 
 the dancers themselves remained always more than 
 half invisible, black against blackness, a shadowed 
 rhythm on the darkness, dancing wildly to a mysterious 
 music, rising, falling, whirling, jarring. . . . 
 
 Fiercer grew the mad orgy — awakening a latent 
 savagery, visions of unimagined lustfulness, in the 
 audience, till many ached and twitched to join the 
 negroes. Suddenly at the side of the stage appeared 
 the Church and Empire Procession, rifles and crosses up- 
 lifted ; and the dancers, screaming, rushed to the back 
 and there crouched down in a fearful heap. 
 
 For a moment, darkness : then the music changed to a 
 fresh, cool gladness, while the missionaries and privates, 
 the colporteurs and engineers, the red-cross nurses and 
 sisters of medical missions, the clergymen and merchants, 
 the dignitaries and officers, the field-marshal and bishop, 
 filed past the desolate scene of the orgy, accompanied 
 by regenerate negroes now clad respectably in white 
 duck trousers. 
 
 In the next scene, the ship of Church and Empire 
 appeared steaming along beneath the cliffs of a rocky 
 island. The ship's company were assembled on deck. 
 Bishop and field-marshal stood by an altar draped with 
 the flag. 'Twas Sunday service aboard, and they were 
 singing a hymn the words of which, to the audience, 
 
156 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 seemed far distant and indistinguishable ; nearly over- 
 whelmed by the plash of the sea. As the ship passed 
 the island, the figure of Napoleon stood forward on a 
 headland. And he doffed his hat. 
 
 With a darkening of the stage, the hymn died away. 
 Once more the music became barbaric ; not voluptuously 
 so this time, but ferociously. There was an unholy dry 
 clacking in it, and, as it were, a reek of blood. 
 
 A cannibal feast in New Zealand was revealed. 
 Tattooed Maoris, wrapped in blankets, were dancing and 
 gesticulating greedily around a fire by the side of which 
 was a white corpse partially bereft of its limbs. Gar- 
 ments of a missionary and of a European woman were 
 flung over a hovel close by. One of the dancers wore 
 the white woman's hat — a hat trimmed with blue corn- 
 flowers which wobbled on his head. Another was kick- 
 ing about in her petticoat. Nearly all of them bran- 
 dished bones — thigh bones, arm bones, ribs. The skull 
 they used between them like a football. Smears of 
 blood added to the ghastliness of their tattooed faces. 
 
 Sometimes they gnawed at the bones. 
 
 “ How horrible ! " exclaimed some in the audience. 
 
 “ It oughtn't to be allowed," said others, not with- 
 out satisfaction in their voices. 
 
 There was a hoot from the gallery. 
 
 The cannibal dance grew greedier ; the music louder. 
 Bones were thrown about. The white corpse was seized 
 and dragged nearer the fire. Rude knives . . . 
 
 In a brilliant light at the side of the stage appeared 
 the Church and Empire Procession, crosses and rifles 
 uplifted. The cannibals flung down their bones and 
 human joints ; sank to their knees, heads bowed down. 
 Darkness fell. 
 
 When the procession recrossed the stage to the tune 
 of a hymnal march, Maoris convoyed it. They were 
 clothed more amply and in cleaner blankets ; not more 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 157 
 
 than one wife walked lovingly on the arm of each man ; 
 the smears of blood were washed away from their faces, 
 and they were eating fruits. 
 
 Four tableaux vivants, representing Indian scenes, 
 followed cannibalism. In the first, there was much 
 rejoicing and Eastern magnificence on account of a 
 marriage between infants of high caste. In the second, 
 the child wife was on her knees weeping with dishevelled 
 hair beside the bed of the dying boy, her husband. 
 The voices of wailing women mingled with the sound of 
 the orchestra. Thirdly, came the burning of the boy- 
 husband's body. Flames from the funeral pyre rose 
 luridly heavenward, whilst the little wife in a transport 
 of grief mourned and wailed beside it, not noticing the 
 presence close by of the Church and Empire Procession, 
 rifles and crosses uplifted. Just as the girl- wife, in her 
 ecstasy, was about to perform the rite of suttee, to 
 immolate herself on the pyre of her youthful husband, 
 a missionary and a soldier sprang forward, and amid the 
 plaudits of their comrades dragged her from the flames. 
 The last of the four Indian tableaux represented the 
 interior of a mission house. Representatives of the 
 Church and Empire were ranged solemnly round the 
 walls, singing a hymn and looking on with manifest 
 approval while the beautiful girl widow of high caste, 
 clothed in white, scrubbed the mission-house floor. 
 
 The limelight sun went down and rose again over the 
 Garden of Aphrodite in ancient Alexandria. Somewhat 
 unhistorically it was arranged that the pyramids and the 
 Sphinx overlooked the luxuriant place, its palms and 
 large-leaved plants, its fountains and its columns fes- 
 tooned with flowering creepers. Courtesans, long since 
 dead and gone, walked in the garden with voluptuous 
 step, their garments the tall thin draperies of the 
 Greeks. To one among them, the most beautiful, was 
 brought ceremoniously the philtre of love and death. 
 
158 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 She drank : and to the long-drawn music of the 
 
 orchestra, to its spiral convolutions of sweet sound, 
 ever rising higher, ever becoming richer and faster, 
 they danced the Dance of Love, which ends in death, 
 in the Garden of Aphrodite, beneath the pyramids and 
 the Sphinx. They danced till the Garden was a melody 
 of twirling feet and floating filmy draperies and glimmer- 
 ing colours. She who had drunk of the philtre whirled in 
 a sheen of light, adored by all the others ; the incarna- 
 tion of a love and rapture beyond human reach, the 
 symbol of love's uttermost frenzy ; until it seemed to 
 the hard-breathing audience that the ballet could no 
 longer go on without becoming really too indecent for 
 the English stage. 
 
 Then it was that the Church and Empire Procession 
 appeared, crosses and rifles uplifted ; and the ancient 
 courtesans, stricken with a new shame, fled like ripples 
 on a lake. 
 
 In the twilight of a moment the Garden of Aphrodite 
 was razed to the ground. The pyramids and the Sphinx 
 were left alone in the moonlit desert, save that a cross 
 was erected between them, and Church and Empire 
 passed into the distance, behind the Great Pyramid, 
 singing a hymn of rejoicing. 
 
 By some optical contrivance, the Sphinx glanced at 
 the cross, and — but without any movement — a look of 
 fear flitted over its immobile face. 
 
 This made a great sensation. 
 
 Two minor scenes — the ship of Church and Empire 
 saluted by the guns of Gibraltar, and its triumphant 
 approach to the white cliffs of Dover — were intro- 
 duced between the Dance of Love and what was de- 
 scribed on the programme as : 
 
 Grand Finale . 
 
 Under the Dome of St. Paul's. 
 
 The Holy Mountain. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 159 
 
 The nave of the national cathedral became gradu- 
 ally brighter, its huge square pillars and vasty spaces 
 dimly lighted by the hanging candelabra, so that the 
 chancel and high altar were invisible and only a glint 
 of the coloured and golden mosaics could be seen. 
 Already there was a great congregation in the nave. 
 They were chanting processional hymns of triumph. 
 
 Slowly and with dignified step there filed in the 
 bishop in a resplendent cope and mitre, his jewelled 
 crosier borne aloft before him ; the field- marshal carry- 
 ing his feathered hat and his baton ; officers of the army 
 in full uniform and dignitaries of the Church in their 
 canonicals ; clergymen in surplices and hoods, and 
 merchants in silk-faced frock-coats ; red-cross nurses 
 and sisters of medical missions in their best bonnets ; 
 colporteurs with Bibles, and engineers with brand-new 
 matlocks and spades ; soldiers with down-pointing rifles 
 and missionaries with up -pointing crosses ; negroes in 
 trousers and their women in what looked like night- 
 shirts ; gentle cannibals ; the high-caste girl widow 
 and her glad relatives, now Christians ; a bejewelled 
 native prince willing to become the widow’s second 
 husband ; and the rescued courtesans of old Alexandria, 
 clothed in blouses, skirts and sailor hats. 
 
 During the hush a man of the audience was heard 
 say to his wife : “ Foine ! Oin’t it, M’rier ? ” 
 
 The gates of the screen opened and the bishop passed 
 within them to the sanctuary. The field-marshal 
 stationed himself at a prie-dieu placed in the centre of 
 the aisle, whilst the remainder of the Church and Empire 
 Procession filed off to the chairs reserved for them under- 
 neath the dome. 
 
 As the congregation sang — 
 
 Forward, flock of Jesus, 
 
 Salt of all the earth. 
 
 Till each yearning 1 purpose 
 Spring to glorious birth. 
 
160 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Sick* they ask for healing. 
 
 Blind, they grope for day : 
 
 Pour upon the nations 
 Wisdom's loving ray. 
 
 Forward out of error, 
 
 Leave behind the night : 
 
 Forward through the darkness. 
 
 Forward into light ! — 
 
 the chancel became illuminated. The audience perceived 
 not the high altar and its reredos, but, in a circle of 
 bright light, seated on the top of the Holy Mountain — 
 Alexander Trotman ! 
 
 Then there were three cheers, thrice resounding. 
 
 The strains of the hymn changed abruptly to God Save 
 the King . 
 
 Once the national anthem was played, twice it was 
 played. It was begun again. Alec suddenly remem- 
 bered his instructions. He stood erect on the Holy 
 Mountain. He unfurled (with fumbling), and waved, 
 the Union Jack. 
 
 Frantic enthusiasm possessed the audience. Hats, 
 sticks, umbrellas, handkerchiefs, waved. Cheering and 
 God Save the King arose one against the other — played 
 vocal tug-o’-war. 
 
 But Alec — Alec was seen to totter, and to fall from 
 top to bottom of the Holy Mountain. Those who had 
 good places saw blood. Blood from the mouth. 
 
 The curtain was rung down amid the profoundest 
 sensation. 
 
 Some said it was a judgment. 
 
 Others jeered 
 
 XII 
 
 The last, the most impressive, scene of the Church 
 and Empire" Ballet took place behind the curtain. 
 
 Alec' ^was' propped up in a fainting condition against 
 that simulacrum of the Holy Mountain down which 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 161 
 
 he had fallen. Ranged around him were the interior 
 fittings of St. Paul's and the trees of the Garden of 
 Aphrodite — all those properties, that is, which had not 
 been optical delusions. On the outskirts of the group 
 w r ere the erstwhile courtesans and priests, craning their 
 necks, pushing their painted faces forwards. The stage 
 was brilliantly lighted. The audience could be heard 
 departing from the theatre. A tone of wonderment was 
 perceptible in the hubbub of their voices, through which 
 shouts of newsboys outside penetrated in gusts of noise. 
 
 Nearest Alec were Sir Pushcott Bingley, the Half- 
 penny Pressman, the manager of the Neapolitan, two 
 doctors and a call-boy. After examining his bared chest 
 with stethoscopes, they gave him a piece of ice to suck 
 and told him to keep quite quiet. The ice froze his 
 teeth. He made a wry face and began to revive. 
 
 “ What is it ? " Sir Pushcott Bingley asked. 
 
 44 Has he complained of indigestion ? " said one of the 
 doctors. 
 
 46 Nothing at all the matter with him. . . 99 
 
 44 He told me," said the Halfpenny Pressman, 44 that 
 he's had a stomach-ache, as he calls it, almost ever 
 since he's been in London. His mother wrote . . ." 
 
 44 H'm ! " the doctor remarked. 44 That's it — lungs 
 fairly sound — gastric ulcer, no doubt." 
 
 44 Will he be right by to-morrow night's perform- 
 ance ? " the manager of the music-hall inquired. 
 
 44 My dear sir, he won't be right for a week, or yet a 
 month. Gastric ulcer requires perfect rest and careful 
 nursing, the best — if the cure is to be radical." 
 
 44 But we've got a week's contract. . . ." 
 
 44 Pardon me," Sir Pushcott interrupted. 
 
 44 We've never had a better house than we had to- 
 night. I'll give . . ." 
 
 44 That cannot be helped. He must be taken to a 
 hospital." 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Not to be thought of,” said Sir Pushcott. “ My 
 house . . 
 
 “ Or he ought to go home. Trowbury, isn't it ? " 
 
 Alec attempted to speak. He even tried to get up, 
 but was prevented by the doctor. 
 
 “ Well, what is it, my boy ? " 
 
 “ I want to go home to mother," he whispered. “ I 
 don't like London." 
 
 “ So you shall when you are a little better." 
 
 1 “ Now," supplicated the Mountain Mover. “ I 
 won't stay ! " 
 
 Then, being highly overwrought and too weak to 
 struggle, he wept. The ice slipped out of his mouth. 
 “ I wish I'd never come. I wish I'd never gone near 
 Ramshorn Hill." On their telling him to stay quiet, he 
 made repeated efforts to roll over and get up, like an 
 ungainly animal. His white face rocked from side to side. 
 
 “ This must be stopped," said the doctor. “ Can't 
 we send for his people ? He will bring on the haemor- 
 rhage again." 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley did not appear to favour the 
 idea of receiving at Park Lane the Famous Grocer and 
 his elegant wife. After a minute's meditation, he asked : 
 “ Would it not be possible to send him down to Wiltshire 
 in a motor ambulance ? They run as smoothly as beds, 
 don't they ? " 
 
 “ Well— yes — that would be possible. But who is to 
 go with him ? " 
 
 “ Go yourself and take a nurse, or two nurses if you 
 like. I'll see to it, you understand. He must recover, 
 you know." 
 
 “ Oh, I think he will do that. He seems to be of a 
 rather scrofulous tendency. Heredity. ..." 
 
 “ His father wrote to him and said they were going 
 to make him Mayor of Trowbury," said the Halfpenny 
 Pressman, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 163 
 
 “ Poor boy ! ” said the doctor. 
 
 “ You had better go too,” said Sir Pushcott to the 
 Halfpenny Pressman. “ I can manage. Let me know. 
 No further need of me, I suppose ? Good night, then.” 
 They awaited the ambulance and the nurse. The 
 major lights of the music-hall went out, until the group 
 formed an illuminated spot, a dark-shadowed picture, 
 framed by darkness. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Thus did Alexander Trotman, after his triumph in 
 London, return to his father's house and shop at Trow- 
 bury ; lying on a swung spring -bed in a motor ambu- 
 lance ; watched by a doctor and a nurse ; the victim 
 of a shaky constitution and Sir Pushcott Bingley's 
 table, of his father's youthful smartnesses and his own 
 most moderate gluttony. 
 
 It was about eight o'clock in the morning when the 
 ambulance drove down Castle Street and stopped at 
 the Famous Grocery. The Halfpenny Pressman rang 
 the bell. Mrs. Trotman peeped out of an upper window, 
 discreetly in order not to show her slip-bodice. “ What 
 is it ? Do you want Mr. Trotman ? Have you come 
 from the police ? My husband won't be on the bench 
 to-day.” 
 
 Seeing it was not the police, she slipped on a 
 dressing-gown, tucked her hair inside the collar and 
 went down to the front door. 
 
 They told her that Alec had been taken ill ; showed 
 her son to her lying pale on the spring-bed with a piece 
 of ice in his mouth. 
 
 “ Oh, Allie, Allie ! What have they been doing to 
 you ? ” she cried. 
 
164 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 She ran indoors calling, “ James, James ! Quick ! 
 Come here ! ” She shouted to the servant to light a 
 fire in Master Allie's bedroom, and, her voice breaking, 
 ended in a screech. 
 
 Detaching the bed from its springs, they carried the 
 Wonder Worker up to his own bedroom. Mr. Trotman 
 appeared, not very fresh-looking at that time of day. 
 But his coolness and dignity did not desert him. 
 
 “ You are a doctor, I presume, sir ? ” he said. 
 
 “ Yes, I am.” 
 
 “ Sent by Sir Pushcott Bingley ? 9 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ And how is Sir Pushcott ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, doctor, doctor ! what is it, please ? ” Mrs. 
 Trotman exclaimed. 
 
 “ Gastric ulcer — ulcerated stomach — haemorrhage. . .” 
 “ Oh, I’m so thankful it’s not that dreadful appen- 
 dicitis ! Can he take Bovril ? Or would bread-and- 
 milk be better ? ” 
 
BOOK III 
 
I 
 
 c Antient hostelries 5 like the Blue Boar, in small towns 
 like Trowbury, have many uses. First, of course, they 
 are drinking -shops. Secondly, they are free clubs. 
 Thirdly, they are informal places of appointment which 
 seldom or never fail. If you have business with one of 
 the leading tradesmen or minor professional men, you 
 may go to his shop only to learn, probably, that he is out ; 
 gone to his brother’s funeral, his aunt’s wedding, shoot- 
 ing, fishing, bathing, or somewhere whence he is ex- 
 pected every minute. But if you can recollect when he 
 is accustomed to attend the Blue Boar bar, and look in 
 at that hour, there you shall surely find him. Who can 
 deny that business runs more sweetly to the tune of 
 “ What’s yours ? — Good health ! — The same to you, 
 sir ! ” ? 
 
 On the Wednesday morning, despite all that had 
 happened, Mr. Trotman entered the swing-doors at 
 precisely his usual time. 
 
 “ Well, I never, Mr. Trotman ! Whatever have you 
 been up to? You look . . . There! HE-He-he-he-he ! 
 Brandy and a small Schweppe : is that it ? ” 
 
 Mr. Trotman would not at once, however, look with 
 Miss Sankey on the bright and bibulous side of things. 
 He remained very serious indeed, and more faded in 
 appearance than usual. 
 
 “ I’ve had my son brought home very seriously ill.” 
 
 “ Dear me ! ” Miss Sankey ’s voice sank to a con- 
 fidential whisper : “ Dying, did you say ? ” 
 
 Mr. Trotman leaned over the counter. “ The doctors 
 167 
 
168 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 hardly know. Two of them there. Ulcerated stomach. 
 Yes — brandy-and-soda, please/' 
 
 44 Ah, I had that, you know, when I was a young girl, 
 and doesn't it serve you out, my word ! Poor boy ! — 
 Top o' the morning to you, Mr. Ganthorn ! How's 
 you ? Eh ? I say, have you heard ? You tell him, 
 Mr. Trotman. Dying ! Fancy ! After all he's done. 
 . . . Moving mountains ! Poor boy ! And I know 
 what it's like ; that I do. When everybody was talking 
 about him everywhere. . . . Struck down ! Pride goes 
 before a fall. Ay me ! filling glasses and a joke and a 
 laugh isn't the worst life in the world when all's said 
 and done. Shan't I be glad when Christmas comes ! " 
 It pleased Mr. Ganthorn to look quizzical. He turned 
 from the sympathetic Miss Sankey. 44 Is this true about 
 your son, Trotman ? Heard this morning he was dying. 
 Not so bad as that, is it ? " 
 
 The Mayor looked sorrowful, as if he feared the tragic 
 worst ; as if so conspicuous an event might indeed 
 happen to his family. He spoke in a deprecating man- 
 ner : 44 1 can't say. There's two doctors with him — 
 Vere M'Lloyd and one Sir Pushcott sent down with the 
 ambulance from London. Vere M'Lloyd tells my wife 
 he's got hope, but it's pretty serious, I'm afraid." 
 
 Mr. Ganthorn sipped and meditated a moment or 
 two. The Mayor did the same, most impressively. 
 Then the former said with a great affectation of non- 
 chalance : 44 How about what we were talking about 
 the other day — what we arranged that night at my 
 place, you know ? " 
 
 44 Well, that's it. . . ." 
 
 44 Come into the smoke-room. Drink up and have 
 another. — Two more brandies and a split soda, please, 
 Miss Cora, in the little smoking-room." 
 
 The two wiseacres retired to a very small rectangular 
 room, the centre of which was occupied by a highly 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 169 
 
 polished brass-bound table, spotted with black burns, 
 and bearing water jugs, match stands and ash trays, 
 all with liquor advertisements upon them. At either 
 end was an easy chair. Ranged along the walls, as 
 closely as possible, were other wooden chairs of the 
 straight-backed variety, with small wooden arms and 
 commodious horsehair seats — chairs for fat men too 
 stiff to lounge. That cramped little room is the Holy 
 of Holies of the Blue Boar. There, especially on Sunday 
 evenings after church-time, they love to sit, to listen 
 to their voices, and sometimes to see each other through 
 the murky air. 
 
 Mr. Trotman secured the easy chair under the window. 
 To be near him, Mr. Ganthorn took the next straight- 
 backed chair. They got up and closed the window, shut- 
 ting out a scent of flowers. They settled down again 
 
 When Miss Sankey took in the drinks, she heard Mr. 
 Ganthorn saying, “ Well, you see, it's like this : if he 
 can't be mayor after you, it's the Liberals' turn, and'one 
 of their men will have to go in ; and as there'll probably 
 be a general election pretty soon, it'll be as well to have 
 a Conservative mayor if we can. With a Conservative 
 mayor, Conservative affairs go better. I don't mean to 
 say the mayor influences the election, and yet he does, 
 in little ways, you understand ; and it's the little ways 
 that count when there's a fight for it." 
 
 As they strolled across the hall, on their way out of the 
 hotel, Miss Sankey was able to overhear a little more. 
 
 “ I hope it won't turn out so serious after all," Mr. 
 Ganthorn was saying. 
 
 “ We shall hear when Sir Pushcott's specialist gets 
 down later in the day. If anybody can pull him through, 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley's physician will. Very kind of 
 him. . . 
 
 “ Well, good morning. About the other matter — 
 his being mayor — I think / can work that” 
 
170 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 II 
 
 There is happily no need to inquire how far the rapid 
 improvement in Mr. Trotman’s spirits was due to the 
 Blue Boar bar, to his confabulation with Mr. Ganthorn, 
 to the gentle exercise of trotting about Trowbury, or to 
 the very pleasant things he saw and heard. At all events, 
 the world assumed for him a gayer tint. Mild martyr- 
 dom plus pity is a subtle mixture, a moral absinthe. 
 The certain knowledge that his only son — a young man 
 just making such a mark — was dangerously ill, became 
 glossed over by Mr. Trotman’s being, as at the commence- 
 ment of his mayoralty, a centre of public attention. 
 
 Such attention, too ! 
 
 There was the Halfpenny Press with its five million 
 readers. A public of five thousand thousand had its 
 compound eye upon the house of Trotman. It was a 
 little nebulous, that ; a cloud of witnesses too cloudy ; 
 but it made Mr. Trotman feel his own importance in 
 the universe. And, to come nearer home, men and 
 women whom he did not know (as civic head of Trow- 
 bury he considered himself acquainted with every- 
 body worth knowing) asked him how his son did, and 
 all about the illness, in a manner so kindly that he 
 appropriated the kindliness for himself. All treated 
 him as one overwhelmed by conquering grief. A 
 commercial traveller, no particular friend of his, 
 rather the reverse indeed, asked him to have a c re- 
 viver/ Another man suggested a pick-me-up, and yet 
 another was ready to broach a last dozen of the best 
 tonic port in Trowbury ’s cellars. Already fortified, as 
 aforesaid, Mr. Trotman withstood the temptation, and 
 felt all the better for that too. The Rev. Mr. Marteene, 
 a hot and outspoken opponent of grocers’ licences, 
 whom he happened to meet in the Market Square, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 171 
 
 asked if the invalid might be visited and suggested 
 prayers for recovery in all the churches. He spoke so 
 nicely, so religiously, that a starting tear made Mr. 
 Trotman wink. What the stricken father said about the 
 medical details of the case would have furnished forth 
 a writer of patent medicine advertisements, from which 
 in fact his knowledge of the pathology and therapeutics 
 of the stomach was mainly derived. Moving the Holy 
 Mountain, he quite agreed, might so have exhausted 
 the poor boy's vital forces that his digestive organs — 
 never, alas ! very strong — fell an easy victim to 
 disease. 
 
 Hitherto, he had regarded Alec's multifarious ail- 
 ments as a sort of pastime indulged in by Mrs. Trot- 
 man. Now he was almost anxious to abdicate his place 
 as head of the household ; willing to await permission 
 to be taken to the sick-room, and to obey orders while 
 there. It satisfied his conception of correct behaviour 
 under such circumstances. 
 
 Alec lay flat with only one of Mrs. Trotman's best 
 hemstitched pillows beneath his tired head. The tran- 
 quil sunshine of a late summer's afternoon made him 
 look simply wan and peaceful, without accentuating the 
 truly deplorable state of his always mediocre com- 
 plexion. His weakness could be judged by the way his 
 eyes, without movement of the head, followed the 
 zigzag flight of a bee which buzzed up and down the 
 window until it found an opening (strongly opposed by 
 Mrs. Trotman as likely to give the boy his death of cold, 
 but insisted upon by the nurse), and flew out. 
 
 The medicated odour of the room at once put Mr. 
 Trotman in the frame of mind for visitation of the sick. 
 Probably the first time since Alec's babyhood, he was 
 preparing to treat his offspring with respect. It brought 
 a sense of pathos, even to him, to look down at this 
 young man, who had been reared with so much difficulty, 
 
172 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 now struck down by little ulcers at the most, the only, 
 brilliant period of his life. 
 
 Alec, in reality, however, was happier and more com- 
 fortable than he had been for some time. Illness, to 
 which his mother had accustomed him, was much less 
 worrying than the Modern Miracle ; than Sir Pushcott 
 Bingley, London, the Halfpenny Press , and all the com- 
 plications that had arisen out of them. Now he was 
 at rest. Sufficient for the day was the kindness and 
 pain thereof. Being ill, he was content to wait patiently 
 on the future. If the divine, the comfortable, Julia 
 floated into his weary mind, she came accompanied by 
 no call to immediate action. 
 
 Mr. Trotman advanced to the bedside on tiptoe. 
 
 “ Well, my boy, how is it now ? ” 
 
 Alec smiled dimly. “ All right.” 
 
 “ You must hurry up and get better. We are going 
 to make you mayor, perhaps.” 
 
 CC f 99 
 
 “ You'll soon be well. Sir Pushcott's own consulting 
 physician 'll soon put you right. We must write and 
 thank Sir Pushcott.” 
 
 Alec remained silent, inert, pitiful. 
 
 Other proper things to say slipped Mr. Trotman's 
 mind. One cannot bully a son into conversation and 
 filial respect when he is incontestably very ill ; not, 
 that is, if the son is surrounded by protectors in the 
 shapes of doctors, nurses, and a mother. Mr. Trotman 
 had never practised kind cajolery with his son. He 
 didn't know how. So he retired helpless. 
 
 The Halfpenny Press , which Mr. Trotman did not 
 fail to purchase, excited itself to great eloquence in its 
 best style. The Church and Empire Ballet was de- 
 scribed vividly and without impropriety ; the public 
 consternation ; the scene behind the scenes, which 
 reminded the Halfpenny Press of nothing so much as 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 173 
 
 Nelson dying in the cockpit of the Victory ; the journey 
 of the motor ambulance with its acetylene lamps and 
 4 the fraughted souls within her/ across the dark 
 country to the Mountain Mover's beloved native town ; 
 and finally the pathetic reception by alarmed awakened 
 parents. The journey was said to bo a striking instance 
 of the modern coalition between the mechanic and the 
 medical sciences. The latest resources of civilisation 
 were ready and willing to lend their aid to the resuscita- 
 tor of the Age of Miracles. Readers were referred to 
 another page to an article by a high authority on motor 
 ambulances. All England, said the morning's leader, 
 all the Empire, half the world, would be watching 
 around the bed of sickness at Trowbury with anxiety, 
 and with prayer to the Almighty Dispenser of health 
 and disease. In fine — to strip away much verbiage — 
 the young man, recognising that he had performed the 
 miracle of the twentieth century only by kind per- 
 mission of Almighty God, did desire, as a thank-offering, 
 that the Church should receive the earthly benefits of 
 what he had accomplished. But how ? There were 
 obstacles unconquerable except by united national 
 action. . . . 
 
 Mr. Trotman could not refrain from ejaculating : 
 “Did he? by Jove ! " 
 
 The Evening Press , in addition to a mincemeat of the 
 morning's news, contained a bulletin (copyright) of the 
 sufferer's progress, or non-progress ; a diagrammatic 
 analysis of the motor ambulance's speed ; a popular 
 article on the stomach with six reasons for the increase 
 in dyspepsia ; and a photograph of the stricken mother 
 which Mrs. Trotman declared to be an old one, totally 
 unlike, an impudence and a libel. — But how nice of 
 them to put it there ! how enterprising of Sir Pushcott ! 
 
 The Evening Press also mentioned casually a sug- 
 gestion ‘ emanating from an exalted quarter,' that the 
 
174 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Holy Mountain might, through the agency of the Church, 
 be used as a religious centre, to tighten the Christian 
 bonds of Empire. 
 
 And the gist of Mr. Trotman’s meditations on all this 
 amounted to, “ Where do I come in ? ” 
 
 At the Blue Boar in the early evening he succeeded 
 in drawing into conversation a solicitor who, though of 
 course a professional man while Mr. Trotman was trade, 
 condescended sometimes to take a glass with him. To 
 the solicitor as a man of the world he outlined the events 
 of the past fortnight in the shadowy secretive manner 
 of conferring an illicit favour, in the guise of a man- to- 
 man confidence made to a solicitor whose personal 
 opinion was valuable but whose professional opinion 
 was in no wise explicitly asked. In return for such 
 touching confidence, Mr. Trotman was informed that if 
 such and such a thing were so, and if other things 
 were otherwise, the common sense, and the legal, con- 
 clusion could only be this ; but if sundry things had 
 been thus , then the result at law would be that . What 
 Mr. Trotman could not determine was whether such and 
 such things were so, other things otherwise, and sundry 
 things thus . The ifs tormented him ; the solicitor's 
 bill when it came in at the end of the year made 
 him bounce : 
 
 To Conversation with Yourself at the Blue Boar 
 Hotel , and Advice , say, Ten shillings and six- 
 pence. 10/6. 
 
 Mr. Trotman said that all lawyers were rogues and 
 scoundrels who made fortunes by transacting affairs 
 the greater part of which any good business man (like 
 himself) could do equally as well, or better. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 175 
 
 III 
 
 Next day, Sir Pushcott Bingley's consulting physician 
 arrived in Trowbury. Mr. Trotman had a fleeting notion 
 that the Mayor and Corporation ought to meet him at 
 the station. Mrs. Trotman nearly fluttered her heart out 
 with proud trepidation, and became faint with suspense. 
 The three doctors mauled the patient ; poked, prodded 
 and tapped him ; questioned the nurse in slow non- 
 chalant tones ; and then they went to the drawing- 
 room where Mrs. Trotman, in her bazaar-opening, prize- 
 giving dress, was awaiting them. 
 
 “ Do you think, Dr. Blenkhowe . . the stricken 
 mother began. 
 
 “ Quite satisfactory, quite satisfactory, Mrs. — ah — 
 Trotman/' said the great physician. “ It appears to 
 me that the diagnosis of Dr. Garth and Dr. M'Lloyd is 
 quite correct in every respect — absolutely." 
 
 He made a hearty meal off the highly deleterious re- 
 freshments (see Traditional Diet , by J. B. Y. Blenkhowe, 
 M.D., etc. etc.) provided by Mrs. Trotman, and talked 
 to the other two doctors about the celebrated air of 
 Trowbury and the desirability of polluting the Downs 
 with a sanatorium for tuberculous ladies. 
 
 Mrs. Trotman did think that he might have said 
 more about Alexander's stomach. 
 
 When he was on the point of going, however, Dr. 
 Blenkhowe addressed Mrs. Trotman once more. “ It 
 appears to me, Mrs. — ah — Trotman," he said, “ that 
 the treatment of Dr. M'Lloyd and Dr. Garth leaves 
 nothing to be desired — nothing." 
 
 In the world's eye, Alexander Trotman’s stomach 
 slowly healed ; and Dr. Blenkhowe, by means of his 
 success in this case, so thoroughly advertised in the 
 Halfpenny Press, was enabled to give up his practice, 
 
176 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 to devote himself exclusively to the stomach-aches of 
 a few extraordinarily wealthy patients, and to write 
 works of great popularity but doubtful literary merit. 
 
 Mr. Trotman; no longer young, was moved by his 
 son's danger to meditate sometimes on death. With 
 men of his practical stamp, to think on death is to fear 
 it. The idea of profit and loss he could not dissociate 
 from it. The advantages of investment in virtue, bear- 
 ing interest beyond the grave, appealed to him. He 
 felt, too, that it would be nice to do good, as he phrased 
 it to himself. He made up his mind to do something 
 good, and very naturally chose his son as a convenient 
 object on which to practise good intentions. He would 
 not himself have been allowed to tend Alec. The arrange- 
 ment was that the professional nurse watched him 
 through the night and his mother during the day. Mrs. 
 Trotman, therefore, could obtain no outdoor exercise. 
 So, when Alec no longer required quite such skilled and 
 constant attention, Mr. Trotman announced that he 
 would sit in the room while his wife and the nurse took 
 a constitutional together. After some opposition, he 
 got his way. He lighted a mild cigar, hoped Alec did 
 not mind the smoke, and stationed himself beside the bed. 
 
 Father and son — pretty picture ! 
 
 Whilst the blue smoke from Mr. Trotman's cigar-end 
 and the white smoke from his mouth curled fantastically 
 about in the still, sunshiny air of the room, he tried to 
 begin a pleasant chat with his son. But Alec did not 
 want to talk to his father any more than before. Neither 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley's town mansion and the appur- 
 tenances thereof, nor the future and the money to be 
 made out of it, could lure him into intelligent conversa- 
 tion. He answered direct questions briefly and aloofly ; 
 that was all. And Mr. Trotman had anticipated a nice 
 little talk, a little sympathy from his son for his own 
 virtuous feeelings. How hard it is to commence virtue ! 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 177 
 
 Later in the day, as soon as he was released indeed, 
 Mr. Trotman mentioned the matter to Miss Sankey. 
 “ The boy's got no spirits at all ; no enterprise, no go. 
 I can't think where he gets it from. Not from me. 
 In twenty-five years I've built up the business with the 
 largest turnover in Trowbury, except this place perhaps. 
 He's been too much at his mother's apron-strings, but 
 she will have it. Delicate. . . . One of her brothers is 
 a fair waster ! " 
 
 “ He never comes in here," remarked Miss Sankey, 
 as if to join the ranks of the Blue Bores was to show 
 oneself decisively a man of enterprise. 
 
 “ No," Mr. Trotman replied gravely. “ My son does 
 not frequent public bars." 
 
 “ Ah ! " said Miss Sankey with her mouth full. 
 “ 'Tisn't always the most artful that's the most happy. 
 Have a chocolate ? A nice young man of mine gave me 
 a whole two-pound box this morning, and I didn't fish 
 for them either like I did when you didn't give me any 
 after all. He said I had a cheery voice. Go on ! take 
 a handful." 
 
 For the second time that day Mr. Trotman felt him- 
 self rebuffed ; confined within the measure of other 
 people's stupidity. 
 
 Sick people are commonly supposed to lie by, to think 
 of their sins and to repent. The testimony of observers 
 unbiassed by grief indicates rather that in the majority 
 of cases an invalid does no such thing, because weakness 
 brings procrastination in its train, and death steals 
 away the power of thought before it is aware of its 
 own decline. Nevertheless, it does more frequently 
 happen that young people, recovering slowly from an 
 illness, collect themselves together, as it were. They 
 break through their former easy subjection to the wills 
 of others. They take into their hands the tillers of 
 their own boats, and by skill, not strength, they steer 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 them. In their weakness they are more decisive than 
 in their power. Knowing at last what they want, they 
 take steps to get it. 
 
 So with Alec. Up to the time of his illness he drifted 
 merely ; a piece of flotsam on the currents stirred up by 
 his neighbours. He was a grown-up schoolboy whose 
 attempt to write an article showed the aimless befuddle- 
 ment of his wits ; a fool. Now, while his mother 
 watched over him, trembling for his weakness, he 
 developed, by a sort of inward communion, a dull 
 apprehension of the aimlessness of his life, of the lack 
 in it of any definite hopes, and also sufficient initiative 
 to bend his mother to his newly aroused will. He became 
 a man ; not much of a man ; but a man that’s a man 
 for a’ that ! 
 
 He determined to see his Julia. 
 
 One morning, therefore, while his mother was fussing 
 about the room, he said : “ I want to see Julia Jepp.'' 
 
 “ Who ? Julia Jepp ! . . ” 
 
 “ Miss Jepp at Clinch's.” 
 
 “ You must lie quiet and get better, my dear,” said 
 his mother, with some asperity in her voice. 
 
 Alec bothered no more about it then, but next morn- 
 ing he asked simply : “ When's Miss Jepp coming ? ” 
 
 “ Alec ! Your father would never give his consent.” 
 
 “ Then don't ask him.” 
 
 Again the subject dropped, and again Mrs. Trot man 
 did nothing but decide inwardly that it was absurd and 
 out of the question — naughty of Alec. It happened, 
 however, that Dr. Vere M'Lloyd, concluding the ulcers 
 healed, put Alec on a less restricted diet — a little sole, 
 a little good wine (he knew what the Mayor's wines were 
 like), and a little custard. Alec was told, moreover, to 
 brighten up. He was to have some unfatiguing 
 diversion and enjoy himself. Games, some reading, 
 visitors. . . . 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 179 
 
 “ I should like to have some visitors/' said the patient. 
 
 “ So you shall, my boy, by all means. Let him see 
 people he likes to see, Mrs. Trotman, if it doesn't 
 fatigue him or excite him too much." 
 
 While the doctor was being shown downstairs with 
 the usual ceremony, he remarked : “ Everything to 
 brighten him up, Mrs. Trotman. He seems as if he 
 wants more object in life. With care, he ought to make 
 a steady recovery ; but, you understand, there must 
 be no relapse." 
 
 “ But . . ." 
 
 “ Let him do anything he wants to, in reason. Good 
 morning, Mrs. Trotman. Beautiful day." 
 
 On returning to the sick-room Mrs. Trotman found her 
 son visibly brighter. 
 
 “ Now you'll send for Miss Jepp. I want to see her 
 more than anybody else." 
 
 “ Your father . . ." 
 
 “ Haven't you ever done anything when father was 
 out ? " 
 
 Mrs. Trotman escaped. But when she next appeared, 
 bearing food, Alec asked, “ Well ? Have you done it ? 
 You say you want to make me better, and you don't 
 do what the doctor says." 
 
 “ All right, dear. I'll send. Only I hope your father 
 won't get to know." 
 
 “ Never mind him ! Do it first and see what he says 
 afterwards. He can't kill you for it, and he won't 
 kill me 'cause I'm profitable." 
 
 “ But he'll talk." 
 
 “ So he will anyhow.' 
 
 Mrs. Trotman was relieved — almost jubilant — when 
 she was able to tell her son : “ I've sent round to Clinch's 
 for Miss Jepp, and she says she can't come." 
 
 “ Give me some paper and an envelope and a pencil, 
 please." 
 
180 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 He thereupon wrote with all a lover’s artfulness : 
 
 “ Dear Jlplia, 
 
 “ You aren’t going to chuck me now I’m ill, are 
 y° u ^ “ Your affectionate Friend, 
 
 “ Alexander Trotman.” 
 
 “ Send that,” said the invalid. “ That’ll fetch her.” 
 Mrs. Trotman couldn’t see the writing through the 
 envelope. She sent the note at once. 
 
 IV 
 
 It was not till next morning that Alec received a 
 small pink strongly scented envelope sealed with a 
 dab of bright blue wax. Inside it he found : “ Early 
 closing. Coming half-past two. Haste. J. J.” 
 
 And just after half-past two, Alec, whose ears had 
 become preternaturally sharp, heard double footsteps 
 coming up the stairs. He raised himself slightly in bed, 
 smoothed the coverlet, touched the bedclothes round 
 him. His mother was talking very fast. “ Yes, he’s 
 better now, thank God ; but we didn’t know what 
 would happen at first, or for some days.” People of 
 the Trotman stamp mention God to their foes in order 
 that God may appear to be on their side. 
 
 As the last rays of sunset glide into a room, seeming 
 to warm it and to fill it with a half-earthly radiance, so 
 did the yellow girl from Clinch’s rustle into the sick- 
 room in the wake of Mrs. Trotman, and warm it and 
 brighten it for Alec. “ He’s looking better now, not 
 quite so pale,” Mrs. Trotman was saying nervously, 
 “ and the doctor has ordered him a little fish.” 
 
 She fiddled with the blind. “ It’s a little glaring, 
 this room, but very cheerful, is it not ? ” 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 181 
 
 “ Mother,” said Alec, “ hadn’t you better go and 
 see where father is ? ” 
 
 Mrs. Trotman stopped like a talking -machine run 
 down. With a glance behind her, she went. 
 
 44 Julie. . . ” 
 
 44 Sh ! you must keep quiet, or I shall have to go.” 
 
 “ They’re always saying 4 Sh ! ’ Tell me some news. 
 How’ve you been getting on ? ” 
 
 44 Oh, Fm all right.” 
 
 44 Well, everybody ? How’s Miss Starkey. She wasn’t 
 up to much, was she ? ” 
 
 44 Miss Starkey is out at nurse’s — Mrs. Parfitt’s. I 
 think she’s better, but ... I generally go out to tea 
 with her on Sunday. Only it won’t do to let people 
 know I’m chummy with her still. You see . . . Now, 
 keep quiet. You mustn’t get excited, or else you’ll be 
 bad again, like you were in London. Miss Starkey’s all 
 right.” 
 
 44 D’you know, Julie,” said Alec in an uncommonly 
 grown-up manner for him, 44 I’ve almost forgotten about 
 London lying here. It’s like a sort of dream, and I 
 often say to myself, 4 Did I really go to London ? ’ and 
 all that. Have you been to see where Ramshorn Hill 
 went from ? My father says they ought to start a 
 quarry company there. Julie, do you remember what 
 we said up there ? ” Alec craned forward on his pillow. 
 
 44 1 was so frightened. Don’t let’s talk about it.” 
 
 44 But you remember what nurse said ? ” 
 
 Julie began chattering unintelligibly to gain time. 
 Alec raised himself in bed, hanging on her mixed-up 
 words as an innocent man, almost talked into guiltiness 
 by the prosecution, hangs on the foreman of the jury’s. 
 He plucked at the sheet — a pitiful object of weakness 
 and suppressed excitement. 
 
 Julia tried to calm him. But he besought her : 44 You 
 do remember, don’t you ? You must remember, Julie ? ” 
 
182 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Sh, sh ! You mustn’t, Alec. You’ll make yourself 
 ill.” 
 
 “ There ! you called me c Alec.’ Do it again. We 
 will be engaged, won’t we, Julie ? ” 
 
 “ No, no ! I didn’t mean that.” 
 
 “ But you did ! We were. Nurse thought we were.” 
 “ You must keep quiet, Mr. Trotman.” 
 
 “ Why’s everybody against me ? They always sit on 
 me — everybody ! They always have. And now you’re 
 doing it too.” 
 
 “ You mustn’t take it that way. You’re going to be 
 rich and not have to work, and have motor cars. Think 
 of poor Edie Starkey with nobody belonging to her. 
 I’m almost keeping her, but you mustn’t tell anybody, 
 because . . . Well, I don’t want it to be known.” 
 
 “ I don’t care about Edie Starkey. I don’t want to get 
 better — not if we’re not going to be engaged. Julie, 
 I’ve got better for you. I’ve thought about it here. . . .” 
 “ No ! I can’t ever marry you. I really can’t. But 
 I’ll be friends. We will be friends, won’t we ? ” 
 
 This was exceedingly commonplace ; almost fictional 
 if it had been done more stylishly. But there were 
 harried and suppressed emotions beneath it all. Miss 
 Julia Jepp was touching that part of life not to be found 
 in a country Emporium except through the medium of 
 fiction. Therefore, searched and worried to her inmost 
 being, she talked about continuing friends with Alec. 
 The lovely Lady Verbena Gwalter talked so, at first, to 
 the noble navvy, in Love's High Jump. 
 
 Alec, unlike that genteel and herculean navvy, cried 
 out “ Julie ! ” in a tone of despair that Julie did not 
 get out of her ears for some time. And he showed signs 
 of fainting. 
 
 In fact, he did faint for a minute or two. 
 
 Then was Miss Jepp in a situation familiar to her, 
 and at her best. She rushed to the waslihandstand, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 183 
 
 wrung out the towel in cold water and applied it to 
 Alec's forehead. She opened the windows wide ; 
 searched the mantelpiece, found a bottle of eau de 
 Cologne, and sprinkled it over a handkerchief, which 
 she substituted for the wet towel. Tipping out some 
 more of the scent upon her own handkerchief, a folded 
 delicate thing for visiting, she placed it to his nose. 
 On his remaining inert, she took fright and rang the 
 bell. 
 
 Whereupon he revived. 
 
 Mrs. Trot man appearing, found her son's face half 
 hidden under handkerchiefs, and the room pungent 
 with eau de Cologne. 
 
 “ What have you done ? " she demanded 
 “ He was a bit faint." 
 
 “ And look at the windows ! " 
 
 “ I let some fresh air in. Give him a little brandy." 
 
 “ No. The doctor hasn't said . . ." 
 
 “ Yes. Just a little. Where is it ? " 
 
 Like rapier-play went the words : 
 
 “ He's my son ! " 
 
 “ He's my young man ! " 
 
 “ No, he isn't ! " 
 
 “ Yes, he is ! " 
 
 “ You'd better go ! " 
 
 “ I shan't ! " 
 
 “ You shall ! " 
 
 “ I will ! " 
 
 “ What's this ? " asked Mr. Trotman, who had just 
 come up, in his sepulchral tones. “ Miss Jepp ! Why's 
 she here. I won't . . ." 
 
 “ Be quiet, father," said Alec from the bed. 
 
 And, strange to say, Mr. Trotman obeyed his son. 
 
 “ Good-bye, so long, Julie." 
 
 “ Good-bye." 
 
 “ Will you ? " 
 
184 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ We'll see." 
 
 Julia was left to find her own way downstairs and 
 out of the house. She was hot for vengeance. So, too, 
 were the Mayor and Mayoress. Their faces all showed 
 it — faces incongruous in the midst of the workaday 
 world. But it is to be recollected that the affair was 
 both serious and heart-moving to the comical people 
 concerned in it. 
 
 V 
 
 Alec recovered rapidly from the excitement of Miss 
 Jepp's visit, which indeed woke him up a little from his 
 state of coddled apathy and in so doing hastened his con- 
 valescence. Mr. and Mrs. Trotman recovered less quickly, 
 under the compulsion of events, so to speak. They — 
 Mrs. Trotman especially — would have liked to get Julia 
 Jepp dismissed from the Emporium, much as Miss 
 Starkey had been flung out of the Famous Grocery 
 Establishment. That, however, could not be done, 
 since she was valuable to the Emporium, in that her 
 taste (in other people's dress) attracted the custom of 
 ladies from the country as well as of tradesmen's wives 
 and faithful aspiring gullible servant girls. She gave the 
 place a tone, and with that a profit which Mr. Clinch's 
 expensive gross habits could ill have done without. 
 And Mrs. Clinch was fond of her. 
 
 Therefore she stayed ; though had the Blue Bores 
 known that an unfortunate girl in trouble was mainly 
 supported by her charity, out of her earnings and sav- 
 ings, they would have felt it necessary, for the sake of 
 respectability, to procure her discharge, and would have 
 spent many hours deeply regretting such a scandal. 
 
 Other matters, too, drew off Mr. and Mrs. Trotman's 
 anger. The Mayor had an appointment with the vicar 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 185 
 
 to discuss a reconstruction of the Coal and Blanket 
 Club, of which Mrs. Trotman was ex-officio president. 
 The vicar was of opinion that too large a proportion of 
 the funds had been applied towards the committee’s 
 bazaar expenses, and also that some starving families 
 had been receiving the club’s warmth without deserving 
 it as much, for instance, as the vicar might have done 
 had he been destitute. He spoke his mind, and as a small 
 attention after doing so, he gave Mr. Trotman a marked 
 copy of that week’s Anglican Churchman , with which 
 Mr. Trotman straightway hastened home to his son. 
 
 44 What do you think of this, my boy, from the 
 Anglican Churchman ? ” said the happy father : 
 
 44 4 We hear, on good authority, that the Church is 
 likely to reap at least some advantage from the miracu- 
 lous removal of Ramshorn Hill from the neighbourhood 
 of Trowbury, in Wiltshire, to that of the metropolitan 
 suburb of Acton. Nothing could be more appropriate, 
 or more in accordance with Divine Command. By the 
 Church it was moved. To the Church (D.V.) it will 
 come. For we need not to remind our readers that Mr. 
 Alexander Trotman is a convinced and active, though 
 not a communicating, Anglican. We trust, however, 
 that the terms of the gift — if gift it is to be — will be 
 clearly laid down at the outset. The Church has had 
 enough of half measures, has suffered enough at the 
 hands of non -sectarians and infidels. How long , 0 
 Lord , how long ! Divine service demands free gifts. 
 We can have nothing to do with undenominational 
 religion. We have no doubt but our dissenting friends 
 would be ready to help us and to make the so-called 
 Holy Mountain a conspicuous centre of propaganda 
 directed against the righteous union of Church and 
 State. Verbum satis sapienti ! ’ 
 
 44 That sounds as if we shan’t have much to do with 
 it. . . ” 
 
186 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Oh,” said Alec. 
 
 “ But Sir Pushcott 'll give 'em what for." 
 
 “ Yes." 
 
 Mrs. Trotman entered the sick-room with a telegram 
 in her hand. “ Sir Pushcott Bingley's coming down to- 
 morrow ! We simply can't ask him to stay here. — 
 D'you hear, Alec, Sir Pushcott's coming ! " 
 
 “ Let 'em all come," replied the invalid wearily. 
 
 On looking into the Halfpenny Press next day Mr. 
 Trotman was astonished to find that a newspaper which 
 had tried often to scare the nation with articles on 
 alcoholic degeneration of the British imperial race, 
 had now displaced the gracious doings of the Royal 
 Family, the little war in the Himalayas, the Anglo- 
 Indian crisis and even the Holy Mountain, by several 
 columns in support of the falling Conservative ministry 
 — by a leading article on premature temperance legisla- 
 tion and the sacred British rights of individual liberty. 
 
 “ Good again ! " remarked Mr. Trotman, thinking of 
 his grocer's licence. 
 
 Then he recollected that there was no knowing if the 
 family of Trotman would need to be in trade much 
 longer. A country house appeared to his mind's eye — 
 pheasant coverts, motor cars, obsequious villagers, him- 
 self a sportsman, a seat in Parliament, a title, Sir 
 James Trotman, Lord Trowbury. . . . 
 
 For James Trotman had his day-dreams as well as 
 his liver-nightmares. 
 
 VI 
 
 “ Sir Pushcott's coming ! " What excitement in the 
 Famous Grocery Establishment ! Mrs. Trotman very 
 nearly forgot for a moment her son's internal arrange- 
 ments. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 187 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley was exceedingly sorry not to be 
 able to accept Mrs. Trotman's kind hospitality. She 
 would understand, would she not ? It was — ah — 
 necessary for him to be near his motor, which was in 
 the Blue Boar garage. A new chauffeur. ... A public 
 life had to be lived in public places. He had, in fact, 
 ordered dinner at the Blue Boar by telegram. But if 
 Mrs. Trotman would allow him, he would look in after 
 dinner. . . . 
 
 Charming man ! 
 
 “ He might have asked you to dinner with him at the 
 Blue Boar,” said Mrs. Trotman to her husband, never- 
 theless. 
 
 “ Public men like to be by themselves sometimes. 
 Perhaps he'll dictate to his secretary while he's at 
 dinner,'' replied 'Mendment Trotman, for the sake of 
 amending what he otherwise completely agreed with. 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley was forgiven after supper. He 
 was jubilant, merry, jolly ; most condescending. He 
 told them exalted secrets. 
 
 “ The curse of the British Empire,” he said, holding 
 up to the light a glass of the Famous Grocer's port wine 
 and replacing it on the table somewhat decidedly, “ is, 
 as you say, a lack of enterprise — an inability to take the 
 tide at the flood. I am sorry Alexander is not well 
 enough to join our conclave : you must inform him 
 gradually, Mrs. Trotman, as his strength warrants. 
 But you must please understand fully that what I am 
 saying must not leak out — not a word (‘ Not a word ! ' 
 echoed Mr. Trotman) — or all our efforts will be quite 
 fruitless, and instead of making money, we shall cer- 
 tainly lose it.” 
 
 “ D'you hear, Lilian,” said Mr. Trotman. 
 
 “ You'd better listen to Sir Pushcott too,” retorted 
 Mrs. Trotman with a touch of acerbity. 
 
 “ I am sure I can trust you to preserve our interests — 
 
188 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 your own interests — all our interests/' was Sir Push- 
 cott's brilliantly tactful stroke. 
 
 After journalistic strife in London he liked to have 
 these provincial fools, as he thought them, hanging 
 on speeches of his. Possibly to let rip, more than it 
 usually behoved him to do in London, made him feel 
 the equal of the extremely clever writers whom he em- 
 ployed. 
 
 “ Well/' he went on, “ as I was saying, the Gods 
 fought for us. I should never have been able to obtain 
 the lease of the Holy Mountain if the situation, political 
 and religious, had not been what it is. You see, the 
 Conservative Government will have to go to the country 
 very shortly, and if I were to print everything I could 
 print, it's fairly certain that they would not return to 
 power for a year or two. The election will really turn on 
 the temperance question, and there is nothing like 
 temperance, unless it's education, for pandering to the 
 desire of every virtuous man and every busybody to be 
 his brother's keeper. To clap your opponent into legal 
 fetters is one of the easiest and pleasantest ways of 
 doing good — much easier and pleasanter than loving 
 your neighbour as yourself and less costly than sending 
 out missionaries to savages who don't want them. 
 Missions, as you know, are mainly kept up by old 
 ladies who, if they saw Mary Magdalene coming, would 
 fly into the next street and then send a policeman after 
 her to find out whether she had come honestly by her 
 alabaster box of precious ointment. Forcing Christianity 
 on niggers and education on the poor are two of the 
 easiest ways of running up one's credit account in 
 heaven ; and besides, since it makes both of them more 
 profitable, it also runs up one's credit account on 
 earth. Temperance legislation is the best dodge 
 of all. The reformer who gets drunk every evening 
 of his life, but makes a point, for his liver's sake, of 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 189 
 
 drinking nothing but salts in the morning, always wishes 
 to close the public -houses till midday.” 
 
 44 We certainly ought to be more temperate, as a 
 nation,” Mr. Trotman remarked. 
 
 “ Precisely,” said Sir Pushcott. “ Who disputes it ? 
 But I have given you the main reason why so-called 
 temperance reform is a practicable plank in the Liberal 
 platform, and seduces so many Conservatives from the 
 broad lines of party action. The Halfpenny Press has 
 always advocated retrenchment and reform on imperial 
 lines ; efficiency, regeneration, and all that ; together 
 with a modicum of temperance — a good deal of it, 
 in fact, lately ; — for it would never have done for the 
 opinion of the country to leave the Halfpenny Press 
 behind. We have to go with it ; and we find that a 
 little temperance has a distinctly beneficial effect on 
 our circulation. 
 
 44 One of the cabinet ministers said to me a short time 
 ago : 4 You know, Bingley, the Conservative party will 
 go to the dogs if this teetotal foolery can't be stopped, 
 and the electorate roused up to value its damn liberties.' 
 
 44 Well, the Government are of opinion that if once 
 the average man can be given a sense of his inalienable 
 right to get drunk if he wants to, and be made to see 
 what these pin-prick temperance tactics are bound to 
 end in, then he will rouse up and completely overwhelm 
 the reformers, and the Liberal-Labour party with them. 
 It is the Conservatives' last chance ; they've run up 
 taxation so ; and I promised we'd help them if they 
 would lease the Holy Mountain, which is Crown land, to 
 your son — to us, that is. Of course they demurred ; 
 said the Liberals would scent jobbery and make party 
 capital out of it. So I pointed out that our unequivocal 
 support was their last chance of staying in office, and 
 that the wind might easily be taken out of the Liberal 
 sails by our undertaking to sublet the Mountain to 
 
190 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 the Church for religious purposes. Also we — your son 
 and myself that is — offered to bear the brunt of any 
 legal proceedings instituted by the Acton landlords whose 
 property has been obliterated by the hill. In point of 
 fact, they are men in a smallish way, for the hill luckily 
 fell clear of the Goldsmiths' Company's estate ; and they 
 have not enough money to guarantee their legal costs, 
 let alone bring their cases to a successful conclusion. 
 Capital is the tenth point of the law." 
 
 “ But," asked Mrs. Trotman, who came of dissenting 
 stock, though she was usually ashamed to say so, “ why 
 should the Church have it all ? The Church is not 
 the only religion." 
 
 “ Yes ? " added her husband. 
 
 “ There are two very excellent practical reasons. 
 The Church is the official State religion. Again, you'll 
 find that the Church will be compelled to let other sects 
 participate, and it is always best to let the sectarians 
 fight out their own battles. And lastly, I am not so 
 sure that the Church will be very greatly the gainer, 
 for we shall not sublet the Holy Mountain to them for 
 nothing, and in these days of fierce religious competition, 
 they can no doubt be made to bid pretty high if they 
 are properly managed. In any case, the Holy Mountain 
 will be leased to your son at a nominal rent for twenty- 
 one years on the understanding that he sublets it to 
 the Church — for how long not stated. As expressed 
 in our agreement, I shall provide the capital. We stand 
 to make money, I think." 
 
 “ Much ? " Mr. Trotman asked. 
 
 “ Impossible to say exactly how much at the present 
 moment. If we can keep the Acton landowners quiet 
 and prevent them from forming a syndicate, as I think 
 we shall. ... I daresay you saw this morning that the 
 Halfpenny Press has taken up its new policy. We are 
 no longer Social Reformers, as they call themselves, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 191 
 
 but Benevolent Individualists — let ’em reform them- 
 selves and devil take the hindmost ! As he always has 
 done ! ” 
 
 “ But I wonder you aren’t ashamed to be — like a 
 turncoat,” said Mrs. Trotman, who was still smarting 
 from some of the baronet’s remarks, notably those on 
 missions and charitable ladies, both of which entered 
 considerably into her schemes for social success. 
 “ People,” she added, using an underbred woman’s 
 favourite indefinitely definite noun, “ are generally 
 ashamed of being inconsistent.” 
 
 “ Of being detected,” replied Sir Pushcott Bingley. 
 “ Besides, Mrs. Trotman, it is not within tho province 
 of the Press to be ashamed.” 
 
 “ How clever you are, Sir Pushcott ! ” 
 
 “ What d’you think the Church will do ? ” inquired 
 Mr. Trotman. 
 
 “ I really don’t know. And what does it matter ? 
 Talk, I suppose. What the Church misses is its ancient 
 power of excommunication. Nobody takes any notice 
 of its thunders nowadays. It is like an old lady whose 
 complaints are received with the forbearance due to her 
 senility, and whose charities have come to be regarded 
 as rights. Even its power of social ostracism has 
 passed to those who make more vigorous use of it — the 
 nonconformists, I mean. They are our modern priest- 
 craftsmen, even though their priests may bo merely 
 retired tradesmen, made into preachers in order to 
 flatter their money out of them and to keep them faith- 
 ful when social considerations would naturally urge them 
 towards the Church.” 
 
 “ But that is very serious, very,” remarked Mr. 
 Trotman. 
 
 “ Oh no ! not at all, when you know how to take 
 advantage of it. Let church and chapel exhaust their 
 ammunition on one another ; not on us. The 
 
192 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Archbishop of All the Empire, whose creation I 
 brought about, is the only man to be feared ; but even 
 he is more or less helpless to do much but talk, because 
 his consecration is unpopular among the old-fashioned 
 Church-people who, after all, hold the ecclesiastical 
 purse-strings/' 
 
 The Director of the Halfpenny Press did not know, of 
 course, that Mrs. Trotman's revered, respected and 
 feared parent had been an eloquent deacon of the 
 straitest sect of nonconformists ; had frightened one 
 anaemic girl into religious mania and had laid several 
 foundation stones. 
 
 “ Look at this, sir," said Mr. Trotman, producing his 
 copy of the Anglican Churchman . 
 
 Sir Pushcott glanced down it. “ Yes. Very good. It 
 was arranged for by me. You see, they are already 
 beginning to look the gift-horse in the mouth, and to 
 lay down conditions of acceptance which no one will 
 stop to listen to. Excellent people — fatuous, no doubt. 
 If they only knew how they play into other people's 
 hands. . . . They don't possess the diplomacy of cock- 
 roaches, which at least lie hidden till their hosts are gone 
 to bed." 
 
 “ We have a lot of cockroaches in the kitchen," said 
 Mrs. Trotman. “ I believe they come from the shop." 
 
 “ Nonsense ! " said her husband. He roused himself 
 in his chair, tapped the ash off his cigar, and, with a 
 great semblance of import, in his most sepulchral voice, 
 spoke thus : 
 
 “ We have been diplomatic here too." 
 
 Then he watched for an effect. 
 
 “ We are going to make him Mayor of Trowbury if 
 he's well enough." 
 
 “ Excellent ! " 
 
 “ There's rather a deadlock at present. We have a 
 Conservative and a Liberal mayor turn and turn about, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 193 
 
 but it’s the Liberals' turn next, and they have nobody 
 that wants to take office, and they don't want a Con- 
 servative to have it. So me and Mr. Ganthorn, a great 
 friend of mine, have dropped a word here and a word 
 there, you understand. . . 
 
 44 Perfectly." 
 
 “ And it's about settled that my son is to be next 
 mayor. You see, he hasn't got any politics, except 
 mine ; always Tories, my family ; and he hasn't helped 
 the party like I have. It's thought that a well-known 
 mayor may bring well-to-do residents to the town. 
 The present member, Delaine Jenkyns, you know, told 
 me that I had more to do with his getting in than any 
 other man." 
 
 “ He told Mr. Clinch that, too," Mrs. Trotman in- 
 terrupted. 
 
 “ No, he didn't ! " 
 
 “ Yes, he did ! You know he did. You said if he 
 did it again you'd vote Liberal." 
 
 44 Well," said Sir Pushcott, with the intention of 
 being tactful, “ these country mayors are of considerable 
 importance in their own parish. It may help us. . . ." 
 
 44 My husband is the present mayor," said Mrs. Trot- 
 man severely. 
 
 44 Oh ! I congratulate you. I had forgotten that of 
 course. Father and son ! Excellent. A very responsible 
 mayor he makes, I have no doubt, Mrs. Trotman. The 
 duties are onerous, I believe. I must say Good night . 
 Son following his father — a family title. I have to thank 
 you for your kind hospitality, Mrs. Trotman. Most 
 kind. Tell your son he must hurry up and get quite 
 well. I'll call in and see him to-morrow, if I may. 
 Good night." 
 
 With most gracious handshakes, Sir Pushcott Bingley 
 took his leave. 
 
 But was he such a charming man after all ? Had it 
 
194 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 not been for her beloved son's interests, Mrs. Trotman 
 would have unsheathed her claws. “ He must be an 
 atheist," she said savagely ; and then, having thrown 
 some of the most sticky smelly mud at her disposal, she 
 felt better. 
 
 In point of fact, it was by no means sure that the 
 council would make Alec the next Mayor of Trowbury. 
 His father had, during his year of office, become less 
 popular with the governing cliques. He was sus- 
 pected of having made a profit out of his mayoral salary, 
 when by all right and precedent the town should have 
 made a profit out of him. 
 
 Within two days, however, the matter was settled by 
 the Halfpenny Press, in which there appeared a column 
 headed : 
 
 ALEX. TROTMAN MAYOR OF TROWBURY 
 
 PROPHET HONOURED IN HIS OWN COUNTRY 
 SON TO SUCCEED FATHER IN MAYORAL CHAIR 
 
 Trowbury, having tasted notoriety, craved for more. 
 The election had been settled in advance at the Blue 
 Boar, and now the world's perusal clinched it. 
 
 VII 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley's visit to the sick-room lasted 
 but a short time. Alec was difficult ; he would not 
 follow the conversational lead of the Director of the 
 Halfpenny Press. He became impatient : wanted to 
 know when the Holy Mountain was going to bring in 
 some money — enough to live on, say, in a little house ; — 
 asked why it could not be sold as it stood. For he did 
 not yet understand in the least the financial and political 
 part of the business. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 195 
 
 When Sir Pushcott, anxious to avoid long explana- 
 tions, counselled patience, and inquired if Alec was 
 engaged, Mrs. Trotman said that her son was not strong 
 enough to talk business, and hurried the baronet from 
 the room. Suffering brains, she declared, ought not to 
 be worried. Had Sir Pushcott, for all his journalistic 
 genius, known how to deal individually and on an 
 equality with women like Mrs. Trotman, he would 
 have retorted that the stomach isn't the brain. Instead, 
 he was polite and nonplussed. In a short time his 
 motor car was bearing him over the Downs towards 
 London. 
 
 Trowbury was outwardly calm. Although the Half- 
 penny Press informed it daily of the Holy Mountain, 
 Parliament, the invalid's progress, temperance and its 
 bearing on the sacred right of liberty, the revival of the 
 State Church (to be brought to a glorious fulness by 
 means of the said Holy Mountain) ; although there was 
 the usual crop of murders, divorces, disasters, and 
 diseases ; although this hotch-potch was served up 
 daily with a sauce piquante of mighty headlines — Trow- 
 burians remained their old inert selves. They read, 
 marked, and fell to at their parish pump. Drains took 
 precedence over the Holy Mountain, a dog-fight over 
 the parliamentary debate. Who knows they were not 
 wise in their generation ? Mr. Trotman alone said 
 wonderful things over his glasses at the Blue Boar, 
 desiring to make as much capital and to gain as much 
 attention as possible out of the events that had befallen 
 his family, without at the same time making public any 
 matter that had, in the interests of both, to be kept 
 private between the Director of the Halfpenny Press and 
 the Famous Mayor and Grocer of Trowbury. He pointed 
 out daily to his wife how much depended on her secrecy. 
 It was perhaps lucky that, in attaining the rank and 
 deportment of mayoress, she had offended her few 
 
196 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 lady friends, and therefore, poor woman ! had no one, 
 except the servant, to whom she could impart any 
 secrets at all. In her husband’s phrase, Mum was the 
 word. 
 
 The sultry days of August were unfavourable to 
 Alec’s recovery. He developed an excitableness difficult 
 to control, and a bad habit of nearly fainting when his 
 will was crossed. He was like the small child who says 
 cynically, “ If you don’t give in to me, I shall have a 
 fit.” Debility, the doctor called it, and once more pre- 
 scribed entertainment. 
 
 Sir Pushcott’s private secretary wrote, in answer to 
 Mr. Trotman, that the Director of the Halfpenny Press 
 was very busy, and that everything of importance he 
 had to communicate would be found in the columns of 
 the Halfpenny Press , a copy of which would be delivered 
 daily at Mr. Trotman’s establishment. 
 
 Deprived thus of his morning progress to and from 
 the newspaper shop, Mr. Trotman took to reading the 
 paper in his son’s room. “ Sir Pushcott is a very clever 
 man,” he remarked one day ; “ I don’t quite see through 
 his little game, but you ought to be proud to know him, 
 my boy.” In love with strategy, he proposed chess, 
 but at that Alec was his master and twice fool’s-mated 
 him. 
 
 The Conservative Government, on its last legs before 
 the onslaught of the temperance reformers, and much 
 harassed within its ranks by the uncompromising stub- 
 bornness of the brewing interest, was only too glad to 
 give forth the new cry of Individual Liberty ! They 
 acted faithfully by Sir Pushcott Bingley. They hardly 
 dared to do otherwise. The Holy Mountain was de- 
 bated ; the closure ruthlessly enforced. The Church, 
 they said, had lacked encouragement to show what it 
 could do. The Holy Mountain — Crown land, that is to 
 say national land — ought not to remain untenanted and 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 197 
 
 useless, a standing disgrace to that sense of economy 
 and efficiency that it was the duty of the Conservative 
 party to foster. The sacred cause of religion. . . . The 
 diminution of piety among the working classes. . . . 
 After all, the nation owed a miracle, and London a 
 mountain — a hill — an eminence — only to, and to no 
 other than, Alexander Trotman. Who so fit as he to 
 be rewarded, always with due regard to national 
 interests ? His Majesty's Government counted on the 
 support of all right-thinking men in an act of elementary 
 justice. . . . 
 
 A Liberal leader, an enthusiast on the subjects of 
 social reform, small holdings and Back to the Land, 
 declared eloquently that it would be a standing dis- 
 grace to the nation if such land, miraculously placed 
 almost in the heart of London, were not used to produce 
 a pure milk-supply for ailing slum babies. Amid roars 
 of laughter, the Conservative agricultural members 
 brought forward overwhelming evidence to show that 
 cows cannot be fed on chalk downland, and the debate 
 collapsed. 
 
 The temperature of London, and grouse shooting on 
 the cooler northern moors, did the rest. Against all 
 constitutional precedent, according to the Radicals, 
 the Holy Mountain was made over to Alexander Trot- 
 man for a twenty-one years' lease, on the understanding 
 that he would sublet it to the Church (for a period not 
 debated owing to the cows), and that he would reward 
 the landowners whose puddled fields had been buried 
 beneath the hill, and also that he would compensate 
 the relatives of the deceased families in accordance with 
 the provisions of the Consolidated Compensation Acts. 
 
 The nation, led by the Halfpenny Press , rejoiced. 
 Church bells were rung in some places. There was, it 
 is true, something of an outcry when, after proroga- 
 tion of Parliament, the President of the Board of 
 
198 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Trade authorised, of himself, the extension of the 
 Central London tube railway to the foot of the Holy 
 Mountain. But the Halfpenny Press pointed out that 
 in a time of swift and ever-growing progress, national 
 works could not, and ought not to, wait for Parliament's 
 return from its holidays. Either Parliament would 
 have to sit all the year round, or else ministers should 
 be able to anticipate provisionally the enactments of a 
 subsequent session. “ The Constitution must be brought 
 up to date ! " 
 
 “ That's only common sense," Mr. Trotman observed. 
 “ I've often told the town council the same thing, but 
 they won't listen to reason and can't understand 
 progress when they do." 
 
 VIII 
 
 In September, Mrs. Trotman took Alec to Weymouth. 
 She was secretly delighted at the prospect of showing 
 her wonderful unfortunate son to the public outside 
 his native town, and the public exhibited its apprecia- 
 tion in the customary manner — by mobbing him. On 
 the third day of their visit, an American woman, not 
 long landed from the Cherbourg boat, flung her arms 
 round Alec, exclaiming : “ You poor boy ! I guess you 
 English will beat us after all if you've gotten mountains 
 to move for you." And she kissed him several times, 
 as if he had been a pianist. 
 
 It was this episode which decided Mrs. Trotman to 
 take Alec on to Weston-super-Mare, under the assumed 
 style of Mrs. Alexander Argyll and Mr. Alexander 
 Argyll, Jun. Visitors at the boarding-house wondered 
 what woman it was who talked so constantly of good 
 manners and decent privacy. A major's wife, they said, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 199 
 
 until her extremely elegant and finical behaviour at 
 table undeceived them. A romantic adventuress, they 
 hazarded ; certainly not a relation of the Dukes of 
 Argyll. The many portraits of Alec, which had ap- 
 peared in the papers, were of little use in identifying 
 him ; for the portraits had idealised him according to 
 the popular notion of how a young mover of mountains 
 ought to look, and illness had, so to speak, very 
 much de-idealised him. Mrs. Argyll and son spent a 
 fairly happy ten days at Weston before their landlady 
 drew Mrs. Argyll aside after lunch and said : “ Dear 
 Mrs. Argyll, there’s a lady come here, No. 13, who went 
 to that Crystal Palace revival, and she says she’s sure 
 your son is the Alexander Trotman who moved the 
 mountain. Now, if you could tell me, quite in secret, 
 that he has patronised my establishment. . . . Poor 
 young gentleman ! It is so hard to make both ends 
 meet. The short season here ... to think of his looking 
 so ill. . . .” 
 
 This was precisely what Mrs. Trotman had been 
 hungering for. Quite in secret, during half an hour’s 
 chat in the private back sitting-room, the landlady was 
 informed of everything, and a good deal more besides. 
 At dinner that evening, whilst the fishballs were being 
 served (most of the guests were not interested in faked- 
 up fish), there was something of an ovation — very 
 nearly speeches. A spinster, resident in the house, 
 offered Alec a share of her bottle of colonial port wine, 
 and begged Mrs. Trotman to accept for her poor, poor 
 son a box of the special strengthening pills recommended 
 so highly by Lady Coate of Brandon. Only strong 
 doses of brandy enabled Alec to leave Weston next day 
 for Trowbury. 
 
 While he was away the question of the mayoralty 
 settled itself. Those who talked much, Mr. Ganthorn 
 in particular, impressed upon those who talked less, 
 
200 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 three main considerations. First, that having a cele- 
 brated mayor would attract notice and wealthy resi- 
 dents to the salubrious town of Trowbury ; second, that 
 the political deadlock (whether the mayor should be 
 Conservative or Liberal) would be avoided, since 
 Alexander Trotman was too young to have political 
 opinions and in any case had no vote ; third — and this 
 was the crowning reason — they of Trowbury would look 
 such various sorts of fools if they did not, after all 
 that had appeared in the Press, put the Mountain 
 Mover into the high office of mayor. Mr. Trotman, 
 with a show of modesty and reluctance, agreed per- 
 fectly. The Press, he said with an air of resignation, 
 did expect the mayoralty to devolve upon his son. 
 He could assure them, on the authority of his friend, 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley, that it was so. It was no use 
 going against things. . . . 
 
 “ And so say all of us ! ” they replied in effect. 
 
 The events of the Lord Mayor’s week, as the children 
 called it, began to excite the town, and fortunately 
 drew attention from some muddle or other (no one 
 knew exactly what) in the borough accounts. 
 
 On Sunday, November 6, the outgoing Mayor and the 
 Corporation attended morning service at the Parish 
 Church in all municipal state, preceded by mace- 
 bearers and guarded by the Fire Brigade in full uniform. 
 Alec was absent ; his mother thought it best for him 
 to husband his strength. The Vicar did not preach 
 one of those excessively personal sermons which so 
 delight a small town. He took as his text, Take heed 
 lest ye fad ; and under five heads followed by a perora- 
 tion, in the good old-fashioned way, he showed how 
 and why pride goes before a fall. Trowbury, already 
 annoyed by the smallness of the Vicar’s subscriptions 
 to local objects, out of his stipend of £230 a year net, 
 was still more incensed by what it termed his pessimism. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 201 
 
 Church services, the windbags said, ought to be brighter. 
 It was the clergy’s own fault that people stayed away, 
 as indeed they sometimes did, from church. If they 
 had had the choosing of the hymns — nice bright hymns 
 — something to sing at — something to buck them up 
 for the stress and strain of modern life’s money-making ! 
 . . . What was the good of telling them they were 
 miserable sinners ? How could the Vicar expect liberal 
 Easter offerings if he. took no pains to please Trow- 
 bury ? 
 
 On the Monday, the Outgoing Mayor’s Supper took 
 place, and it certainly went off better than the muni- 
 cipal Divine Service. Formerly, in heartier days, it 
 had been called the Mayor’s Wine Party, but in defer- 
 ence to teetotalers, the name had been altered to Out- 
 going Mayor’s Supper. Not that its character was 
 changed ; liquor was still consumed ; but the name — 
 the name was more temperate, and reference to total 
 abstinence as a cure-all for the poverty of the working 
 classes could now be made in speeches. That was a 
 famous victory for local temperance. 
 
 Alderman Trotman had spent but little during his 
 year of office. With the help of his wife he had made a 
 good show on small money. He reckoned, indeed, that 
 if he took into account the free advertisement the 
 mayoralty gave his business (in his official speeches he 
 had frequently referred to the lamentable adulteration 
 of food-stuffs, and, by implication, to the purity of the 
 Famous Groceries), he was nothing out of pocket and 
 his salary or honorarium as mayor was almost entirely 
 clear profit. Therefore, with characteristic generosity, 
 he decided that, retaining fifty pounds for himself ex- 
 clusively, he would spend the other fifty in giving a 
 really classy (his own word) outgoing supper. He 
 ordered down from his own wholesale house several 
 cases of wine and liqueurs at trade prices. He took 
 
202 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 spirits out of bond. On the advice of Mr. Ganthorn, 
 who had once attended a professional congress in Paris, 
 absinthe was served in the antechamber before the 
 meal, thus confirming the popular impression of the 
 mayor's enterprise, his savoir faire and his interest in 
 the Entente Cordiale. Most of the guests refused the 
 stuff as too much like cough-mixture, but it is related 
 by those who ought to know that in the night one 
 worthy borough councilloress had to drag her husband 
 out from underneath the bed, whither, he averred, wild 
 horses had chased him in his dreams. 
 
 Municipal dishes, in towns like Trowbury, preserve 
 from year to year such a sameness that, contrary to 
 general opinion, the speeches are often a welcome 
 diversion from the food. The guests do eat, of course, 
 and that right greedily, as a matter of long-standing 
 habit ; they drink, too, because neither alcohol nor 
 the virtuousness of abstaining ever palls ; and then 
 they wait in a cloud of smoke to hear something about 
 the latest borough squabble or the last of the council's 
 muddles, or some complimentary reference to their 
 own indispensable services. 
 
 The first one or two courses of Alderman Trotman's 
 supper went rather heavily. Afterwards the guests, 
 having tasted his wines and more of his strange liqueurs, 
 congratulated him on his distinguished son, for whom 
 several of those present prophesied greatness. Finally, 
 when they had gone back to “ Good old whiskey ! " — 
 as a witty alderman greeted it amid loud laughter — 
 they fell to congratulating the outgoing Mayor on his 
 noble self. 
 
 Hilarious was the remainder of the feast. Profuse 
 the thanks. For an evening, at least, the burgesses 
 were united. At the moment of breaking up, you might 
 have thought the genial old days were back again. His 
 worship, together with Mr. Ganthorn and Alderman 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 203 
 
 Clinch, stood on the pavement outside the Town Hall, 
 singing — singing a religioso- sentimental ditty ! The 
 police looked on respectfully. 
 
 Then, suddenly, the brute’s teeth showed. A young 
 woman, partly veiled, walked round the corner, touched 
 Mr. Ganthorn’s arm, and tried to draw him away to 
 speak to him. 
 
 44 Here, Mr. Mayor,” shouted Ganthorn jocularly, 
 “ your progressive town’s as bad as London.” 
 
 Whereupon he saw who it was. 
 
 But Mr. Clinch was already saying, 44 Give her in 
 charge.” 
 
 44 Yes, give her in charge,” echoed the Mayor. 44 Here, 
 constable, constable ! ” 
 
 “ Very good, your worship.” 
 
 44 No, no ! ” said Ganthorn. 
 
 44 Yes ! ” commanded his worship. 
 
 44 Yes, yes. Of course. Disgraceful ! ” Mr. Clinch 
 exclaimed. 
 
 44 What for, sir ? ” asked the policeman, taking out 
 his note-book. 
 
 “ The usual,” replied the Mayor, “ in the public 
 thoroughfare.” 
 
 44 But will any of you gentlemen come forward and 
 give evidence to-morrow ? ” the policeman inquired. 
 “ It’s no use me taking her in charge if you don’t.” 
 
 44 What’ll she get ? ” asked Ganthorn. 
 
 44 Oh ! ” replied his worship, 44 I’ll have her turned 
 out of the town when she’s done time.” 
 
 Mr. Ganthorn was beginning to protest. 
 
 44 Disgraceful ! ” repeated Mr. Clinch. 44 An offence 
 against public morality. I will come.” 
 
 44 Take her away, constable,” the Mayor continued. 
 44 You’ll be all right. I shall be on the bench. Don’t 
 put me down as giving her in charge, and that’ll be all 
 right.” 
 
204 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Very good, your worship. — Come on, now ! Come 
 quiet ! ” 
 
 It was noteworthy how very quiet the young woman 
 was. 
 
 The three borough fathers went on to Mr. Ganthorn’s 
 house, where, with some others earlier arrived, they ex- 
 tended the merriment of the evening. 
 
 And the policeman locked the young woman up. 
 But, being kindly disposed to all such, a gallant police- 
 man in his heart, he supplied her with paper, pencil, and 
 an envelope ; allowed her to write a note addressed to 
 Miss J. Jepp, and went slightly off his beat in order to 
 drop the letter into the letter-box of Clinch's Em- 
 porium. 
 
 IX 
 
 Very early on Mayor’s Day Mrs. Trotman got up and 
 peeped out of the window. To her great relief there 
 was no rain, though a black north-easter was blowing off 
 the Downs. 
 
 When Mr. Trotman marched downstairs it was in his 
 cotton shop-jacket and trodden-over carpet slippers. 
 But even he was flurried. “ Get that boy up,” he said 
 to his wife. 
 
 “ But I want him to sleep on as long as he can,” 
 replied that lady, who had got up dressed for going out 
 or for receiving visitors. 
 
 “ Get him up, I say. He’s not ill now. Laziness, 
 that’s what ’tis. He’ll be late. My mayoralty has gone 
 off all right and I’ll see that his does too.” 
 
 “ ’Twouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for me hurrying 
 you out of bed often and often. Why, I’ve half dressed 
 you ever so many mornings ! ” 
 
 “ Be quiet ! I’m busy.” 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 205 
 
 The police inspector entered : 
 
 “ Court is at ten, your worship.” 
 
 “ Right. Any cases ? ” 
 
 “ Only the one from last night.” 
 
 “ H’m. . . . Need we take it ? Give her another 
 chance.” 
 
 “ Must be taken now, your worship. Gone too far. 
 She’s been in the cells all night.” 
 
 “ I’ll be there then.” 
 
 As the inspector was going out, Messrs. Ganthorn and 
 Clinch came in : 
 
 “ I say, how about that girl, Mr. Mayor ? ” 
 
 “ I’m going to hear the case at ten o’clock.” 
 
 “ But look here, I can’t give evidence. There’ll be a 
 scandal. You know how people talk.” 
 
 Mr. Clinch took up the protest : “ And I can’t possibly 
 come,” he said. “ Autumn stocktaking. Means pounds 
 to me.” 
 
 “ But you’re coming to the council meeting and church 
 and the dinner, aren’t you ? ” 
 
 “ That’s another thing. Duty. Besides, I don’t 
 know whether I shall be able to get away for 
 church.” 
 
 Mr. Clinch’s large fat face did not look very pressed 
 for time. “ I shall go up to Town by the nine-fifty if 
 I’ve got to appear.” 
 
 “ And where will you go to in Town, eh ? ” Mr. Gan- 
 thorn inquired. 
 
 Silence. 
 
 Each spent a few moments measuring the other one’s 
 and his own interests. 
 
 Mr. Clinch walked to the door, stood there fumbling 
 his heavy watch-chain, snorting and puffing, wishing 
 for the wings of a dove, perhaps. Meanwhile Mr. Gan- 
 thorn buttonholed the Justice of the Peace. 
 
 “ Look here, Trotman, I simply mustn’t be mixed 
 
206 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 up in this. D’you hear ? If I am, I shall make reprisals. 
 Those borough accounts. . . .” 
 
 “ All right, all right ! There’s no need to talk like 
 that. I’ll see to it. We don’t want anything of that 
 sort to-day. Everything will be in the London papers. 
 Those infernal reporters. . . . We’re stark in the eyes 
 of the world here. I’ll work it all right, and if I can’t I’ll 
 allow an adjournment. I don’t suppose she’ll be repre- 
 sented by a lawyer.” 
 
 Mr. Ganthorn’s face brightened. As he hurried out 
 of the door to catch up Mr. Clinch, he called back : 
 “ The better the day the better the deed, Trotman ! ” 
 And as he went down the street with Mr. Clinch, he 
 remarked sapiently : “ You can always twist that old 
 fool round your finger if you know the way to get at 
 him.” 
 
 Nevertheless the tone of his voice was by no means 
 free from anxiety. 
 
 X 
 
 News spread rapidly through the town : “ There’s a 
 good case coming on before the beak ! ” Somewhat 
 before ten o’clock, a little knot of people had gathered 
 outside the double door on which was painted in bold 
 white letters Magistrates’ Court, Public Entrance. 
 From minute to minute another loiterer would join the 
 group, or a cyclist would dismount at the edge of the 
 pavement and remain talking there. A butcher’s cart, 
 a farmer’s gig, a motor car drew up in the road. An 
 air of expectancy was noticeable in everybody. 
 
 When the Mayor arrived a movement was made to 
 view him, and while he was passing in through the 
 magistrates’ entrance, he heard behind him a faint- 
 hearted hoot, and a “ Well, what ’bout it, ’Mendment 
 Trotman ? ” 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 207 
 
 He had hardly thought that news of the case would 
 have spread abroad so early. He felt an impulse 
 to turn back and have it out with the impertinent 
 person, but, luckily remembering his dignity, conquering 
 nobly the base instinct, he proceeded within and took 
 his seat in the dark fusty little court. Also on the bench, 
 there beforehand, was one of those magisterial nonen- 
 tities who, attending every court, do little except give 
 seven days and platitudinous advice to tramps. Those 
 two magistrates would take the charges. Mr. Trotman's 
 will would be free from interference. 
 
 Before the prisoner was brought in, however, the 
 Superintendent of Police desired respectfully to con- 
 gratulate his worship on an occurrence without prece- 
 dent in the history of Trowbury, namely that, from that 
 day forward, father and son would be sitting on the 
 same borough bench. The police, he said, had always 
 found his worship a just, helpful, and 6 perspicious * 
 magistrate. No doubt his distinguished son would 
 have inherited the same qualities, only he, the Super- 
 intendent, hoped that the Mayor-elect would not try 
 his, the Mayor-elect's miraculous powers upon the court, 
 the police station, or the prison. [Laughter.] The 
 Mayor-elect must be in possession of powers as yet un- 
 explained by science. But the police were only ordinary 
 men. There had been complaints against them, but his 
 worship knew that they always tried to discharge their 
 difficult and onerous duties to the best of their ability. 
 
 His worship signified that he did know, and beamed 
 upon the Superintendent. 
 
 Applause in court. 
 
 The magistrate's clerk — a white-haired old man 
 whose robust common sense had directed many a 
 fuddled magistrate, and had prevented many a mis- 
 carriage of justice — was heard to break his quill and 
 to growl, “ Damn'd rot ! " 
 
208 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 His worship would now hear the case. 
 
 Miss Starkey, small and frail, was* brought in by a 
 large blue constable who appeared positively to over- 
 hang her. Every neck craned forward. She looked 
 round defiantly, recognised some one at the back of the 
 court, and smiled. 
 
 The charge, solicitation, was read over to her. 
 
 Evidence was brought by the police to the effect that 
 on the previous evening she, being twenty-four years 
 of age, did behave in a wanton and disorderly manner 
 in the streets of Trowbury, outside the Town Hall, to 
 wit ; that she had been of no occupation since the birth 
 of her child ; that she was unmarried ; but she had 
 never applied for an affiliation order ; that she was not 
 known to have any private means ; that she plucked 
 a certain gentleman's arm outside the Town Hall ; that 
 she made certain overtures to him ; that it was not 
 known exactly what she said. 
 
 His worship remarked severely that it was the worst 
 case of the sort he had ever had to try, and that he was 
 glad to know prisoner was not a native of Trowbury. 
 More evidence was called for, but, as the police ex- 
 plained, the gentleman refused to appear against her. 
 His worship had been present. . . . 
 
 “ Can't be in the bench and in the witness-box too," 
 said the magistrates' clerk. “ Is there no more evidence, 
 nothing as to what she said? You'd better discharge 
 her, sir." 
 
 Mr. Trotman began a speech setting forth the wicked- 
 ness of the prisoner's conduct, the sad immorality of her 
 life, and the good repute of Trowbury. Before he had 
 got very far, a note was handed up to him from a young 
 woman at the back of the court. He read ; gasped ; 
 and ended his speech abruptly with : “ As you are a 
 first offender, Starkey, the sentence of the court is that 
 the police be instructed to see that you betake your- 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 209 
 
 self from the town of Trowbury within twenty-four 
 hours.” 
 
 “ That's a bit better,” observed the clerk. 
 
 Miss Starkey was removed. When she was ready to 
 leave the precincts of the court, the friendly policeman 
 told her : “ You're living outside the town, ain't you ? 
 He didn't say as how you wasn't to live where you have 
 been, but don't you get caught at it again, my dear, 
 or you'll get it hot.” 
 
 His worship said, before leaving the bench, that 
 people would see now, he hoped, his good reasons for 
 dismissing the prisoner . . . 
 
 “ Not the prisoner,” interjected the clerk. 
 
 “ For dismissing the late prisoner,” continued Mr. 
 Trotman, “ from her place in my establishment.” 
 
 After his worship had departed (to the Blue Boar) 
 and whilst the court was being closed up again, the 
 note was found beneath the magistrate's chair, whither 
 it must have dropped instead of into the worshipful 
 pocket. It was read aloud to the accompaniment of a 
 general laugh ; for it ran : 
 
 “ It was your own son that got her into trouble, 
 
 Mr. Trotman.” 
 
 “ I doubt it,” said the clerk, gathering up his papers. 
 
 Mr. Clinch very soon heard that his assistant, Miss 
 Jepp, had been at the police court and had sent up to 
 Mr. Trotman a note which made him look queer. It 
 was also reported to Mr. Clinch, that she had been in 
 constant communication with, and had visited regularly, 
 the unhappy Miss Starkey. He therefore tried menac- 
 ingly to question her on the interesting and disgraceful 
 subject, and that failing, he gave her a month's notice 
 of dismissal in such opprobrious terms that she decided 
 to leave that same day, and did so. Unfortunately, he 
 could not prevent her (Mrs. Clinch refused to have 
 
 v 
 
210 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 anything to do with seizing her luggage), nor could he 
 well claim a month's wages from her in lieu of notice, 
 as he would otherwise have done ; for his pure wrath 
 had led him to attack her before every one in the Em- 
 porium in such impure language that a full half- 
 dozen could have borne witness against him had he sued 
 Miss Jepp or had she brought an action against him for 
 defamation of character. 
 
 He pitied himself profoundly, and wondered what the 
 world was coming to. 
 
 XI 
 
 Mrs. Trotman had a very trying morning with her 
 son, the Mayor-elect. As the hour of the statutory 
 meeting of the borough council drew near, he suddenly 
 took it into his head to look on mayor-making as an in- 
 supportable ordeal ; and he declared that, if they really 
 wanted to make him Mayor, they could easily do it in 
 his absence. “ For goodness' sake, don't tell your 
 father so ! " exclaimed poor Mrs. Trotman. She tried to 
 brace up her son first with thin gruel and brandy, then 
 with hot bovril, then with a special brand of tinned 
 truffled chicken that he was fond of, and lastly with 
 port-wine jelly. Three-quarters of an hour before noon 
 Mr. Trotman returned home from court ; he said : 
 
 “ Where's Alec ? " 
 
 “ He's not very well, James." 
 
 “ Can't help that now. See he's ready. Where's my 
 white shirt ? Where have you put my patent boots ? 
 Has he got a clean collar ? " 
 
 “ James ! As if I shouldn't see to that. . . 
 
 “ All right : I haven't always. Make haste. Not a 
 moment to spare." 
 
 At the end of a period of tremendous bustle, the 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 211 
 
 Mayor took the Mayor-elect off to the Town Hall. He 
 remarked on the way that the Mayor-elect had not 
 shaved himself properly behind the jaw and wanted to 
 know why he hadn't been to a hairdresser’s for once. 
 
 Several councillors were waiting at the entrance and 
 in the vestibule. They were telling each other before- 
 hand what they were going to say — like naughty boys 
 outside a headmaster’s study door ; — for which reason 
 it was that the statutory meeting in the old Georgian 
 council chamber, hung round with framed charters and 
 portraits of past Mayors and curiously decorated 
 royalties, resolved itself into a reproduction of rehearsed 
 harangues and a reduction thereof by the local re- 
 porters into something resembling King’s English. 
 
 Alec was told that he was a lucky young dog, and 
 then the council seated itself for business, the Mayor- 
 elect being on the right hand of the outgoing Mayor. 
 Nominations for the office of Mayor were formally in- 
 vited — the election had, of course, been settled long 
 ago. Mr. Ganthorn rose to speak. He stood silent till 
 only the fatter councillors’ breathing could be heard, 
 then : 
 
 “ There is no need,” he said, perhaps with double 
 meaning, “ to make long speeches. Alderman Trotman, 
 the Mayor, and Mr. Alexander Trotman, the Mayor- 
 elect, are both of them as well known as they are highly 
 respected. I have been connected with them in many 
 business transactions, public as well as private, and 
 have always found them honest and straightforward and 
 upright. The man who succeeds in business is the man 
 to trust in public affairs — look at the immense progress 
 of America under the rule of business men. It is the 
 first time within living memory that our Mayor has 
 been chosen from without the council. It is the first 
 time in the history of our loyal and ancient borough 
 that a son has succeeded his father in the highest office 
 
212 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 it is ours to confer. But I need say no more, because 
 the occasion and the reason of it is public throughout 
 the land, and our mayoral election here is a national 
 affair, and Trowbury stands — thanks to the Press — 
 before the eyes of the civilised world. That, gentlemen, 
 is good for trade. The hotel proprietors are already 
 reporting better receipts. It is good for trade, I repeat. 
 The fortunes of Trowbury are on the turn. On the 
 advantages of choosing a mayor outside the council, 
 and they are many, I will not now enlarge. Some towns 
 have lords and earls. Mr. Alexander Trotman is not 
 a lord or an earl — though nobody knows what may 
 happen — [applause] — but he is more celebrated than 
 either. I beg to propose Mr. Alexander Trotman as 
 Mayor. The Mountain-Mover, the Miracle Worker ! 
 Long live Alexander ... I beg your pardon/' 
 
 “ This isn't the Mayor's dinner, Ganthorn ! " arose 
 in a chorus which was not taken down by the re- 
 porters. 
 
 Alderman Clinch rose to say a few words seconding 
 the motion. In the excitement of speech-making, he 
 relapsed from the polite tones of a draper's shop to the 
 mongrel English of a provincial burgess, retaining, 
 nevertheless, some of the delicacy which he was accus- 
 tomed to use in selling garments to a lady. He endorsed 
 every word his good friend, Mr. Ganthorn, had said, 
 and remarked in speaking of the Mayor-elect : “ I do 
 think as it's wonderful to do what he did moving 
 Ramshorn Hill to London without even taking a third- 
 class ticket for it [which joke did not go down] and in 
 succeeding his respected father as mayor of this here 
 town. [Applause.] We're all proud for to know Messrs. 
 Trotman and Son. It's a good old firm, I say. I'm 
 not going to say much, as I knows of, but I do want to 
 say that this is a proud day for Messrs. Trotman, and a 
 proud day for the good old town of Trowbury ; and I 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 213 
 
 hope Alderman Trotman will do good business and 
 Master Alec bring good trade to the town for many a year 
 to come, I do. And I desire to take this here opportunty 
 of congratulating both on ’em. That’s all as I’ve got 
 to say. . . . Oh, yes ! I seconds the motion.” 
 
 “ And zo zay all on us ! ” cried a young member who 
 was opposed in politics to Mr. Clinch, and who, not being 
 listened to, looked innocent with a faint he-he ! 
 
 The motion was put and carried unanimously amid a 
 loud applause that only the Town Clerk’s forbidding 
 legal aspect prevented from becoming uproarious. Mr. 
 Trotman rose from his seat and made Alec do the same. 
 Round his son’s neck he placed the chain of office ; 
 to him he gave the seal ; and then, exchanging places, he 
 sat him down rather forcibly in the mayoral chair. Alec 
 swore sundry quaint and formidable oaths, signed what 
 the Town Clerk called the long and honourable roll of 
 the Mayors of Trowbury, and was once more egged out 
 of his chair — this time to return thanks. 
 
 It was a part of the ceremony for which his father 
 had forgotten to prepare him. He stood up blankly. 
 Then, remembering no doubt the tone of the speeches 
 that had gone before, he began : “ Thank you very much, 
 gentlemen. A great honour. I didn’t want to be Mayor 
 — ’strue as I’m here. . . 
 
 Realising he had not said quite the right thing, he 
 looked round at his father ; looked at the councillors 
 seated along the table in various comfortable attitudes, 
 one or two of them with sympathetic faces ; looked up 
 at the ceiling ; blushed ; sat down. 
 
 The ex-Mayor sprang up : 
 
 “ As you know, gentlemen, my son, the Mayor, has 
 hardly yet recovered from a long and dangerous illness, 
 and under the circumstances you will not expect him 
 to thank you at length for the very great honour you 
 have done him— us — our family. Speaking as an alder- 
 
214 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 man and a tradesman in a large way of business, and 
 not as father of the present Mayor, I can only say 
 that, in making my son Mayor, we have done the very 
 best thing for the town. Gentlemen, I believe in ad- 
 vertisement. It is by advertisement — and a sound 
 stock — that I have built up my business from a small 
 way to the largest and growing grocery establishment 
 in the town. I believe, I say, in advertisement ; ad- 
 vertisement for a business and advertisement for a 
 town, which is only a large business with the Mayor as 
 director. My friend, Sir Pushcott Bingley, whom we 
 hope to see at the dinner to-night — [applause] — he 
 assures me that to-day’s proceedings will be fully re- 
 ported and illustrated in the greatest newspaper the 
 world has ever seen. I allude to the Halfpenny Press . 
 That is what I call a thorough good advertisement for 
 our good old town. I hope you will forgive my son, our 
 Mayor, any shortcomings due to his youth, bad health, 
 or inexperience ; and I can assure you that I shall 
 always be at his right hand to make his year of office a 
 success and to help in the progress of the good old loyal 
 borough of Trowbury.” 
 
 During the subsequent business, which included the 
 election of new aldermen and the appointment of the 
 year’s committees, Mr. Trotman did make himself of 
 the very greatest use. But for his repeated admonition, 
 “ Harmony, gentlemen ! Harmony on this day ! ” and 
 his skill in defeating by amendments and relegation to 
 committee any inquiry into the state of the borough’s 
 minor finances, his son’s first council meeting would in 
 all probability have been the reverse of pleasant. 
 
 At the conclusion, he invited the council to accom- 
 pany his son, the Mayor, to the parish church at half-past 
 three in the afternoon. 
 
 And in the street, after the meeting had been broken 
 up, while the usual after-meeting was being held, it 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 215 
 
 was discovered that the customary vote of thanks to 
 the ex-Mayor had been clean forgotten. 
 
 “ Don't mention it, gentlemen," said the ex-Mayor. 
 “ My son's election is my vote of thanks." 
 
 Mrs. Trot man had wished Alec to have a brand new 
 mayoral robe ; she wanted to choose the material 
 herself ; but Mr. Trotman ridiculed the idea. If the 
 old one was good enough for his own self, wasn't it 
 good enough for his son ? Mrs. Trotman spent most of 
 the time between the statutory meeting and the church 
 service in trying to clean out a recognisable wine-stain 
 on the left-hand side of the robe's front. She consulted 
 her favourite chemist as to the best solvent for iron- 
 mouldy stains. After much hard work, she succeeded 
 in turning the stain into a blotch, and in cleaning only 
 too visibly a circle of the robe just around the blotch — 
 in giving the blotch a halo, as it were. 
 
 In a furred blue blotched mantle did Alec march from 
 the Town Hall to the parish church. The Vicar, the 
 mace-bearers and the town-crier went before him, his 
 father almost beside him, and his mother a short way 
 off with the smelling-salts. The procession, coloured in 
 front and funereally black behind, proceeded with step 
 slow and dignified from the grey November daylight 
 into the dim parish church. The congregation which 
 had gathered there stood up while the corporation 
 passed up the nave to its high carved wooden seats in 
 the chancel. Out of the blackness the sound of the 
 organ crept as if it were a messenger from some nether 
 world or from the depths of Trowbury's history. 
 
 Mrs. Trotman had made the Vicar promise that 
 divine service should be as short as possible, for, she 
 said, Alec could not attend a long service and the dinner 
 too, and it was most necessary he should be present at 
 the dinner. For that reason the Vicar, an uncompromis- 
 ing churchman in controversy, contented himself in the 
 
216 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 pulpit with expressing his satisfaction that the youthful 
 Mayor, after taking part in a heretical revival at the 
 Crystal Palace, should, on the most important day of his 
 young life, have returned to his mother-church, the 
 church where he had been christened — a step taken, no 
 doubt, on his own initiative, for which he was greatly 
 to be honoured. Much more he said in the same vein, 
 receiving Alec into his church as a very prodigal son. 
 
 Tactless Vicar ! Mr. Trotman was furious. Dictate 
 what his son should and should not do, indeed ! Hadn’t 
 his son come to church that day at the risk of his health, 
 at the risk of his life perhaps ? There was a nodding 
 and a whispering among the members of the corporation 
 as they prepared to leave their seats and to march 
 down to the west door. 
 
 i Suddenly, just at the crossing of the aisles, an old 
 woman in a black wobbling bonnet trimmed with bobby - 
 dazzlers, ran out of a pew and flung herself on Alec. 
 
 “ La, Master Allie, how glad I be to see ’ee in that 
 there nice gown ! But don’ ’ee go movin’ no more hills 
 and losin’ the squire’s lambs. How like your dear 
 father you d’ look ! An’ I’ve nursed both on ’ee, I 
 have ! ” 
 
 She insisted on a kiss. “ Give your oF nursie a kiss, 
 now do ’ee.” Then she brought his head down to a 
 level with hers and whispered loudly : “ They be goin’ 
 to leave the little chap ’long with me when they goes 
 to Lon’on, an’ you come out an’ see your own just 
 whenever you like. Blood’s thicker than water, Allie 
 dear. . . .” 
 
 Mr. Trotman replaced her forcibly in her pew. With 
 all its antique dignity the corporation left the church. 
 A reverent babble arose. How the ex-Mayor had 
 scowled ! 
 
 Merrily the bells clashed out. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 217 
 
 XII 
 
 Alec himself did not understand fully the drift of old 
 Mrs. Parfitt's speech in church. This is what had 
 happened : 
 
 When Mr. Clinch had given notice to Julia in a 
 volley of unclean language, she had rushed from the 
 shop to her bedroom red in the face and breathless with 
 indignation. She intended to pack and leave the 
 Emporium at once. But what could she do ? She 
 would have either to go down below again and claim 
 the wages that were due to her, or find Mrs. Clinch, or 
 spend three days drawing enough money from the Post 
 Office Savings Bank. She could not possibly go right 
 away at once. After she had calmed down a little, 
 concluding that she might just as well be hung for a 
 sheep as a bodkin, and feeling inclined to do nothing so 
 much as to defy Mr. Clinch, she put on her yellow hat, 
 now long past its prime, and a jacket, and hurried off 
 out in the direction of Mrs. Parfitt’s. The rapid walk 
 by heating her body further cooled her mind. Her 
 attention was distracted by the dead leaves that an 
 autumn wind blew down upon her head. They fell into 
 the brim of her hat, and she had to take it off, still 
 walking quickly, in order to clean them out. The age 
 of the hat shocked her. She had not the moral support 
 of being well dressed. And how miserably the varicose 
 veins in her right leg ached ! 
 
 Further up the road she saw three or four loutish 
 youths scrambling along with comic gait after a woman 
 whose skirts swung and flapped around her because 
 she was going at a greater pace than her legs were made 
 for. “ Surely,” Julia thought, “ that's Edie's short 
 jacket or one very like it, and Edie’s hat. . . 
 
 It was Miss Starkey. 
 
218 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 She stopped and, turning round, gesticulated angrily 
 at the louts behind her. The wind lifted her hat up- 
 right. The louts laughed recklessly. She whisked round 
 again and hastened on with the louts still behind her, 
 still mimicking her gait. 
 
 Julia caught them up. She took Miss Starkey's arm 
 and looked a look at the louts. Dropping behind with 
 a last ribald insult, they stopped to light cigarettes. 
 
 All that Miss Starkey asked Julia or said to her was, 
 “ What d'you want ? " 
 
 “ Edie dear, I'll come with you. I was coming out. 
 I was, really." 
 
 “ You can come if you like. — Oh, Julie ! I feel so faint." 
 
 “ There, there ! " Julia cosseted her ; and they walked 
 on to the cottage. Julia wept a little, but without 
 breaking down. Edith Starkey remained sulky and dry- 
 eyed. Her face and manner revealed her state of mind. 
 
 Mrs. Parfitt in her lonely little cottage knew nothing 
 of what had happened either to Miss Starkey or to Julia. 
 Having the baby to herself had pleased the old woman, 
 and so had the absence for a night of the baby's mother, 
 whom .she had come rather to dislike and had kept 
 at the cottage only because she was lonely, and for 
 the baby's and for her Allie and his sweetheart's sake. 
 Though quite certain in her old woman's mind that Alec 
 was at the bottom of Miss Starkey's mischance, she did 
 not inquire, neither was she told. 
 
 “ My dear," she exclaimed, “ where have you been to, 
 leaving the baby and all. And I've a-had to feed 'en 
 wi' spoon-food and he's done beautiful 'cept for a bit o' 
 wind in his precious little tummie." 
 
 Miss Starkey took her baby. Then at last she wept, 
 while old Mrs. Parfitt ejaculated from time to time : 
 “ Here's a pretty kettle o' fish ! Here's a pretty kettle 
 o' fish. I do declare ! Now, do 'ee, my dear. . . . 
 There, there ! try an' bide quiet." 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 219 
 
 Events to date were related — with certain reservations. 
 Miss Starkey spoke of Mr. Gantliorn, and his domestic 
 arrangements, with a vehemence which rather astonished 
 and mystified Julia. Mrs. Parfitt was told about the 
 police court, and that Mr. Trotman had only sentenced 
 Miss Starkey to remove herself from the moral town of 
 Trowbury. It was the policeman and the sentence which 
 had fixed themselves in Mrs. Parfitt's mind, much more 
 than the injustice, for since she had lived among labour- 
 ing people she had lost her hold on official morality 
 and had come to regard troubles with the police as a 
 part of life. 
 
 “ Ah ! " she said, “ Mr. Trotman let ’ee off wi' that, 
 did he, when you didn't ought to have been summoned 
 at all. But he didn't know that, bless you. He's such 
 a kind sort o' man. But look 'ee, my dears, if I be going 
 to see Master Alec go to church in his mayor's mantle 
 an' all, I must hurry up, an' I 'spect the baker's cart, 
 as I've a-give a cup o' tea to many a time on a hot day, 
 will gie I a lift into Trowbury." 
 
 Mrs. Parfitt had two lady's maids that afternoon. 
 Her hair was done and her bonnet set jauntily on her 
 head so that she said she’d hardly ha' know'd herself ; 
 and off she went in her baker's cart. 
 
 Then the two young women, each disgraced, both 
 lonely, fell to talking over ways and means. 
 
 What they did not tell one another was the most 
 important part of their conversation. Miss Starkey 
 allowed Julia to think her very very greatly wronged, 
 nothing more ; while Julia hid the practical charity in 
 her heart — the very real charity from a woman in her 
 position — under a gush of sentiment. Occasionally one 
 of them sniffed and dropped a few tears. Neither was 
 able to suggest any promising course of action until 
 Julia said that her old guv'nor in London might take 
 her back. 
 
220 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ London ! London ! '' Miss Starkey took up the 
 word, and the hope that lay in it, with all the ardour 
 which London imposes on untravelled provincials. 
 “ London ! 99 They would go to London. That was it. 
 
 But baby ? Who would take care of the baby ? 
 Mrs. Parfitt ? Miss Starkey was sure she would. Julia 
 thought so too. She still had some money in spite of 
 what she had lent — or given — Miss Starkey. Instead of 
 a new dress, she had had the yellow one turned and 
 retrimmed. The material had been good. . . . 
 
 4 4 You're a dear, Julie ! '' 
 
 But London ! They rang the changes on the magic 
 word, the first mention of which had been decisive. 
 
 Damnable Dick Whittington ! 
 
 After dark — they were sitting without a light — Mrs. 
 Parfitt's small toppling footsteps approached the cottage. 
 
 44 I've a seen him an' I lost me head, I did, an' I 
 didn't mean to, but there. . . . An' I kissed 'en as he 
 were coming down the church in his lovely big blue 
 mantle, an' I told 'en as the little chap were as right 
 as ninepence an' as he could come out an' see 'en just 
 the same now he is Mayor ; an' his father, he took hold 
 o' my poor arm an' pushed I into the wrong pew ; but 
 I did kiss 'en an' I told 'en the little dear (let I give 'en 
 a kiss !) was quite bonny out here an' as good a baby as 
 you might find ; an' look you what a bruise he've a- 
 made on my poor arm — black an' blue — he always had a 
 temper when he were a boy, Jimmy did ! " 
 
 She slipped off her bodice and exhibited the blue 
 mark on her withered old arm. While that was going on, 
 the two girls asked her if she would keep the baby with 
 her. 
 
 44 On course I will, pretty dear ! Not having no 
 childer o' me own. . . . Deary me ! Just you leave he 
 here. I've a-nursed James Trotman, an' Master Allie, 
 both on 'em mayors, an' why shouldn't I nurse this little 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 221 
 
 precious too, for company like. The babies as I nurse 
 be all mayors/' 
 
 “ There's the Mayor's Dinner to-night," said Miss 
 Starkey, who always showed impatience when Mrs. 
 Parfitt babbled on, and always had festivities in her 
 mind. 
 
 “ They must be going in to it now," Julia added. “ I 
 must go. I really must. Good-bye, dear." 
 
 “ Don't you get in their light when they're coming out 
 — that's all ! " 
 
 Miss Starkey's voice could be very bitterly unpleasant. 
 The that's all echoed in Julia's ears as she walked back 
 to the Emporium. It seemed to be dragging her into 
 the company of the non-respectable. It depressed her 
 and made her feel as if the world was off its hinges. 
 Again the side-door of the Emporium banged behind 
 her as if she were still its property, still forced to sell 
 herself for a bed, bad food, and a few dresses. That's 
 all! 
 
 And it was all. 
 
 XIII 
 
 In reporting the mayoral banquet, the Trowbury 
 Guardian , with a humility and enterprise rare among 
 local newspapers, did its best to imitate the Halfpenny 
 Press . It was notably successful in the use of headlines. 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 ALEXANDER TROTMAN 
 
 MADE 
 
 MAYOR 
 
 OF HIS NATIVE TOWN 
 
222 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 (Then followed an account in pyrotechnical language 
 of the investiture of Alec Trotman as Mayor of the 
 ancient borough, together with photographs of himself 
 and his relatives, and a faked reproduction, from a 
 borrowed block, of the Mountain Mover standing in an 
 inspired attitude on the summit of a precipitous Holy 
 Mountain.) 
 
 trowbury’s mayor’s 
 BANQUET 
 
 BRILLIANT LOCAL FUNCTION 
 DELAINE JENKYNS, M.P. 
 
 IN THE CHAIR 
 IMPORTANT SPEECHES 
 THE MAYOR’S HEALTH 
 INTERVIEW WITH HIS DOCTOR 
 
 Full copyright account 
 TROWBURY CHRONICLE ENLARGED 
 
 TO SIXTY COLUMNS 
 
 “ Yesterday, at noon, surrounded by the aldermen and 
 councillors assembled in the historic council chamber, 
 Mr. Alexander Trotman was unanimously elected Mayor 
 of Trowbury, and invested with the heavy gold chain 
 of office. The value of the mayoral chain is estimated 
 at £420. In the fine old parish church, beneath tattered 
 flags from Waterloo, Inkerman and Balaklava, his 
 mayoralty received Divine Sanction. Alexander Trot- 
 man, Mayor of Trowbury ! The prophet honoured in 
 his own country ! 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 223 
 
 “ THE MAYORAL BANQUET 
 
 was held in the Town Hall Assembly Rooms. A good 
 spread, worthy of Trowbury’s gastronomic traditions, 
 was provided by mine host of the Blue Boar Hotel, 
 reinforced by a celebrated London caterer. The tipsy 
 cake was moulded into the form of the Holy Mountain, 
 and inlaid with the heraldic arms of Trowbury in 
 coloured jellies. 
 
 44 The Mayor was surrounded by a representative 
 company of aldermen, councillors, borough officials, and 
 burgesses, and by the flower of the local nobility and 
 gentry. 
 
 44 The Right Honourable Delaine Jenkyns, Member for 
 the Trowbury division of Wiltshire, occupied the chair. 
 
 “ Grace before and after meat was said by the Vicar 
 of Trowbury. 
 
 44 The Chairman first gave the toast of King and 
 Empire, followed by that of the Prince and Princess of 
 Wales and the Royal Family. Great and loyal enthu- 
 siasm prevailed. 
 
 4 4 UNAVOIDABLE ABSENTEES 
 44 The Chairman read a telegram from the King : 
 
 4 4 1 am commanded by his Majesty to thank the loyal 
 and ancient borough of Trowbury . 
 
 44 A telegram from Sir Pushcott Bingley, Bart., 
 Director of the Halfpenny Press, was next read : 
 
 44 Empire watching Mountain Mover's festive banquet . 
 Deeply regret detained in town . 
 
 44 It was understood that the ex-Mayor had also 
 received a private communication from Sir Pushcott 
 Bingley. When the resounding applause which followed 
 the reading of the telegram had died down, and letters 
 of apology for unavoidable absence had been read from 
 
224 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 several noblemen and gentlemen, Mr. Aid. Clinch, the 
 senior alderman, gave in felicitous terms the Bishop 
 and Clergy and Ministers of all Denominations. 
 
 “ The Vicar, in replying, alluded to the strange coin- 
 cidence that the evening the miracle transpired he had 
 been preaching from the text : c If ye have faith even 
 as a grain of mustard seed ye shall say to this mountain, 
 Remove hence to yonder place, and it shall remove/ 
 He regarded it as another sign of Almighty God's 
 watchfulness over His Church and over Trowbury. It 
 spoke well for the natural pleasures of temperate eating 
 and drinking, that the clergy and ministers of all 
 denominations could be found at the mayoral banquet 
 peaceably seated together. He was sorry to see how 
 few of the well-cooked dishes the Mayor was able to 
 partake of, and hoped it would please God to mercifully 
 restore his health — [applause] — grant him a long, useful 
 life — [applause] — and graciously accept his miraculous 
 work for the good of His Holy Church. [Great applause.] 
 
 “rev. snooks’ prayer 
 
 “ The Rev. Bertram Snooks (Congregational), in re- 
 sponding for the other denominations, said they lived in 
 critical times, and everything that tended to promote the 
 cause of religion in an atheistical age — [‘ No, no ! '] — was 
 to be encouraged. Such, he felt, was the removal of the 
 Holy Mountain and the heartfelt, heartening revival at 
 the Crystal Palace, where the attendance of the Mayor, 
 who had worked so great a miracle, even as the prophets 
 of old, had evoked a scene of extraordinary religious 
 enthusiasm — [applause] — and many souls were brought 
 to repentance. He craved permission on so auspicious 
 an occasion to offer up the following prayer : ‘0 Al- 
 mighty God, who art always with us when upon our 
 knees we cry unto thee, vouchsafe that our beloved 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 225 
 
 young Mayor shall receive Thy blessing, and shall ever- 
 more perform miracles to the glory of Thine elect, to 
 the furtherance of true religion wheresoever found, and 
 to the confusion of the stiff-necked and of sinners, in 
 Thy Holy Name, Amen/ 
 
 “ At this stage of the festivities the Vicar pleaded 
 attendance at a bed of sickness, and left. 
 
 “ The toast of the Army, Navy and other Imperial 
 and Territorial Forces was given amidst intense en- 
 thusiasm, one of the councillors remarking that if they 
 could not have work for all, undoubtedly a strong Navy 
 was the next best thing. [Applause.] 
 
 “ THE TOAST OF THE EVENING 
 
 “ The Chairman in very complimentary terms gave 
 the toast of the evening, — His Worship the Mayor. 
 There had, he said, been many able and distinguished 
 men who had held this exalted civic office in days gone 
 by. Such was the ex-Mayor, the father of the present 
 Mayor. Never in the history of the ancient borough of 
 Trowbury, he was informed — never in England, he 
 thought — had a son succeeded his father in the highest 
 office a town can confer. Some men, said the Swan of 
 Avon, Gentle Shakespeare, were born great, some 
 achieved greatness, and some had greatness thrust upon 
 them. In Mr. Alexander Trotman, their Mayor, all those 
 qualifications were united. He had been born great — 
 with the power of working miracles. He had achieved 
 greatness — by moving the Holy Mountain and once 
 more proving the eternal truths of religion and faith 
 — [applause]. And greatness — the mayoralty of his 
 
 native town had been thrust upon him — [prolonged 
 applause]. The government, supported by a large 
 majority in the Parliament where he (the speaker) had 
 the honour to be Trowbury ’s representative, had granted 
 a long lease of the Holy Mountain, as it stood in Acton, 
 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 to Mr. Alexander Trotman — [applause]. Quite right — 
 [applause]. It was not a party question — [applause]. 
 The labourer was worthy of his hire — [applause]. Mr. 
 Trotman would receive the aid and advice of his (the 
 chairman's) friend, Sir Pushcott Bingley, than whom no 
 greater commercial genius had ever lived — [applause] ; 
 and commerce, he would remind them, was now the 
 primary occupation of mankind — [applause], the golden 
 girdle that encircled it from pole to pole — [prolonged 
 applause]. He understood that Mr. Alexander Trotman 
 would devote the Holy Mountain entirely to religious 
 purposes [hear, hear] ; to a great revival of unsectarian 
 religion, to the broad fundamental basis of religion 
 on which they could all agree. A banquet, however, 
 was not the precise place to discuss religious matters, 
 as the Rev. Vicar and Mr. Snooks would tell them. 
 Therefore he would conclude an over-long speech — [‘ No, 
 no ! '] — by congratulating Mr. Alexander Trotman on 
 attaining, so early in life, the high and well-deserved 
 position of Mayor of Trowbury — [great applause] — and 
 he congratulated Trowbury on its distinguished young 
 Mayor — [tumultuous applause]. 
 
 44 4 For he's a Jolly good fellow ! ' was begun, taken 
 up on all sides of the room, repeated, and sung with right 
 vigorous good-will for several minutes. When the last 
 4 And so all say of us ! ' died away, the youthful Mayor, 
 looking very pale in his heavy, blue, fur-edged robe of 
 office, rose from his seat at the right-hand of the Chair- 
 man to respond. 
 
 44 THE MAYOR'S SPEECH 
 
 44 Holding a small piece of white paper in a hand that 
 trembled perceptibly, the Mayor replied : 4 Mr. Chairman, 
 Alderman, Councillors, and gentlemen, I thank you 
 heartily and will do my best to show myself worthy of 
 the high honour you have conferred upon me,' 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 227 
 
 “ It was universally felt how much the grave sim- 
 plicity of the Mayor’s speech accorded with the greatness 
 of the occasion. From all parts of the room sympathetic 
 eyes were turned upon the young mayor, when the ex- 
 Mayor rose to speak. 
 
 “ THE MAYOR’S HEALTH 
 
 “ The Ex-Mayor (Mr. Aid. James Trotman) trusted 
 they would excuse a longer speech from his son, the 
 Mayor, who had, as they all knew, scarcely recovered 
 from a long and dangerous illness. After describing in 
 some detail his son’s malady, the ex-Mayor remarked 
 that only temperate habits and the best of mothers — 
 his (the ex-Mayor’s) best of wives and helpmeets — 
 could have pulled the Mayor through. And the help of 
 God also should not be forgotten. He could not but 
 be very thankful for the Divine Watch which had been 
 kept over him and his. He was not, as they knew, a 
 minister, nor did he make great professions of religion, 
 nor use religion as a cloak, but he was always ready to 
 pay his debts, and he thanked God from the bottom of 
 his heart. As their Member of Parliament had told 
 them, the Holy Mountain was to be devoted exclusively 
 to religious purposes. They should render unto Caesar 
 the things that were Caesar’s. Soon after the New Year 
 there would be an Imperial Revival, organised by the 
 Church on behalf of all the Christians of the Empire, on 
 the hill so miraculously removed to the outskirts of the 
 metropolis. His friend, Sir Pushcott Bingley, to whose 
 generous advice he and the Mayor owed so much, had 
 kept him informed of the progress which was being made 
 by builders, railways, tramways, and, indeed, every 
 resource of modern civilisation. Miracles of building 
 were in progress, rivalling the energy of America. The 
 eyes of the Empire were turned towards the Holy 
 Mountain ! [Applause.] 
 
228 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 THE MAYOR RETIRES 
 
 “ At this stage, the Mayor, doubtless overcome by the 
 applause and smoke, was seen to droop. There was 
 hardly a dry eye in the room when the ex- Mayor was 
 seen to bend over him and to murmur, ‘ Better go home 
 to bed, my boy ! * — when the proud and devoted father 
 assisted his son from the room. 
 
 “ Mr. Aid. Ganthorn humorously proposed the 
 Borough Recorder and Town Clerk and Clerk of the 
 Peace. But for crime, he said, two of them at least 
 would be non-existent. In that measure the town was 
 indebted to crime. He observed that they were nuis- 
 ances after the deed, and instanced them as showing what 
 a pleasant thing a nuisance can sometimes be. Doubt- 
 less the Mayor was a nuisance when, as a baby, the ex- 
 Mayor had to walk the room with him at night. No- 
 body could say he was a nuisance now — [applause]. 
 
 “ The Recorder, in responding, said that the town of 
 Trowbury, now so celebrated on account of its Mayor, 
 would ever hold a foremost place in his heart. He 
 thanked them with the deepest gratitude for the warmth 
 of the reception accorded him. 
 
 “ On the return of the ex-May or, the Chairman gave 
 the ex-Mayor, Aldermen and Councillors of the Borough 
 of Trowbury, speaking in the highest terms of his good 
 friend, the ex-Mayor. 
 
 “ THE EX-MAYOR ON MUNICIPAL MANAGEMENT 
 
 “ Alderman Trot man, in responding, said the day 
 had been too much for his son, the Mayor, and almost 
 too much for himself. He was a plain man, but had 
 done his best for the old town — [applause]. He had 
 begun his year of office with the belief that in municipal 
 affairs, as in business, honesty and integrity and work 
 — hard work — was the best policy. And so it had turned 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 229 
 
 out. He thanked them. It was a proud day for him — 
 [applause]. It was the day of his life. He felt he had 
 not come into the world for nothing. He thought they 
 might all take away one lesson, which his mother had 
 instilled into him at her knee, and that was, that 
 honesty pays best in the long run — [applause]. In the 
 absence of the Mayor, he begged to propose the health 
 of the best of parliamentary representatives, their Chair- 
 man, the Right Hon. Delaine Jenkyns, M.P. 
 
 “ When the cheering evoked by this toast had died 
 down, the Chairman suitably responded. To further 
 the interests of the town of Trowbury would always, 
 he declared, remain the one bright ambition of his life — 
 [renewed cheers]. 
 
 “ This concluded the toast list. Though several of the 
 guests, including the Chairman who had to catch a train, 
 now retired, the proceedings were prolonged to a later 
 hour under the presidency of the ex-Mayor. 
 
 “ An exceptionally good musical programme had been 
 provided. The Town Band played outside the banquet- 
 ing room during dinner, and between and after the 
 toasts, Mr. Charles Barnes and Mr. Munchanson, 
 L.R.C.M., rendered such old favourites as The Death of 
 Nelson , Good Old Mary Ann , Tom Bowling , Marble Halls , 
 Simon the Cellarer, Gates of the West , Excelsior , Glorious 
 Beer, The New Jerusalem, and From Liverpool across 
 the Atlantic, concluding with Rule Britannia and God 
 Save the King . Both were in excellent voice and used 
 them to good effect. Seldom has Trowbury heard better 
 postprandial song. It was universally agreed that this 
 year's Mayoral Banquet was a brilliant function, 
 worthy of the best traditions of the town and of the 
 importance of the occasion." 
 
 The most characteristic, the most Trowburian, part 
 of the feast did not find its way into print in the Trow - 
 
230 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 bury Guardian. After the Chairman had left, the lights 
 of the room became dim with smoke, so that it seemed 
 as if the tobacco was burning itself up a second time 
 in the gas flames. Complaints, ever becoming louder, 
 were heard against the price and quality of the caterer’s 
 whiskey, and many of the guests both amused and 
 revenged themselves by throwing empty bottles at one 
 another’s legs underneath the table. Roars of laughter 
 shook the Town Hall, attracting the attention of people 
 outside. Merriment and horse-play were in command. 
 The waiters, refusing to wait, retired to the cloak-room 
 with a dozen bottles of champagne, and soon could not 
 have waited even had they been willing. In order to 
 prevent the destruction of all the glass and crockery 
 (hired for the evening) the caterer was obliged to turn 
 off the gas at the main, and to hide himself at the foot 
 of the Assembly Room stairs, behind a bust of the 
 Prince Consort. 
 
 The Mayor, meanwhile, was in bed, receiving spoon- 
 food from his mother. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Amid the controversies and festivities of mayor- 
 making, Trowbury had begun to take the Holy Mountain 
 for granted — to talk about it rather than think about it. 
 The accounts in the Halfpenny Press sufficed the town’s 
 curiosity as to the progress of it, if they did not suffice 
 the persons locally concerned, and the Holy Mountain 
 was promoted to the position of a sure thing. 
 
 But the day after the mayoral banquet Mr. Trotman, 
 urged thereto by biliousness and a growing distrust of 
 his friend, Sir Pushcott Bingley, began to turn over in 
 his own mind the little he really knew about the affair, 
 and to determine what steps he should take to get all 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 231 
 
 his five fingers into the pie. He felt that the Director of 
 the Halfpenny Press was neglecting him somewhat, 
 and he doubted — yes, he did doubt — if Sir Pushcott’s 
 brief dictated letters to Castle Street had contained the 
 whole truth and nothing but the truth. Mrs. Trot man 
 was even more doubtful than her husband. Alec, she 
 said, meaning his parents, had been consulted in nothing. 
 Nothing ! Alec had not even received any money, ex- 
 cept the sum in advance which Mr. Trotman had placed 
 to his own account in the bank, for safety's sake. 
 
 What had been happening was this : As soon as it 
 became known that Alexander Trotman would receive 
 a lease of the Holy Mountain, on condition that it was 
 used for religious purposes, a Provisional Committee, 
 with the Archbishop of All the Empire at the head of it, 
 was formed under the auspices of the Halfpenny Press. 
 The Provisional Committee was informed, through Sir 
 Pushcott Bingley, that it could enter into possession at 
 Michaelmas. In order to safeguard itself, in case 
 sufficient support was not forthcoming, the Provisional 
 Committee entered into a preliminary six months' 
 tenancy, at a high rental, but terminable by either side 
 at the close of that period. What they did not foresee 
 was that, in law, what is sauce for the goose is sauce for 
 the gander : they assumed that the Holy Mountain was 
 bound by Act of Parliament to be used for their re- 
 ligious purposes. Mr. Trotman certainly thought that 
 in the matter of tenancy they had taken a rise out of Sir 
 Pushcott Bingley. And so, in the back of their minds, 
 did they. 
 
 An immediate appeal, backed by great names, was 
 issued for money with which to build upon the Holy 
 Mountain a grand Imperial Temple. The contract was 
 given to a syndicate which undertook to build in six 
 months the Temple complete — a syndicate, as it turned 
 out, financed by Americans. 
 
232 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 At Michaelmas the Provisional Committee, then 
 entering into possession, reconstituted itself into a 
 Permanent Committee, made up just the same as before, 
 except that a few titled and politically prominent men 
 were co-opted, in order to give it tone and influence. 
 At noon precisely, on Michaelmas Day, the American 
 contractors began bundling their machinery to the top 
 of the Holy Mountain. Building started forthwith. 
 No time to waste in laying ceremonial foundation stones ! 
 Religion was become business-like, practical. 
 
 So far, the arrangements had worked fairly smoothly. 
 Controversy had become difficult since the amalgama- 
 tion of all the important daily newspapers into three 
 groups — the Half 'penny Press, the Penny Press , and the 
 Times . Each group required time in which to consider 
 what would be its most profitable policy. 
 
 When, however, the sects found that something 
 definite was really afoot — that building had positively 
 commenced — they were all seized with a great fear of 
 being left out in the cold, and with an active determina- 
 tion to see that their rights were respected. In default 
 of proper outlets for controversy, a huge network of 
 intrigues grew up. London buzzed with clerics of all 
 denominations ; talking, writing, preaching, interview- 
 ing, and holding meetings of hastily formed mutual- 
 admiration societies. The Permanent Committee spent 
 half its day in listening to deputations, each of which 
 was told that its contention would be most carefully con- 
 sidered. So careful was the consideration that it never 
 came to a conclusion, and nothing at all happened ; and 
 the sects, like the heathen of old, raged furiously together. 
 Building on the Holy Mountain proceeded with feverish 
 energy. The sects looked upon the white stucco 
 temple, raising itself, like a huge growing animal, from 
 a chaos of black hooting machinery, and they could not 
 contain themselves for rage, jealousy and curiosity. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 233 
 
 Yet it seemed as if the whole Press, except the religious 
 journals, was conspiring to muzzle the multitude, for 
 it declined, quite silently — 4 in the public interest * — 
 to publish any more correspondence, and though 
 thousands of letters must have been written, not one 
 on the subject was published in columns devoted to 
 The Editor's Post-bag. 
 
 Then a prominent nonconformist divine began pam- 
 phleteering. His action was hailed as a discovery ; 
 himself as a saviour. London flittered and fluttered 
 with pamphlets. The newspaper groups were at last 
 compelled to decide definitely on their policies. The 
 Penny Press, with its large circulation among old maids, 
 public-houses and retired tradesmen, was obliged to 
 support the Church. Since the Holy Mountain, though 
 leased temporarily, was national property, it was only 
 right, said the Penny Press , that its chief benefits 
 should accrue to the National Church. Other denomina- 
 tions would, of course, be allowed a share ; on suffer- 
 ance be it understood ; for the Church of England had 
 never shown herself intolerant. But they would 
 naturally have to conform to Church usage and cere- 
 monial — a line they would doubtless be quite willing 
 to take when they found there was something to be 
 gained by it. 
 
 The Times, sitting on the fence of unquestionable 
 superiority, talked of the religious revival as one of the 
 most interesting phenomena of modern times. The 
 Halfpenny Press performed still more marvellous feats 
 of standing on the fence, and, so to speak, dancing a 
 jig there. It declared for unsectarianism, or rather 
 for multi - sectarianism, being of the opinion that 
 every form of religion should receive English jus- 
 tice. When the Pope applied, through the German 
 Government, for a Catholic side-chapel in the Imperial 
 Temple, the Halfpenny Press declared that such 
 
234 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 a reasonable demand from such an exalted quarter, 
 presented through such an Imperial nation, should at 
 once be granted. When the Mormons, following suit, 
 asked, through the American Ambassador, for seats in 
 the Imperial Temple, the Halfpenny Press considered 
 that the Mormons should be given an opportunity of 
 entering into the confraternity of Christians, provided 
 they pledged themselves neither to preach polygamy 
 nor to outrage the morals of the women of England, and 
 provided the American Ambassador became surety for 
 their good behaviour in these respects. Thus the Half- 
 penny Press very wisely left the Permanent Committee 
 to take the brunt of all the offence that was bound to 
 be given, all the intolerance that had to be exercised. 
 And when, furthermore, the Permanent Committee 
 declined to treat with the Buddhists, Sir Pushcott’s 
 journal regretted the refusal as decidedly ungraceful ; 
 for Buddhism approached very near to Christianity, 
 and was besides the national religion of our gallant allies, 
 the Japanese. 
 
 In fine, the Halfpenny Press posed successfully as the 
 only tolerant, charitable, sensible, reasonable, practical, 
 diplomatic, scientific, perspicacious, English, British, 
 imperial, national, religious, logical, and Christian 
 spokesman in the matter. It was the lid of a seething 
 pot that bubbled and boiled, and did no more. Every 
 day it published a panoramic photograph of the Temple 
 works. Across two paper pages, its readers saw the 
 steel girders rise, saw’ the workmen clustering upon the 
 framework, the concrete slabs fixed to the steel, and 
 the plaster mouldings, imported from abroad, placed in 
 position outside. By fixing the successive pictures in a 
 special apparatus, sold on the instalment system, a 
 cinematographic view of the building of the Imperial 
 Temple could be seen — the Imperial Temple built in 
 two minutes ! 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 235 
 
 The Permanent Committee traversed the woods of 
 perplexity. They decided that the Temple could not 
 properly be consecrated, since so many sects were to 
 worship in it. They became hopelessly involved in 
 questions of precedence ; to settle which an attempt 
 was made to determine the date of founding of each 
 sect. They altered repeatedly the arrangements for 
 the opening ceremonial. A flippant journalist dubbed 
 the Holy Mountain and its Temple The Religious 
 Exhibition , and that is indeed what each compromise 
 tended more and more to make it. The lightly uttered 
 nickname stuck. Heads began to shake. “ I told you 
 so ! ” was getting ready to leap from thousands of 
 tongues. 
 
 XV 
 
 By the beginning of March, the half-finished Imperial 
 Temple, gaunt and naked, had arisen over London. It 
 was, statisticians said, one and a half times as large as 
 St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey put together, and, 
 thanks to the triumphs of modem architectural engi- 
 neering, it was costing less by a half to build than either 
 of the older churches it dwarfed. Owing to the shape 
 of the Holy Mountain, it was constructed in the form 
 of an octagon, with two of its opposite sides, the northern 
 and the southern, much elongated. Above it was a 
 large dome, still, on March 1, unfinished — a skeleton 
 dome of rusty-red steel girders. On March 5, a great 
 golden cross was placed in position on the top of the 
 dome, but, following urgent representations from some 
 of the nonconformist sects, and for the sake of peace, 
 the Permanent Committee had the golden cross re- 
 moved on March 9, to be replaced by an angel with 
 wings. For similar reasons, the Committee felt it ad- 
 
236 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 visable to refuse the offer of a body of Royal Academi- 
 cians and wealthy High Churchmen, who wished, at 
 their own expense, to decorate the interior with frescoes 
 of the authentic miracles recorded in the three synoptic 
 Gospels. 
 
 The unfortunate Committee would have been glad 
 enough to say to the protesting denominations, “ If 
 you don't like it, stay away." But tickets were already 
 issued ; to each sect a large block of seats ; and empty 
 floor-space in the temple could on no account be risked. 
 Revivalism, the Committee knew, flourishes best in a 
 crowded building and a mephitic atmosphere. 
 
 The Grand United Opening Ceremony was fixed for 
 March 25, the festival of the Annunciation. 
 
 Shortly before that date, the Trotmans finally decided 
 to stay at home. A gentleman most patriarchal in 
 appearance and business-like in speech — the yellow hairs 
 of his long white beard corresponded in tint with the 
 gold rims of his large spectacles, and his tongue went 
 nineteen to the dozen — introduced himself at Castle 
 Street as Archdeacon of the sect called Watchers, who, 
 he said, watched and prayed for the Second Advent 
 and possessed a divine apprehension of its coming. He 
 offered to prove that Alec was indeed the Messiah, and 
 when Mr. Trotman inquired what benefit that might be 
 to his son, the Mayor of Trowbury, the Archdeacon of 
 the Watchers took refuge in prophecy. He declared 
 that by his prophetic faculty he also knew Alec to be 
 in love. (Which Mrs. Trotman, on her part, felt was 
 true enough.) And he added that the Messiahship 
 would be made manifest, and the Millennium proclaimed, 
 at the Grand United Opening of the Imperial Temple on 
 the Holy Mountain. Neither Alec nor his father believed 
 in the prophetic patriarch ; but yet nevertheless, not- 
 withstanding . . . Wonderful things had happened. 
 The old man spoke like a prophet, semi-articulately and 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 237 
 
 wildly and with conviction, and he had a prophetic 
 presence. They showed him out very politely (Mr. 
 Trotman mentioned that he was a magistrate), and, dis- 
 cretion being the better part of piety, they decided 
 that it would be better for Alec’s health if, on the great 
 day, Alec himself stayed quietly at home. 
 
 On March 25, which was sunny and spring-like, so 
 that voices in the streets seemed to sound clearer and 
 plainer, half London rattled out to Acton, where the 
 Imperial Temple stood — new, rain-washed and white — 
 upon the summit of the Holy Mountain. The extension 
 of the tube railway was unfinished, but that only made 
 the better business for cabs, trams, and motor buses. 
 Editions of the Half penny Press sold themselves by 
 bundles along the route from the City. From the 
 Halfpenny Press the assembling multitude learned that 
 it was indeed assembling, and in countless numbers. It 
 was as if you should purchase a newspaper to be in- 
 formed that you were purchasing it, and such pleasing, 
 such inimitable enterprise was much praised. 
 
 Admission to the interior of the Imperial Temple 
 was by ticket only. Everyone, however, who wished, 
 might go upon the slopes of the Holy Mountain by 
 payment of one shilling towards the Building Debt 
 and the Maintenance Fund. They would at least be able 
 to see the Archbishop of All the Empire when he mounted 
 to the dome of the Temple, after the Grand United 
 Opening Ceremony, to bestow his episcopal benediction 
 upon the multitude, upon London, upon England, upon 
 the Empire. 
 
 It was noticed that the sunshine, following a night- 
 frost and early morning’s rainfall, had already caused 
 some of the symbolic plaster to peel off the cornice of 
 the temple. 
 
 All the morning the turnstiles at the foot of the Holy 
 Mountain creaked and clanked. All the morning were 
 
238 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 heard the cries of hawkers, offering for sale the only- 
 authentic programmes, the only authentic hymns, the 
 only authentic prayers ; picture postcards of the 
 Temple within and without, around and about ; of the 
 Holy Mountain, and of Alexander Trotman — Alexander 
 Trotman's last photo, Alexander Trotman as a by by, 
 Alexander Trotman in "is mayor's robes, Alexander 
 Trotman an' 'is gal (a faked photograph in which the 
 place of Julia was taken by a fourth-rate actress), and 
 Alexander Trotman a-fiyntin' orf the 'Oly Mounting. 
 Acton post office was besieged, and only a strong draft 
 of police prevented its being wrecked when the stock of 
 halfpenny stamps ran out. 
 
 About eleven o'clock, the various bodies of ticket 
 holding sects, with their banners, marched up the slope 
 of the Holy Mountain and in at the side-doors of the 
 Temple. Since most of the sectarians were in pietistic 
 black coats and very various top-hats, some astonish- 
 ment was caused by the arrival of a large contingent 
 wearing everyday clothes and red ties. A rumour spread 
 that it was the Mormons. Many of the nonconformists 
 who had derived great pleasure from the refusal of the 
 Catholics to be present at the Grand United Opening 
 Ceremony, were not a little disgusted, and expressed 
 themselves not a little bitterly and loudly, when, on 
 looking into the side-chapel assigned to the Catholics, 
 they saw there a large array of polychrome saints and 
 Holy Families, placed on sale by a firm of monumental 
 sculptors named Isaac Cohen & Co. 
 
 Just before noon, when the high interior of the Temple 
 seemed to buzz with voices, it was rumoured that, 
 owing to a cold, the King was unable (or unwilling) to 
 be present ; had never intended to be present, in fact. 
 
 At noon punctually, the Archbishop of all the Empire 
 arrived in his motor car at the foot of the Holy Mountain, 
 and went into a galvanised-iron vestry, or robing shed. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 239 
 
 Then, vested in a brilliant cope and mitre, preceded by 
 his chaplain with the pastoral staff, and followed by 
 his clergy, he ascended the slope. He stopped from 
 time to time, it was observed, as if to take breath. 
 Behind the heads of the Church walked the leading 
 ministers of all the denominations represented within 
 the Temple. When the Archbishop came to a halt on 
 the slope, they had all to halt too, which they did badly ; 
 and very undignified they looked. 
 
 Meanwhile, the congregation within had with the 
 greatest difficulty been induced to sing all the same 
 hymn. While the Archbishop and clergy and ministers 
 were marching up the wide central aisle, it seemed even 
 as if everything was going lustily and well ; as if the 
 service would be really congregational, the religious 
 devotion of a nation. But when the Archbishop in- 
 toned a strictly reverent prayer, it became evident to 
 the worldlier of those present that this sort of thing 
 would never do for sightseers and people accustomed 
 to the luxuriant eloquence of revivalism. The con- 
 gregation began chattering, like inattentive schoolboys. 
 The men in red ties, having declined to kneel, now stood 
 bolt upright, awaiting a sign from their leaders. They 
 were, in fact, enthusiasts of the secularist, socialist, and 
 labour parties, and had received their tickets treacher- 
 ously from two jealous denominations which had applied 
 for tickets in disproportion to their size, and, not getting 
 so many, had changed their minds about being present. 
 The red-tied men laughed and talked with a disdainful 
 loudness among themselves, and on the stewards re- 
 monstrating with them, they broke into a defiant shout 
 of, “ Down with the priests ! Down with capitalism ! 
 Down with the Church ! An end to mockery ! 
 
 “ Down with it ! 
 
 Down with it ! 
 
 E-ven to the grou-ound ! ” 
 
240 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 This last they sang with magnificent solidity to the 
 plain Gregorian chant. 
 
 Shouts arose from all parts of the great building ; a 
 tremendous snarl. Isolated fights began. The congrega- 
 tion swayed to and fro, the temporary pews with them. 
 There was a panic. All who were able to do so made a 
 rush for the doors. The Archbishop and his suite retired 
 through a small door at the east end of the Temple, and, 
 with a strong escort of police, they made their way 
 back from the Holy Mountain to the City. 
 
 The congregation in its thousands pressed from all 
 the doors of the building like outraged bees from an 
 apiary. Quicker almost than by word of mouth the 
 news spread down the slopes that the Grand United 
 Opening Ceremony had been a failure ; that the Arch- 
 bishop was gone again ; that the multitude was cheated 
 of its benediction and its spectacle. Soon the noise 
 resembled the clamour of birds preparing for migration. 
 The crowd from the Temple pressed downwards ; the 
 crowd from below pressed up : the slope was, as it 
 were, a monstrous carpet, spotted white with faces — 
 dragged backwards and forwards, blown up by the wind, 
 rucked and undulated. Turves were pulled up and 
 thrown at the Temple, flints as well. By the time the 
 mounted police came up in force the windows of the 
 Temple were all smashed, the floor of it littered with 
 earth, and its new white plaster-walls splashed with 
 blobs of dirt. 
 
 Not till half-past three in the afternoon was the Holy 
 Mountain totally clear of people and in undisputed 
 possession of the police. 
 
 The head-lines of the Evening Press , the newspaper 
 placards, and the raucous newsboys announced one and 
 the same thing : 
 
 THE GRAND FIASCO ! 
 
 Some called it, “ The Grand United Fiasco.” 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 241 
 
 In Acton and along the Uxbridge Road, all except the 
 eating and drinking shops put up .their shutters. Men 
 went about, nosing like rats, and asking breathlessly : 
 “ Is it true — they’ve read the Riot Act ? ” 
 
 XVI 
 
 Sir Pushcott Bingley, like the King, did not personally 
 attend the Grand United Opening Ceremony of the 
 Imperial Temple. He remained at the real head of 
 affairs, in that Palace of Telephones, the Halfpenny 
 Press Buildings. With him was John Fulton, the Half- 
 penny Pressman that Trowbury knew, now promoted 
 to the position of Holy Mountain secretary, in place of 
 a more talented young man about whom pressmen 
 whispered in Fleet Street, “ Bled out ! ” 
 
 Sir Pushcott was anxious, not about ultimate success, 
 for that he scarcely doubted, but about the precise 
 means by which he and circumstances were to achieve 
 it. Whilst the Halfpenny Pressman, hearing only the 
 tittering echo of the telephonic voices from the Holy 
 Mountain, watched his chief receiving news from minute 
 to minute, watched the varying expressions on his 
 chief’s face, yet remained in ignorance of the great 
 events which were known in the very same room, he 
 became very nervous and strung up. He felt ready to 
 burst, to cry. He realised that there is an obverse side 
 to promotion. When Sir Pushcott put down the 
 receiver, saying, “ Good ! I hoped so ! ” poor John 
 Fulton nearly jumped out of his chair, and shouted, 
 “ Yes, sir ! ” at the top of his voice, as if his chief had 
 been at the far end of the wires, among the stirring 
 events. 
 
242 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Sir Pushcott meditated a few moments, then began 
 swiftly and surely to dictate to his subordinates. That 
 day’s Evening Press was to startle the nation ; next 
 morning’s Halfpenny Press was to strike vigorously 
 the note of Sir Pushcott’s policy. He was well satisfied. 
 He left his office repeating to himself, as he always did, 
 a selection of proverbs which praised himself retro- 
 spectively. “ Look before you leap ” was one of them. 
 “ Everything|comes to him who knows how to wait ” 
 was another. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Between seven and eight o’clock that same evening, 
 Mr. Trotman heard a newspaper boy running down 
 Castle Street. “ Evening Press ! Spechul edition ! 
 The grand Eyasco ! To-day’s ceremony on the ’Oly 
 Mountain ! Evening Press ! Grand United Fyasco ! ” 
 The bell of the Famous Grocery tinkled, the knocker 
 banged. “ Spechul edition. Yer y’are, sir. Take two ? ” 
 Mr. Trotman with two copies returned to his arm- 
 chair. He read. He read again. He looked at the 
 other copy as if it might be different. Alec and his 
 mother came into the room. Something was very 
 wrong. 
 
 “ Look at this, Alec ! If we’d been there like I 
 wanted to . . . What’s the good of your being Mayor 
 now ? Simply extra expense for nothing.” 
 
 Mr. Trotman worked himself into a temper with his 
 son. Mrs. Trotman drew Alec to her, and defended 
 him from the father who for some time continued to 
 express himself scenically. At last, the ex-Mayor threw 
 himself back in his arm-chair with a fervent “ Good 
 Lord ! ” and read the Evening Press a third time. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 243 
 
 “ Why doesn’t Sir Pushcott wire or send ? ” he asked 
 rhetorically. “ It’s his duty, nothing more or less. It’s 
 the bishops have done it. Those confounded black 
 crows got no idea of business ! There’s a debt on the 
 Parish Room now. First they spend the money, and 
 then they ask for the money, because they’ve spent it. 
 The Church wants business men in it. Why doesn’t Sir 
 Pushcott look after the thing himself, or else let me 
 look after it ? It’s his fault ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Trotman tried to oil the troubled waters. “ I 
 think Sir Pushcott has treated us very badly,” she said. 
 
 Alec spoke finally. “ Sir Pushcott’s all right,” he 
 said. “ He knows what he’s about.” 
 
 “ Rot ! ” his father exploded. 
 
 Mr. Trotman settled himself down to a good bout 
 of self-pity. Those many acquaintances who thought 
 they’d just look in at the Famous Grocery to sympathise 
 and to learn the latest authentic news, all those he 
 showed to the door with suppressed insult. Alec, caring 
 little for the Holy Mountain except as a means to an 
 end, yearned with a most peculiar intensity for his 
 motherly Julia, and could nowise be comforted by his 
 mother’s ministrations. 
 
 Unhappy the house of Trotman that night ! 
 
 With next morning’s Halfpenny Press , however, their 
 spirits revived a little. The causes of the Grand United 
 Fiasco were numbered and set in a column. 
 
 1. Bad organisation. 
 
 2. Railway unreadiness. 
 
 3. Absence of H.M. the King. 
 
 4. Absence of Mr. Alexander Trotman. 
 
 5. Presence of the Secularists. 
 
 6. Perpetual demands for money. 
 
 7. Traffic disorganisation. 
 
 8. Motor bus disasters. 
 
244 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 9. Unattractiveness of the ceremony. 
 
 10. Ignorance of how to manage crowds. 
 
 11. Cowardice of the promoters. 
 
 12. Lack of the true Revival Spirit. 
 
 13. Religious intolerance. 
 
 Thus did the Halfpenny Press place the burden of the 
 blame on convenient shoulders. The Permanent Com- 
 mittee (short biographies of its members on another 
 page) were compared unfavourably with the Welsh and 
 American revivalists. In accepting the Holy Mountain 
 from Mr. Alexander Trotman they had incurred a vast, 
 an imperial, responsibility. On that account they had 
 collected large sums of money. Where was it now ? 
 They had come to total failure. The Holy Mountain 
 with its Imperial Temple had been contemptuously 
 called the Religious Exhibition. As an exhibition, even, 
 it had failed. Something was wrong somewhere — grave 
 inefficiency. Since the religious bodies had shown 
 themselves so disunited, so lacking in the essential 
 Spirit of Christianity, let the Holy Mountain be devoted 
 to the cause of humanity. Let religious mockery cease. 
 Let the sects go each to its little church or chapel. 
 They had had their divinely appointed opportunity ; 
 they had had this miracle ; and they had been 
 found wanting. It was now the turn of the people, 
 whom the un- Christian denominations had presumed 
 to teach. 
 
 Mr. Trotman was sure he smelt a rat. He even ex- 
 pressed the opinion — in the privacy of the Famous 
 Grocery — that Sir Pushcott was up to one of his tricks. 
 And when, a day or two later, he read that Mr. Alexander 
 Trotman, according to the terms of the sub-tenancy, 
 would call on the Permanent Committee to quit the 
 Holy Mountain at the end of April, he was less surprised 
 at the news than at Sir PushcotCs high-handedness in 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 245 
 
 giving the Permanent Committee notice to quit in the 
 name of Mr. Alexander Trotman, without reference 
 to the said Mr. Alexander Trotman — that is, to his 
 father. 
 
 On a business memorandum form he wrote thus : — 
 
 “The Famous Grocery Establishment, 
 
 “Trowbury, 
 
 “ Wilts, 
 
 6 ( April 1. 
 
 “ Dear Sir Pushcott, 
 
 “ It has been brought to my notice that you have 
 given the Permanent Committee notice to quit the 
 Holy Mountain in the name of my son, the Mayor of 
 Trowbury. It appears to me that that was the business- 
 like thing to do, but I beg to take exception to your 
 doing it without consulting my son or myself. Such a 
 procedure appears high-handed and unbusiness -like to 
 
 “ Your obedient servant, 
 
 “ James Trotman.” 
 
 By return of post Mr. Trotman received the reply 
 following : — 
 
 “‘Halfpenny Press' Buildings, 
 “(Direction Dept.), 
 
 London, E.C., 
 
 “ April 2. 
 
 “ Dear Sir, 
 
 “ Sir Pushcott Bingley desires me to beg you — 
 
 “ (1) To refer to your copy of the Agreement between 
 your son and Sir Pushcott Bingley, duly and freely signed 
 by your son, in your presence. 
 
 “ (2) To address all inquiries thereon to Sir Pushcott 
 Bingley’s solicitors, Messrs. Brown, Smith, Pyne, and 
 Williams, of Chancery Lane. 
 
246 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ (3) To kindly bear in mind that business is business, 
 and time money. 
 
 “ Sir Pushcott Bingley will be glad if Mr. Alexander 
 Trotman will sign and return immediately by registered 
 post the enclosed document. 
 
 “ Yours very faithfully, 
 
 “ For Sir Pushcott Bingley, 
 
 “ John Fulton. 
 
 (Secy.) ” 
 
 The enclosed document was the above-mentioned 
 formal notice to quit. Nothing could be done except 
 sign it ; but whether the consternation of the Trotmans, 
 on receiving the above letter, was greater or less than 
 the consternation of the sectarians, cannot be accurately 
 gauged. In the latter quantity was predominant, in 
 the former, quality. Common to both was a defiance 
 that knew not how to express itself. 
 
BOOK IV 
 

I 
 
 “ Return again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London 
 Town ! 99 
 
 That story, by whomsoever carelessly made, is as 
 lasting a fact as London itself. It is our national 
 pantomime, the tinsel wherewith we decorate our 
 death-trap. Like Whittington and his cat (Miss 
 Starkey had many feline points) did Julia and her 
 friend follow Bow Bells up the wind. Precisely what 
 end they had in their minds, who knows ? At least, 
 they were proof against the menace of the paper- 
 patched tenement houses on the way in towards Pad- 
 dington station. They had day-dreams of bettering 
 themselves. With the remainder of her savings in 
 her reticule — a few sovereigns and one banknote — 
 Julia was bent on finding employment in her old shop 
 at Acton. Miss Starkey's idea was less definite. Per- 
 haps a barmaid's place. Perhaps . . . Well, the least 
 said, soonest mended. At all events, she was fiercely, 
 desperately determined to have a good time. 6 6 Is that 
 London ? " she asked when they passed through Read- 
 ing, Slough, Southall, Ealing. Expresses whizzing by 
 westwards made her laugh aloud. Julia behaved in 
 what she believed to be a proper public manner. It 
 was merciful that these two young women were too 
 homeless, too irrational to ask each other, “And after 
 that — what then ? '’ 
 
 A porter addressed Miss Starkey (not Julia) as “My 
 dear ! " — so subtle are the speechless communications 
 of mankind. Julia, angered almost beyond bearing 
 
 249 
 
250 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 and feeling more than ever the uncertainty of her foot- 
 hold in the world, decided to go straight out from 
 Paddington to Acton by train. She feared to face 
 London. At Acton station they left their luggage — 
 mainly contained in bulging basket-work — at the 
 cloak-room, tidied themselves in the ladies' waiting- 
 room, and set out on foot for the Uxbridge Road. 
 The whirl and rush of the city seemed to grip Julia less 
 when she was afoot. 
 
 “ All London isn't like this," remarked Miss Starkey 
 with conviction. 
 
 “ No, dear," said Julia. Nothing more. 
 
 But a surprise awaited them. Into all her mental 
 pictures of Acton Julia had forgotten to insert the 
 Holy Mountain. 
 
 There it was, however. She saw it; she could not 
 help seeing it ; saw the chalky scars in its side, old 
 quarries where Wiltshire yokels had worked ; and 
 thought she detected the path by which she and Alec 
 had climbed up from Mrs. Parfitt's, though that path 
 had long since been obliterated. It was uncanny. 
 She shivered. It was like meeting an old friend to 
 find him dead or insane. She thought with intensity 
 of Alec. She seemed to smell the smell of the Down air 
 as it had been on that evening. She ran her eyes from 
 the paling and galvanised pay-huts at the bottom to 
 the battered Imperial Temple at the top. Its smashed 
 windows were like eye-sockets lacking eyes. 
 
 But it was the size of it that impressed Miss Starkey. 
 “ My word, what a sky-scraper the Temple is ! " she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 “ D'you think so ? " said Julia. She had rather it 
 had remained the site of her love's fading dream, as the 
 song calls it. When a man dies, we say, “ Poor So-and- 
 so ! " and that's an end of it if we are sincere. Poor 
 Julia would have wished the same. Her earth had 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 251 
 
 dropped beneath her ; her heavens had drawn away 
 from her ; and she was left like a marionette, swinging 
 in mid-air. 
 
 She found her old employer groaning with an attack 
 of lumbago ; no longer the sleek Kindly step this way , 
 madam ; but a grovelling jerking piece of wreckage, 
 bemoaning in a dim back room the loss of trade which 
 had resulted from one of those ceaseless shiftings of 
 the classes and masses which happen so suddenly in 
 the suburbs of a great city. He was genuinely sorry 
 he could not give her a berth, for Julia was one of those 
 people whom one likes to meet again. He was, he said, 
 not employing her sort of young lady nowadays. He 
 was trying to retrieve his business by an alteration in 
 its character from selectness to cheapness, from good 
 customers to the many, and so far, though the good 
 customers had gone, the many had not come. Propped 
 on two chairs, beside a pile of bills and letters that had 
 pictures of fashions upon them, he told Julia pitifully 
 that he had been compelled to begin ticketing the goods 
 in his window. The Holy Mountain had driven all the 
 smart people away from Acton. From a residential 
 suburb, it had become a sort of excursion pleasure 
 garden — a perfect bear-garden. He v/as sorry ; he 
 would have asked her to dinner with himself and his 
 wife, had he not become a vegetarian in the hope of 
 curing his lumbago. Cheaper, too ! It took him just 
 there, in the small of the back. . . . “ Ough, ah ! ah ! — 
 Good morning, Miss Jepp. If you should want another 
 testimonial . . . Very pleased to. Good. . . . Ough ! 
 ah ! ah ! ” 
 
 Julia took the bad news to Miss Starkey, who had 
 been waiting at a tea-shop. “ He says the Holy 
 Mountain’s been and spoilt his trade.” 
 
 “ It wouldn’t have spoilt my trade, if I’d been him,” 
 said Miss Starkey. 
 
252 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Nor would it, probably. Lack of ability, lack of 
 push, was not one of her failings. She had dropped 
 off her baby, when it became an inconvenience, like 
 a cicatrice from a healed-up wound. “ We must go 
 into lodgings/' she said now, without the least hesita- 
 tion. 
 
 “ Yes, I s'pose we must," said Julia. She had hoped 
 by working at the draper's to keep herself, and her 
 friend as well if necessary ; possibly to get Miss Starkey 
 into the draper's cash bureau. 
 
 At the end of a tiring day on foot and in tramcars, 
 they found a half-furnished room in a street off 
 Shepherd's Bush, in a meanly respectable street fre- 
 quented by pedestrians as a short cut, but hardly ever 
 entered by any vehicle other than a hawker's. 
 
 They fetched their luggage, and at the nearest shop 
 bought crockery enough to rub along with. Their 
 boxes and baskets partially unpacked, they spent the 
 evening over tea and bread and butter and biscuits 
 before a ninepenny fire in a rusty grate. Vermin 
 made them feel more homeless and helpless than ever. 
 For some time almost their only amusement was the 
 couple in a room opposite theirs on the other side of 
 the street. All day long, the woman, a stout solemn 
 creature in black, sat sewing at her window, occasionally 
 craning her neck the better to observe someone in the 
 street. But in the evening her man returned from 
 work. He would chuck her under the chin and hit her 
 playfully on the breasts, and sometimes he would 
 catch hold of her nose and drag her round the room. 
 Yet apart they were the staidest of people. Julia 
 caught herself envying that woman. It was with more 
 than laughter that she looked at the weighty middle- 
 aged couple advancing, retreating, pirouetting about 
 their one small room ; watched their ample shadows on 
 the blind. She greatly wondered in what words they 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 253 
 
 spoke to one another ; and though Miss Starkey called 
 it the Punch and Judy Show, Julia felt miserably the 
 fact that the middle-aged couple had a home and each 
 other. She watched them greedily, wishing the while 
 that she was back in the Emporium, among the 
 assistants and faces she knew — wished it, oh how 
 much ! 
 
 She sought work half-heartedly, and ended by taking 
 in sewing from her old employer at Acton, without 
 realising that she was among the sweated — blouses of 
 her own design to be made for ninepence each and then 
 ticketed in the Acton window as Direct from Paris , 
 8s. llfd. cheap. A subtle form of sweating it was, in 
 that it was sauced with pride of design, for Julia was 
 something of an artist at her trade. Secure of bread 
 and butter and tea, she sat at her window sewing, and 
 welcomed Miss Starkey with a smile and food when 
 that more energetic young woman returned daily from 
 her explorations in London. 
 
 Quite soon Miss Starkey began adding money to the 
 household purse. She had found, so she said, a 4 sit/ 
 in a West End bar during the rush time. That is to 
 say, a very nice gentleman had found it for her. Julia, 
 being glad, designed and made her a couple of charming 
 blouses. 
 
 Then Miss Starkey began staying away at night. The 
 way was far, she explained ; she left work late, and the 
 other young lady allowed her to share a bedroom. She 
 had hopes, indeed, of being taken on as a full-timer. 
 
 The two girls took a newspaper, of course — the Half- 
 penny Press , and sometimes even the Penny Press too. 
 But journalism, since its attainment of so high a pitch 
 of decorativeness, had lost much of its reality ; in aping 
 realism it had ceased to be real ; for we can no more 
 digest a surfeit of news than a surfeit of food, and we 
 easily become lookers-on at the events of the world 
 
254 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 instead of participators in them. Julia and Miss 
 Starkey read the newspapers to each other, sitting 
 primly because they could not sit otherwise on their 
 two wooden chairs. They knew the news was more 
 or less true, yet did not feel its truth. The world was 
 a halfpenny peep-show to them. Even the columns 
 dealing with the agitation which circled around and 
 about Alexander Trotman and his Holy Mountain, 
 seemed to them merely so much fiction — a pleasant 
 fiction and an exciting, but a shadow-show, admission 
 one halfpenny. Julia never fully succeeded in identi- 
 fying the Alexander Trotman and the Holy Mountain 
 of the Press with the Alec and the Ramshorn Hill that 
 she knew so well. 
 
 She did not realise, for instance, what had really 
 happened, and what was likely to happen, when she 
 read that the Holy Mountain had been leased by Mr. 
 Trotman to the Pro Bono Publico Co. Ltd., and that it 
 would by them be opened in three months as a People’s 
 Pleasure Ground, which — having regard to its natural 
 advantages, the improvements which would be carried 
 out, and the attractive enterprise of the Pro Bono 
 Publico Co. Ltd. — must rival every pleasure centre in 
 the world. She was surprised that the Holy Mountain 
 and the Imperial Temple should be let as a pleasure 
 ground after usage for religious purposes, and she 
 wondered if the Temple would be taken down — merely 
 that. 
 
 She was therefore shocked when one afternoon Miss 
 Starkey returned to their lodging, flushed, dishevelled, 
 and brimming over with news : 
 
 “ I say, Julie, you did ought to have been in town 
 this morning. There’s such a row on over Alec Trot- 
 man’s Mountain. No end of a hullaballo ! The whole 
 of Oxford Street was held up quarter of a mile before 
 I got to the Circus — simply a pack of buses, and cabs, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 255 
 
 and motors, and carts, like sardines in a box. I heard 
 people saying they'd never seen anything like it. I 
 wonder the bobbies didn't move them on. When I 
 got to the Circus after such a push and scramble, there 
 was a set of white-haired old parsons going down 
 Regent Street with a band playing hymn tunes — Onward 
 Christian Soldiers , I think 'twas — and behind them there 
 was a whole long procession of men in black coats and 
 white ties and all sorts of clergymen walking beside 
 them. Their singing sounded like cats in the next 
 street. They all looked as solemn as if they were going 
 to a funeral. And they carried a lot of banners with 
 paintings on them, worked on silk, and a lot of placards 
 on sticks — you never saw such a thing. Nobody could 
 cross the street except when a real swell came along, 
 and then the bobbies stopped the procession a minute, 
 and on it went again, like black water running down a 
 gutter. They had big posters, Julie, with simply 
 awful likenesses of Alec Trotman on them, and Down 
 with the traitors to God , and God and His Holy Mountain , 
 or Hill of Sion — I forget which, — and What would Jesus 
 have done ? and To give a Thing and take a Thing Makes 
 it the DeviVs Plaything , and How long , 0 Lord , how long ! 
 I can't tell you all of them. You never saw such a sight. 
 Now and then they started cheering. The cheer came 
 up Regent Street, swelled big in the Circus, and fizzled 
 out up Langham Place. The policemen and everyone 
 looked at them as if they were children playing at 
 processions — you know. And they kept on coming to 
 the Circus as if there wasn't never going to be any end 
 to them. They all looked as soapy as a parson when 
 someone says ‘ Damn.' I felt as if I should like to 
 stick pins into the seat of their trousers to make 'em 
 jump. They had ever so many likenesses of Alec — 
 none of 'em flattering, I must say. I stood and watched 
 them for, I should think, three-quarters of an hour, and 
 
256 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 then I asked a policeman nicely to slip me across, and 
 he did, and there was just the same crush the other side 
 of the Circus — half London held up for a blooming 
 procession of parsons. . . . Hark ! That's the postman, 
 isn't it ? " 
 
 Post was Julie's one excitement in London, apart 
 from the chronic painful excitement of being there at all. 
 As she had told Alec on Ramshorn Hill, she was not 
 strong enough to live in a murky city. London soon 
 destroyed her freshness ; made her plumpness look like 
 fat. But now, taking the letter from Miss Starkey's 
 hand, she looked quite young and pretty for the moment. 
 “ It's Mrs. Clinch's writing ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 The letter contained a roundabout statement to the 
 effect that Mrs. Clinch had found no one to fill Julia's 
 place in the Emporium ; that one dressmaker had been 
 useless and another had run away in debt ; that cus- 
 tomers were grumbling and Mr. Clinch was grumbling 
 too ; that they had lost the custom of a county family ; 
 that Julia had always known how to suit Trowbury 
 taste ; that Mrs. Clinch would be so thankful if she 
 would forgive and forget and return ; and finally that 
 Mr. Clinch would be glad to agree to a slight increase in 
 salary. Julia knew what life at the Emporium was 
 like. She pitied the well-meaning ineffectual Mrs. 
 Clinch, whom she had many times protected from the 
 redoubtable draper, and comforted after an upset. The 
 protective motherly spirit that was so strong in her, the 
 feeling of loneliness that, as it were, soaked her through, 
 had brought her to a conclusion some time before she 
 asked Miss Starkey : “ What shall I do now, Edie ? " 
 
 “ Why, you're set up again, Julie. More pay, too. 
 And Trowbury air always did suit you." 
 
 “ But you, Edie ? " 
 
 “ Oh, I'm all right. I shall stay here, dear. I can 
 take care of myself." 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 257 
 
 “ But the baby. . . ." 
 
 “ Bother the baby ! " 
 
 “ Edie ! ” 
 
 “ Poor little thing ! I'm no mother to it, am I, 
 Julie ? You'll go over and look at it sometimes, won't 
 you, Julie ? 99 Miss Starkey spoke almost wistfully. 
 
 “ Nobody else but you can be its mother to the child," 
 said Julia. She almost wished it had been her own. 
 
 “ Well, I can't — that's a sure thing. I know you'll 
 keep an eye on it, dear ; and old Nurse Parfitt. . . . 
 I'll send her down some cash." 
 
 “ It's not that. . . ." 
 
 “ Anyhow, I'm not coming. I can't. How can I 
 now ? Why, I'm turned out of Trowbury — twenty- 
 four hours to clear out in ! " 
 
 Julia was surprised by an outburst of weeping. 
 “ How can I ? Oh, how can I ? 99 Miss Starkey kept on 
 asking. Then, with a rapidity astounding to a more 
 coherent nature, like Julia's, she got up, dried her eyes, 
 washed her face, passed Julia's comb through her hair, 
 scented a clean handkerchief, and said with decision : 
 “ You go, dear, and I stay, and that's the end of that." 
 
 Julia said, “ Very well, dear." 
 
 Three days, and she was back again at Trowbury with 
 Mrs. Clinch dropping tears upon the shoulder-strap of a 
 new blouse bought in Oxford Street for the occasion. 
 
 That was the only time Julia went into the city. 
 
 II 
 
 When the Halfpenny Press , containing news of the 
 Pro Bono Publico Syndicate, had arrived in Trowbury, 
 slight differences in expression again masked a remark- 
 
258 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 able unanimity in opinion. “ Well, I'm damn’d ! ” 
 observed the men who had some pretences to education ; 
 whilst the less educated said with a more philosophical 
 tranquillity, “ Well, I be damn'd." The ladies and 
 women meant exactly the same when they exclaimed 
 on all sides, “ Good gracious ! — What a shame ! — Well, 
 I never ! — Dear me ! — Deary me ! — Who'd ha' thought 
 it ! " 
 
 Mr. Trotman looked into the paper, told Mrs. Trot- 
 man to show it to the Mayor when he came in, and left 
 the house. (He was beginning now to use the term 
 Mayor with something like derision in the privacy of 
 the Famous Grocery Establishment.) On his way to 
 the Blue Boar he bought copies of the Penny Press and 
 the Times , peeped into them, but was no further in- 
 formed ; for the Halfpenny Press had been able to steal 
 a march on its more expensive contemporaries, so that 
 news of the Pro Bono Publico Syndicate was its own 
 exclusively. 
 
 Miss Miles, the manageress, was standing in the 
 shadowy depths of the bar, herself reading the Halfpenny 
 Press . The gaslight, passing through a glass brandy- 
 keg, made a yellow band across her face. For a moment 
 she did not notice the ex-Mayor. Then, on his smiting 
 the counter bell, she looked up : 
 
 “ Oh " 
 
 “ Small Scotch, please." 
 
 “ What a shame ! " said Miss Miles, holding out the 
 paper towards Mr. Trotman. “ What does it mean ? 
 Now please tell me. You ought to know." 
 
 “ What does what mean ? " 
 
 “ Why, this about the Holy Mountain." 
 
 Hardly knowing himself, Mr. Trotman gained time 
 by asking, “ What do you think it means ? " 
 
 “ I call it a great shame. That's what I think." 
 
 Miss Miles poured out the whiskey with great dignity, 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 259 
 
 being truly indignant. Women in the bars of country 
 towns have no chance of any society except they become 
 religious. Only if they attend church with conspicuous 
 regularity, and make the acquaintance of the clergyman, 
 who is usually not reluctant to attend to his semi- 
 respectable, brightly spoken, worldly-wise sisters after 
 a course of the stodgy wives and daughters of the highly 
 respectable, — only then will they be talked to at the 
 lych-gate, be allowed to make themselves useful at 
 charitable entertainments, and even (sometimes) be 
 invited out to tea and supper. Miss Miles was not un- 
 grateful to her religious sponsors. She disapproved, 
 as she felt they would do, of the change in the fortunes 
 of the Holy Mountain. She thought, as everybody else 
 did, that the Trotmans were making a fortune out of it. 
 So she showed her indignation in the usual manner by 
 refusing to converse unnecessarily with Mr. Trotman. 
 She began posting up the day-book, and on the arrival 
 of Miss Cora Sankey she went away. 
 
 Mr. Trotman, holding his glass in his hand, was 
 looking meditatively at the bar clock. 
 
 “ Hullo, Mr. ex-Mayor ! '' shouted Light in our 
 Darkness. “ Is it true they're going to turn your Holy 
 Mountain into a public -house ? ” 
 
 “ Public-house. . . 
 
 “ Yes. Public-house. Pro bono publico ; that's 
 public, isn't it ? Eh ? " 
 
 Mr. Trotman did not know. Indeed, he had gathered 
 only a very hazy notion of the whole matter — what the 
 Pro Bono Publico Syndicate was, what its name meant, 
 what it purposed to do. First Miss Miles, then the 
 Sankey ; he felt as if the powers of evil were compassing 
 him round about. When Mr. Ganthorn appeared within 
 the swing-doors, both Mr. Trotman and Miss Sankey 
 turned towards him. The latter's penetrating voice 
 gained the upper hand at once. “ I say, Mr. Ganthorn, 
 
260 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 does Pro Bono Publico mean public-house ? Mr. 
 Trotman here says it doesn’t/' 
 
 “ Pro Bono Publico,” said Mr. Ganthorn with mock 
 deliberation. “ Pro Bono Publico — a whiskey and 
 soda, please.” 
 
 “ Soda ? ” 
 
 “ A whiskey and soda, please. — Pro Bono Publico 
 is Latin, or used to be in my young days, and means : 
 pro , on behalf of ; bono, the good ; publico, of the 
 public.” 
 
 “ Then it does mean a public-house — you see, Mr. 
 Trotman. I knew I was right.” 
 
 “ It means yourself too. Miss Cora. Your good 
 health. May you never grow less.” 
 
 “ What d’you mean now ? Eh ? ” 
 
 “ I mean that whiskey is pro bono publico, and so is 
 the fair flutterer who dispenses it. How greatly do her 
 charms add to the charms of . . .” 
 
 “ Get out ! ” 
 
 “ — of mountain dew and aerated waters. — I say, 
 Mr. ex-Mayor, what’s this about your Holy Mountain ? ” 
 “ How should I know ? ” replied Mr. Trotman, with 
 a tug like a stage villain’s at his drooping moustache. 
 “ Look here, Ganthorn, you had better go’n ask Sir 
 Pushcott Bingley. If you want to know anything, 
 you’d better ask him. As it’s no business of yours, 
 you’ll enjoy doing so. And Sir Pushcott doesn’t 
 take kindly to questions, I can tell you. He’ll be your 
 match, anyhow. Nobody minds their own business 
 in Trowbury. You’re always making fun of every- 
 thing. ’Tisn’t right and proper. Some of us have 
 to be serious sometimes. I might have told you, but 
 I shan’t now. I’m sick of it. Sick ! You’re always 
 on the Twit, Twit, Twit. . . .” 
 
 Mr. Trotman went home to relieve the tension of his 
 intellects over the misdeeds of one of his female clerks : 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 261 
 
 she cut the cheeses so wastefully. As he went out of 
 the Blue Boar porch he heard Ganthorn and Miss 
 Sankey singing within : 
 
 “ Twit, Twit, Twit, Twit, Twitter ! 
 
 An’ it’s Twit, Twit, Twit, Twit, Twitter 
 
 And lastly he heard Miss Sankey "s ringing “ HE-He-he- 
 he-he ! " It followed him, in his ears, across the Market 
 Square. 
 
 “ There are more things in heaven and earth, Miss 
 Sankey/' said Ganthorn, “ than are dreamt of in our 
 philosophy/' 
 
 “ What's that ? " 
 
 “ Hamlet." 
 
 “ I say, who was Hamlet ? " 
 
 “ Mr. Trotman's uncle." ^ 
 
 “ What ! " 
 
 “ He was an author." 
 
 “ Oh, do lend me one of his books. I do love reading : 
 don't you ? " 
 
 “ Hamlet was a prince of Denmark." 
 
 “ Oh, chuck it, Mr. Ganthorn. — Really ? " 
 
 “ Yes." 
 
 “ Honour bright ? " 
 
 “ I do assure you . . ." 
 
 “ What a man you are, Mr. Ganthorn ! — Good morn- 
 ing, Mr. Clinch." 
 
 The bar seemed to fill up as Mr. Clinch's figure (small 
 boys declared that his chest had slipped down) advanced 
 solemnly to the counter. 
 
 “ Seen the paper ? " Mr. Ganthorn asked. 
 
 “ Damn queer — beg pardon — seems to me . . 
 
 “ Where's young Trotman all the time ? " 
 
 “ I've heard he drinks when his father's back's 
 turned." 
 
 “ What ? " 
 
262 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 ce I give it you as I heard it. Anyway, he doesn’t 
 seem to have much to do with the Holy Mountain. 
 His mother told my wife the other day that the Holy 
 Mountain hasn’t paid his doctor’s bills yet.” 
 
 “ I don’t believe it ; trust old Trotman for that. He’s 
 just gone out in a devil of a temper because I asked him 
 a question or two.” 
 
 “ How many whiskeys did Mr. Trotman have last 
 night, Miss Cora ? ” 
 
 “ A dozen — more or less.” 
 
 “ Well, that’s not enough to give him a next morning. 
 Must be something else in the wind.” 
 
 “ Yes, but what did he have at home ? Eh ? ” 
 
 “ No telling. I should like to know, though, the 
 bottom of the job.” 
 
 “ To tell you the truth, I don’t believe he knows him- 
 self. — Well, working men must to work. Good morn- 
 ing.” 
 
 Mr. Ganthorn gone, the conversation took a lower 
 level. Men who had spent their lives in a triangle, the 
 three corners of which were scandal, cash books, and 
 the parish pump, could not reasonably be expected to 
 scale the financial heights of the Holy Mountain. At 
 all events, Trowbury people never did. 
 
 To do him justice, Mr. Trotman himself came nearest 
 to it ; for the man undoubtedly had brains of a 
 sort. He determined to have it out with his distin- 
 guished friend, Sir Pushcott Bingley, but unfortunately 
 could not decide precisely how he was going to start 
 having it out ; and if matters had come to a head, if he 
 had met the baronet face to face, Sir Pushcott’s title 
 would safely have awed the Famous Grocer into ob- 
 sequious geniality. 
 
 Alec was found by his father sitting in the dining-room 
 with a novelette on his knee. Mr. Trotman began by 
 asking his son whether or not he had heard from his Sir 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 263 
 
 Pushcott Bingley ; went on to demand why he had not 
 heard when he ought to have done so, and blamed him 
 for not writing in order to have heard. “ It's your 
 Mountain, isn't it ? The papers say so. If Sir Pushcott 
 does all the work, of course he'll expect all the profit. 
 You ought to have sense enough to see that." 
 
 Alec seldom tried to answer his father back. To 
 interrupt a blare from a windbag requires far more con- 
 troversial vigour than was ever possessed by the mover 
 of the Holy Mountain. And if the windbag is a liar too. 
 . . . What is to be gained by interrupting it, unless it 
 can utterly be burst. 
 
 “ Why don't you do something ? " Mr. Trotman 
 again asked his son without suggesting what might have 
 been or should be done — for he had nothing to suggest, 
 and that is why he bullied Alec. “ You're as soft as a 
 sleepy apple. Here's nothing at all come out of your 
 Holy Mountain except a lot of gab in the newspapers. 
 Why don't you look after it yourself, I say ? You're too 
 damn'd infernally lazy to do anything. You're always 
 mooning round, and that's all you're good for. You've 
 simply made the whole thing an excuse for staying on 
 here when you ought to be at work, — costing me 
 immense sums for your doctors and your food, and your 
 subscriptions, now, as Mayor of Trowbury — after all 
 I've paid for your education ! I won't stand any more 
 of it, I tell you. You shall go to London and work 
 — work , d'you hear ? — if Sir Pushcott doesn't send some- 
 thing pretty soon to help pay for your keep." 
 
 Mr. Trotman moved towards the door. Grasping the 
 handle, turning it even, his face flushed with pride of 
 speech and his head bobbing emphatically, he brought 
 his most penetrating gun into action : “ I see that yellow 
 girl is back at Clinch's. Never ought to be allowed in 
 the town at all. I'll have none of your disgraceful im- 
 morality while you’re under my roof. If I see you with 
 
264 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 her once, mind, you go to London by the very next train 
 and have your luggage sent on after you." 
 
 Alec looked squarely at his father with his'queer^grey 
 eyes. Then the Famous Grocer, having exhausted both 
 his eloquence and the filthy sediment of his imagination, 
 retired before his son's eyes from the dining-room to the 
 shop. 
 
 Alec had stood the siege. As his father's voice rose 
 angrily in the shop, he changed his position in the chair, 
 so as to warm his hands better before the fire, and mut- 
 tered carelessly to himself, “ Confounded old fool ! I'll 
 be level with him yet." 
 
 He pulled out of his pocket a photograph of Miss 
 Julia Jepp. Tears filled his eyes, not the tears of mere 
 sentiment. 
 
 Later in the day, he walked past the Emporium five 
 times defiantly, because he wanted to look at it. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The wave of indignation which arose in England over 
 the Pro Bono Publico Syndicate was of really fine pro- 
 portions. Religious people were sorrowful enough, but 
 the partisan parasites, who make a hobby of, or a living 
 out of, religion, became nothing short of frenzied. 
 Hence the tragi-comic procession that Miss Starkey saw 
 pass across Oxford Circus. The Church blustered and 
 attempted to dictate, whilst the other sects shrieked 
 from ten thousand pulpits and meetings and denomi- 
 national journals. The gods were exceeding troubled 
 by their worshippers. What made the whole matter 
 worse — and more amusing — was that nobody knew 
 exactly the intentions of the Pro Bono Publico Syndicate. 
 Faithful believers in the Halfpenny Press and in modern 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 265 
 
 rectitude claimed that the Syndicate was actuated by 
 the best of motives, namely, as its name implied, the 
 good of the people. But they were hardly to be heard 
 for the shriek, and when they did obtain a hearing, 
 they were quickly snubbed as immoral and un-English. 
 Therefore, being wise, they quietly let events take their 
 course, and so did the Syndicate. 
 
 Indeed, the Pro Bono Publico Syndicate worked away 
 on the Holy Mountain as if nothing at all were happening 
 below, as if their right to the hill were absolutely un- 
 disputed. People saw gardens being laid out on the 
 slopes, and scaffolding again erected on the Temple. 
 The dome was taken off. “ Why ? 99 said everybody. 
 Venturesome men did occasionally manage to set foot 
 within the enclosures, but since each returned bearing a 
 different tale, nobody was much the wiser. 
 
 What was the Pro Bono Publico Syndicate ? Who 
 was it ? What was it going to do ? 
 
 Something very irreligious and wicked, no doubt ! 
 
 But the secret was well kept. And when London, soon 
 tired, as usual, of fixing its attention on one thing, began 
 to veer in favour of the Syndicate, then the cat — a sort of 
 beer-garden — was let out of the bag, and then, in truth, 
 the denominationalists began to perceive Anti-Christ 
 upon the Mountain. They helped each other develop 
 such a rage and fear that one and all, forgetting their 
 internecine warfare, began to call on the Archbishop of 
 All the Empire, believing that in him they saw the strong 
 man of the moment. 
 
 The Archbishop of all the Empire certainly was a 
 strong man — muscularly and rhetorically. He had been 
 chosen in order that the Church might have at its head a 
 man whose vigour should appeal to the vigorous young 
 colonies and who would on that account, as the Half - 
 \ penny Press said, c further cement the ties which bound 
 the colonies indissolubly to the Motherland, 
 
266 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 In youth he had been a mighty footballer, celebrated 
 for his charging, tackling, kicking, and (in football 
 pavilions) for his language. He had enabled Oxford to 
 hold its own against the world — in football. Having 
 dislocated his knee-cap when he was fellow of Keble, in 
 Oxford v. The Japanese Empire, he shaved off his 
 moustache, and entered the Church. From him came 
 those famous sayings : 
 
 “ There may be more Christianity on the football 
 field than in churches and at Dorcas meetings/' 
 
 “ Souls can be won upon the Empire's playing 
 grounds." 
 
 Far and wide was the Archbishop admired as a strong, 
 tall, bullet-headed, black- jowled, black-eyed piece of 
 manhood ; brawny and strong- voiced, breezy and 
 obstinate. It was said of him that he had never known 
 indigestion or toothache, and that every morning, 
 between his private devotions and the Eucharist, he 
 spent a good half-hour with his home-exerciser and 
 dumbells. When he was perambulating his Imperial 
 diocese, on which, as he frequently reminded his flocks, 
 the sun never set, he was the life itself of ships' pas- 
 sengers and of caravans. He organised deck games and 
 after-dinner entertainments to such a degree of per- 
 fection that rich invalids paid large sums to make their 
 sea-voyages abroad with the dear Archbishop, and an 
 article appeared in the Lancet on The Archbishop of All 
 the Empire's Psycho-Therapeutic System in Hypochon- 
 dria. He was, in short, a singularly good specimen of 
 the retired athlete who, instead of taking a public-house, 
 had dropped most appropriately into a government 
 appointment ; into, that is, the Archbishopric of All the 
 Empire. 
 
 To this man, now, the denominations turned, crying : 
 “ Archbishop, save yourself ! Me too ! " 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 267 
 
 The Halfpenny Press remarked sarcastically that the 
 sects could show their Christian spirit better by moving 
 another mountain than by seeking to check national 
 progress ; that if they had the faith, doubtless they 
 could do so. A rumour spread about, and was carefully 
 nursed, that the government had promised, unofficially, 
 to the sects any mountain or hill that they could move 
 to the vicinity of London, as the Holy Mountain had 
 been moved. 
 
 A second cry rose up : “ Let the Archbishop move 
 a hill ! ” 
 
 Whereupon the Archbishop of all the Empire, athlete, 
 eupeptic and optimist, feeling strong in the strength of 
 popularity, broke with his friend and patron, Sir Push- 
 cott Bingley, and, for the first time in the history of the 
 episcopacy, listened to the people’s cry. 
 
 IV 
 
 West of Marlborough the Kennet Valley becomes not 
 much more than a vast open depression in the Downs. 
 Early one spring morning there crawled up the valley a 
 curious procession, made up very largely of clergymen 
 on dusty bicycles, who were pedalling laboriously, with 
 red faces, out of Marlborough, along the white valley 
 road, and up into the Downs towards Silbury Hill and 
 Avebury. It was as if the waters of the river had turned 
 into men and had started flowing the other way. 
 
 Then, about half -past ten o’clock, a still more curious, 
 a grotesque, procession came up among the hills and 
 proceeded with most dignified pace in the same direction. 
 The cortege was composed of a number of huge variously 
 coloured motor cars and an astonishing flock of dilapi- 
 dated cabs. It seemed as if one small town could hardly 
 
268 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 have contained so many shabby cabs, rheumatic coach- 
 men, and ancient, spavined, roaring horses. A sort of 
 wave ran backwards and forwards, up and down the pro- 
 cession ; for the motor drivers were continually throt- 
 tling down their engines to the pace of the cabs, and the 
 cabdrivers as continually whipped their horses up in a 
 vain attempt to outstrip the motors. The ruthless sun- 
 shine of the Downs and the large openness of the land lit 
 up the procession with the utmost clearness, and at the 
 same time dwarfed it. From one of the higher Downs 
 close by, it looked like a scene from an insects' comic 
 opera. 
 
 In the foremost motor car, a powerful six-cylinder 
 road racer, lent for the occasion, the Archbishop of All 
 the Empire, well goggled, sat solidly beside the driver. 
 His chaplain, in the tonneau behind, hugged the var- 
 nished box containing the pastoral staff, in order to keep 
 it from wobbling or shaking. 
 
 Some of the people belonging to the houses alongside 
 the road — at Preshute, Clatford, West Overton and 
 West Rennet — wondered whatever was afoot. Others, 
 a minority, prided themselves on being in the know, 
 and felt immensely important, and showed it. “ They're 
 going to move Silbury Hill to London, like Ramshorn 
 Hill. The Archbishop of All the Empire is going to do a 
 miracle." A Wiltshire antiquarian, a stumpy little man 
 with a red face and a rapid tongue, bicycled hastily 
 from group to group of onlookers. Are they going to 
 move Silbury Hill ? They haven't given me notice of it. 
 They are going to, d'you say ? It's disgraceful. An 
 irreparable loss to the county. Why, it's the largest 
 artificial hill in Europe. I shall write to the papers and 
 put a stop to it. I shall write to the Times ! " 
 
 “ Thee's better hurry up, guv’nor, or thee's goin' to be 
 too late." 
 
 Whereupon the antiquarian remounted his bicycle and 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 269 
 
 rode off in the direction of Caine, saying : “ I shall tele- 
 graph to the Prime Minister ! ” A cackle of laughter 
 sped him on. 
 
 The Archbishop's procession came to a stop outside a 
 house under Silbury Hill. In a dim little parlour, still 
 smelling of the damped- down washing that was usually 
 kept there, and of the plants that had been removed 
 from the window, those who were to take part in the 
 ceremony put on their vestments, and once more set out, 
 on foot this time, for the hill itself — the Archbishop in 
 his gorgeous cope and mitre, preceded by his chaplain 
 bearing high the pastoral staff, and by a choir of boys 
 and men in red cassocks and funny little things of 
 surplices. Behind them, in order of precedence, marched 
 many other clergymen, garbed, so it struck the eye, out 
 there on the Downs, in vestments bought up at old 
 clothes shops and in dirty boots ; then a body of non- 
 conformist ministers who, having no vestments to 
 wear, looked like birds in the moulting season ; then an 
 undisciplined line of the laity and of the people who had 
 financed or otherwise helped towards the ceremony ; 
 and lastly the common people of the district, and the 
 motor drivers and coachmen that, in their own words, 
 didn't want to miss the show. Reporters and special 
 Press correspondents — who with worried or jeering faces 
 ran up and down the line, snatching interviews — com- 
 pleted the semi-official, semi-secret party. Semi- 
 official, semi-secret, because the ceremony was to be 
 considered official and public only if, and after, it suc- 
 ceeded. Should it not succeed, the least said soonest 
 mended. It was an ecclesiastical coup d'etat, based less 
 on faith in God than on faith in the well-tried adage, 
 Nothing succeeds like success . 
 
 By the time the Archbishop and his retinue arrived at 
 the actual foot of the acclivity, the hem of his gor- 
 geous cope was powdered with chalk dust. One by 
 
270 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 one, most impressively, like a steeplechase, they passed 
 up, over, and down the bare bank, set foot on the short 
 grass, and began to climb. It was noticed that the 
 Archbishop was rather breathless, and one of his clergy 
 counselled him to rest a while, sitting down — a piece of 
 advice impossible to follow because a chalky patch on 
 the seat of his cope would seriously have prejudiced the 
 dignity of the supreme moment. 
 
 In keeping with the semi-secret nature of the pro- 
 ceedings was the absence of any hymn. The chauffeurs 
 and drivers who remained below, saw the Archbishop 
 and his company round him kneel upon the grass. 
 Next they saw him rise up and take the pastoral staff 
 into his hand. Everyone else stayed kneeling around 
 him — spots of black, white, and red on the sage-green 
 hill. The upland wind whistled gently, with a plaintive 
 sound as of distant sorrow in it, through the long dead 
 grass-stalks from which last year’s seed had fallen. 
 The curious silence of the Downs fell on the scene like a 
 sort of light that defines things even while it diminishes 
 them. A lark rose gloriously into the sky. A rabbit or 
 two peeped out. Small and aimless did the ceremony 
 appear, amid the clearness, the largeness, the purity of 
 the Downs. 
 
 The sun, sliding out from behind a cloud, shone upon 
 the vestments of the Archbishop. But hardly had the 
 watchers round about grasped the goodness of the omen, 
 when a most secular-looking confabulation was seen to 
 be taking place on the top of the hill. The Archbishop 
 obviously made a decision ; and then the procession 
 formed up again for marching down the hill. Some of 
 the participants were comically hard put to keep their 
 footing on the slippery dead grass of the slope. With 
 one or two stumbles, however, they did arrive safely 
 at the bottom. 
 
 For just after the Archbishop had recited solemnly : 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 271 
 
 If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed , ye shall say to 
 this mountain , Remove hence to yonder 'place ; and it 
 shall remove ; and nothing shall be impossible to you ; — 
 just when he was preparing to make the grand effort of 
 faith ; — his chaplain, with a sudden, startled expression, 
 had got up from his knees and approached irreverently 
 nearer, saying : “ If you move the hill, your grace, we 
 shall go with it ! " 
 
 His grace glared a moment. 
 
 “ Why didn't you remind me before ? " he snapped. 
 
 The chaplain added in apologetic tones : “ And if we 
 go down again, your grace, we shall spoil the cere- 
 mony." 
 
 “ Of course we are going down," said the Archbishop 
 with that rapid decision for which he was so famous. 
 “ Of course we are going down. Go in front, please." 
 
 The chaplain reassumed his ecclesiastical expression 
 and led the way down the hillside. 
 
 Those who were down below — chauffeurs, drivers, 
 common people — thought at first that the ceremony 
 had been a failure. They peered and buzzed. The 
 procession, however, got into order at the foot of the 
 hill ; debated a little and moved further off ; con- 
 sulted a little more and moved away still further. 
 If Silbury Hill was going to be moved, it was most 
 essential to know where Silbury Hill began. 
 
 Once more, at a safe distance, everybody knelt, 
 Once more, the Archbishop began the special form of 
 service that he and his domestic chaplain had composed. 
 A cloud came over the sun. All the sullenness of 
 nature, all the obduracy of the earth, was reflected 
 from the long dun-coloured slopes. The Archbishop 
 rose to his feet. The remainder abased themselves, 
 stealing sly glances through praying fingers. 
 
 What, some of them wondered, what was going on in 
 the mind of that vested Prince of the Church ? Was he 
 
272 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 filled with prayer and faith above the measure of 
 ordinary men’s. He spread out his hands towards 
 heaven and the hill. Did God hear him? Was the 
 hill beginning to move ? 
 
 On the contrary, it was the Archbishop who moved. 
 
 He fell forward on his face. He mimicked the fall of 
 Alexander Trotman down that other Holy Mountain, 
 that bogus Holy Mountain of the music-hall stage. 
 
 They ran towards him ; respectfully mauled him 
 about ; turned him over on his back ; and — in a phrase 
 consecrated by death — life was found to be extinct. 
 
 A strange conservatism asserted itself ; the Arch- 
 bishop’s body in its cope — the dead athlete in the 
 Church’s uniform — was placed not in the comfortable 
 swift motor car which had brought him to Silbury Hill, 
 but in a rickety old cab. His mitre, which fell off into 
 the roadway while the cope and its dead human con- 
 tents were being juggled through the narrow doorway 
 of the cab, was flung carelessly upon the front seat. 
 A man with a red face, old top-hat, a livery coat above 
 and frayed check trousers below, drove tho body 
 to Marlborough. The motor cars and the other cabs 
 followed after. Never since he was carried off the 
 football field, arms and legs hanging limply down, had 
 the Archbishop proceeded anywhere in so undignified 
 and so bedraggled a manner. 
 
 After they were all gone, the sun still shone gloriously 
 upon the pure wide spaces ; the larks still sang ; and 
 Silbury Hill still stood in the place where it was heaped 
 up by men who toiled when busy England was marsh, 
 moor and forest ; when the changeless Downs, under 
 prehistoric sunlight, were much as they are to-day. 
 
 It was said by some that the great Archbishop’s 
 faith had killed him. Others held that the dear Arch- 
 bishop had been too good to live. The coroner’s 
 verdict was syncope ; an athlete’s heart degenerated 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 273 
 
 by a sedentary life ; death accelerated by fatigue and 
 excitement. 
 
 The religious organisations in their disappointment 
 found it hard to treat in kindly fashion the memory 
 of the deceased prelate. He had failed them ; had been 
 rotten at the core. His degenerate heart had been un- 
 fitted for spiritual gymnastics. Yet they had to have 
 another Holy Mountain, for if they did not, they would 
 fail to regenerate the nation, and, moreover, they would 
 lose prestige and be exposed to the ridicule of the Half- 
 penny Press . Their case was desperate. What could 
 be done ? they asked. 
 
 A celebrated geologist, an F.R.S., who was heavily 
 fee'd for his advice, declared weightily that there was 
 nothing in the geological formation beneath Silbury Hill 
 which could prevent it from being moved bodily as 
 Ramshorn Hill had been. The artificial hill itself 
 might be at fault, but not the geological strata. A body 
 of scientists held out hope that something might be 
 done in time if a few philanthropists or, say, an 
 American millionaire would found and endow a special 
 institution for scientific research into mountain moving. 
 A labour member declared that he could move a 
 mountain from anywhere to anywhere, given time 
 and money and the unemployed and socialism. 
 
 The Bishop of London was asked to make a second 
 spiritual attempt on a day to be set apart for national 
 prayer, and he promised most carefully to consider 
 the matter. Denominational hopes ran high. But 
 finally he said that under the sad circumstances, and 
 considering the many calls on his time, he hardly thought 
 it proper to act where his late chief had failed. There- 
 upon, in its head-lines, the Penny Press proclaimed : 
 
 DIGNIFIED ATTITUDE OF THE BISHOP OF LONDON, 
 and the Halfpenny Press shouted : 
 
 BISHOP OF LONDON FUNKS IT, 
 
 T 
 
274 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 A very popular young nonconformist preacher did 
 secretly and very unsuccessfully make a second attempt. 
 Silbury Hill refused to budge. The sects, made to 
 feel more distinctly than ever that they were on their 
 trial, became correspondingly acrimonious. People 
 jibbed at their verbal antics. Two waves of dissatis- 
 faction, one from Castle Street, Trowbury, and the 
 other from Halfpenny Press Buildings, London, seemed 
 to be spreading rapidly over the whole of the country, 
 like ripples from two stones, a small and a large, thrown 
 into a pond. 
 
 V 
 
 Mr. Trotman's threat that, if the Holy Mountain did 
 not soon produce money, Alec should go to London and 
 earn his living came, of course, to nothing. Alec could 
 hardly have earned enough to keep a tramp ; certainly 
 not enough for his tonics and patent foods. Besides, 
 he was Mayor of Trowbury, ex-officio member of his 
 father's household. Worst of all, Mr. Trotman had 
 to pay his subscriptions not only to all sorts of charities, 
 but to those presentations which are continually being 
 made in places like Trowbury, probably because the 
 promoters have too little to do, and too few brains to 
 bring themselves before the local public in any other 
 way. 
 
 At first, Alec would have liked very well to go to 
 London, where his Julia was. He might have found 
 out why she was so long in replying to his letters, why 
 she had so coldly requested him to write no more and 
 had ended up her last letter with : “ I can never be 
 yours, Mr. Trotman, and you must learn to take NO for 
 an answer." 
 
 On Julia's return to the Emporium, the slighting 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 275 
 
 remarks of his father, and this time of his mother too, 
 soon informed him of the fact. How he hated his 
 parents for what they said about his Julia ! How 
 he boiled to give them what they gave ! But he had 
 always had difficulty in saying the things he imagined ; 
 his best retorts had always come to him perhaps days 
 afterwards. And now, since his illness, he scarcely 
 felt fit to get into a downright temper. He took to 
 heart old Nurse Parfitt’s saying, “ I keeps meself to 
 meself, I do.” He determined to do the same. “ The 
 time will come ! Ah, the time will come ! ” It felt 
 fine to repeat that to himself. He lounged about the 
 mayoral residence, behind and above the Famous 
 Grocery, for ever irritating his father by an apathy 
 which hid from his parents a gathering together of his 
 forces, a growing devotion to one idea — his Julia. 
 
 Alec was one of those in whom feeling almost entirely 
 takes the place of ordered thought ; whose mental 
 processes neither express themselves in conversation, 
 nor can be precisely expressed in words. An harmonium 
 might have expressed his solemn heavier moods, a 
 whistle-pipe his merriment. 
 
 Shortly after the failures to move Silbury Hill, he 
 received a letter, marked Strictly Private and Confi- 
 dential, from the Permanent Grand Committee (Re- 
 constituted). Would he consent to receive a deputation 
 with a view to his removing another hill from Wiltshire 
 to the neighbourhood of London ? 
 
 “ What’s that ? ” asked Mr. Trotman, breaking off 
 short a complaint about the staleness of the bread and 
 the servant’s lack of enthusiasm in eating up the house- 
 hold’s stale crusts. When any member of his family 
 received a letter the contents of which he could not 
 succeed in reading — by the" simple process of opening 
 it on delivery, — he always asked in a commanding 
 tone : “ What's that ? ” 
 
276 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ I don't know," replied Alec, blushing and pocketing 
 the letter. 
 
 “ Let me see." 
 
 ■“ Let your father see it, Allie dear," said Mrs. Trot- 
 man. 
 
 Alec handed over the letter. “/ don't know what 
 they mean." 
 
 “ H'm ! " his father grunted. “ It's easy enough to 
 see what they mean — a very business-like communica- 
 tion, — but I don't quite see what they're trying to 
 get at." 
 
 kk “ Why," said Mrs. Trotman, who now had an oppor- 
 tunity of glancing herself, “ they want Alec to move 
 another mountain c toj be devoted exclusively to re- 
 ligious purposes,' Allie dear. . . ." 
 
 “ What do they want another for ? They've made 
 mess enough of one." 
 
 “ That wasn't Alec's fault, James." I 
 
 “ Well, it's perfectly clear to anybody but a fool that 
 there's no money in the job." 
 
 “ You don't know that yet. When Sir Pushcott does 
 pay . . ." 
 
 “He’ll never pay. He's fairly diddled the lot of us." 
 
 “ I suppose you think that if Alec hadn't moved the 
 Holy Mountain, you'd have gone on being mayor for 
 years, and then they'd have knighted you when there 
 was a royal visit ? " 
 
 Mr. Trotman knew better than to attack his wife in 
 fair verbal fight. “ No such thing ! There's no money 
 in this mountain moving. I always said so." 
 
 “ James ! " 
 
 “ Well, d'you think you could move another hill, 
 Alec?" 
 
 Alexander stared a moment. “ No, I don't think I 
 could. I don't know how I moved Ramshorn Hill — if 
 I did do it," 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 277 
 
 “ Of course you did it . . ." Mrs. Trotman was be- 
 ginning. 
 
 “ That settles it,” snapped the ex-May or. “ Write 
 and tell "'em you won't — not you can't. Mention your 
 health, d'you see ? Let me look at the letter before it 
 goes. — My boots, please. Got to see someone on 
 business. Sharp's the word ! " 
 
 He lighted one of his cheap morning cigars and went 
 out of the room, declaring with the air of a prophet : 
 “ There's no money in this sort of thing. Not a penny 
 piece ! " 
 
 Alec seated himself in his father's arm-chair and 
 lighted a cigarette ; for he had begun to smoke, in 
 spite of his mother's fear for his health and his father's 
 philosophic declaration : “A totally unnecessary ex- 
 pense. If you never smoke, you'll never want to." 
 
 VI 
 
 Whatever Mr. Trotman might have said at home, he 
 could not forbear boasting at the Blue Boar that his 
 son, the son of :|i Alderman James Trotman, had been 
 asked to move another mountain. And he further 
 said that his son had no intention of considering the 
 offer, not yet at any rate. Even a price (this was 
 mentioned in confidence) had been suggested for the 
 proposed miracle, but no more hills would his son move 
 unless everything, everything, was down in black and 
 white. 
 
 Mr. Ganthorn, between two sips of stout, called it 
 a case o i^ reductio ad absurdum , a sarcasm that the 
 ex-Mayor felt rather than understood. 
 
 News of the letter from the Permanent Committee 
 (Reconstituted) worked round to Julia. It seemed in* 
 
278 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 credible. But she was still more surprised on receiving 
 a note the next early-closing day : — 
 
 “ Come out to Nurse's to tea. Don't fail. 
 
 Important — Alec . 
 
 “ Your loving 
 
 “ Edie." 
 
 Julia donned her new dress — she had been able to 
 get herself one, and Mrs. Clinch had given her another, 
 since her return to Trowbury,— and set out on foot for 
 Mrs. Parfitt's. 
 
 Just where the Downs proper begin, where the hedges 
 give way to flowery banks, she saw Miss Starkey coming 
 to meet her, also in a new and, to tell the truth, rather 
 a startling costume. 
 
 “ Julie! Dear!" 
 
 Miss Starkey's embrace had a certain adroitness, a 
 whiff of professionalism, about it. Julia had never 
 quite liked her friend's kisses. At times . . . But she 
 was not one to suspect her friends. Miss Starkey, 
 she thought, had had her life's lesson. Now, of course, 
 she was extra help in a West End bar. Julia thought 
 she was lucky to get there, for she knew how pitilessly 
 women are punished for a five minutes' plunge into 
 nature. 
 
 “ What is it ? " she asked. “ I'm so pleased to see 
 you, dear, but you know you ought not to have come. 
 Those — those liars will turn you out again if they catch 
 you." 
 
 “ Oh, no, they won't. I've got money enough for 
 cab-hire. Tradesmen and policemen always respect 
 a cab. I came out to Nurse's in a cab — a beastly old 
 growler with a perfect fool of a driver. What cabs 
 they do have in places like this ! . . ." 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 279 
 
 Miss Starkey was plainly beating about the bush. 
 “ How deadly dull it is down here/' she began again. 
 
 “ What did you come down for, dear ? " Julia asked. 
 
 “ I'm not so sure. I'll tell you now." 
 
 “ Edie ! " 
 
 “ Well, look here. . . ." 
 
 They were walking along under a glorious south- 
 western sky. Huge clouds, in motion like great laden 
 ships, sailed majestically over the tops of the Downs. 
 The tumultuous confusion of spring was stirring all 
 around. They did not specially notice the day ; it 
 was not, indeed, till their conversation became absorb- 
 ing that their attention was directed upon much else 
 than keeping their new skirt-tails out of the mud. 
 But they breathed the deeper ; walked the faster ; 
 and who can say that it was not the stir of the season 
 and the spaciousness of sky and Downs, which gave 
 more breadth to their thoughts, more openness to 
 their speech, more candour to their conversation ? 
 Certainly it was so with Julia. 
 
 “ Look here," said Miss Starkey, “ I've got to know 
 a man . . ." 
 
 (Had she been the old Edith Starkey, or even a bar- 
 maid, she would have called him a gentleman.) 
 
 “ — I've got to know a man — talking over the bar, 
 you know — he's a sort of newspaper man, journalist — 
 a man who writes for the Halfpenny Press — he calls 
 himself a slap-up journalist when he's a bit on — you 
 can't take a rise out o' me sort of thing, — and, talking 
 over the counter, he told me — well, something about 
 the Holy Mountain, something your Alec would cut 
 off his ears to hear, or his beastly old man would, any- 
 how. And as I had five pounds to spare — a silly old 
 fellow, nasty fat old chap with a red nose and a hob- 
 nail liver, I should think, asked me to marry him, and 
 when I wouldn't he gave me a fiver — that's life in a bar 
 
280 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 all over ; — well, I thought I'd come down and tell you, 
 because it's important ; only you won't tell anybody 
 I told you, will you ? " 
 
 44 Well, what is this fine news ? " asked Julia with 
 the feigned good humour of anxiety. 
 
 “ It's like this. . . . This young man — he's not half a 
 bad boy — bit conceited — he was rather up the pole and 
 said he wanted sympathy and was sick of keeping his 
 ambitions to himself — he's Sir Pushcott Bingley's 
 secretary for all the Holy Mountain work, so he knows ; 
 he said Sir Pushcott Bingley has sublet the Holy 
 Mountain to himself." 
 
 “ What do you mean ? You're teasing me, Edie." 
 
 “ No, I'm not. I mean what I say. Sir Pushcott 
 Bingley has sublet the Holy Mountain to himself and 
 one or two other rich men. They've made a syndicate, 
 a private syndicate, not a registered company like they 
 ought to." 
 
 44 Whatever's that ? I don't understand business 
 like you. I thought 'twas let to a Pro Bono Publico 
 company." 
 
 44 That's it ! Sir Pushcott and his friends, they are 
 the Pro Bono Publico Syndicate. I'll tell you from 
 the beginning and then you'll understand. I made 
 Johnny Fulton explain it all carefully ; kept on at him ; 
 said I was going to start a millinery company myself. 
 Pretty trouble 'twas ! Sir Pushcott Bingley, acting 
 for Alec Trotman, let the Holy Mountain to the Perma- 
 nent Committee — the religious people. Didn't he ? He 
 let it, in the first place, by the month, for six months, the 
 rent to be paid in advance. Well, even now they've only 
 paid up the first two months’ rent. They thought that 
 when they'd had their Grand United Opening Ceremony 
 of the Imperial Temple, they'd be able to collect money 
 to carry on the good work, and then they'd be able to 
 pay up their back rent. As they were so behindhand 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 281 
 
 with the rent, Sir Pushcott could practically send them 
 going at a moment's notice. . . . D'you understand 
 that ? " 
 
 “ Yes, I think so." 
 
 “ That's all right, then. Well, he gave them enough 
 rope and, like he thought they would, they hanged 
 themselves. The Grand United Opening Ceremony 
 was a frost. Sir Pushcott didn't see where the money 
 was coming from, and besides he had another little 
 plan in his noddle. So he turned them out, bag and 
 baggage, and they couldn't go to law, because for one 
 thing they'd have lost the case, and for another thing, 
 Sir Pushcott knew they daren't make public how much 
 of the money they had paid to themselves and to 
 secretaries and those sort of people. Him, and some- 
 one else I mustn't say, and a rich City man, a Jew, 
 formed what they called the Pro Bono Publico Syndicate 
 to take over the Holy Mountain. Then Sir Pushcott, 
 acting for Alec, leased the Mountain to the Syndicate — 
 that is, to himself and the someone else and the Jew. . . 
 
 “ What are they going to do with it ? " 
 
 “ Wait a minute ; that's what I'm coming to. It's 
 a dead secret who it is and what it is. The Syndicate 
 has got separate offices in Cheapside with Johnny 
 Fulton supposed to be manager, and no one knows 
 anything, though one or two people are getting rather 
 nosey. They're going to spring it all at once. The 
 place is to be opened as a huge amusement affair with 
 a music-hall in the Imperial Temple and a beer-garden 
 on the roof where you can look over the whole of Lon- 
 don. Of course, they'll do just what they like, because, 
 you see, Sir Pushcott has the Halfpenny Press behind 
 him, and he could say things about almost every big 
 man in London. I think the Holy Mountain is going to 
 be a ripping place, and they'll haul in money simply 
 hand over foot, Johnny Fulton says." 
 
282 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 44 But they’ve made Alec break his promise to let the 
 Church have it. He promised . . 
 
 44 Pooh ! what does that matter ? Besides, he’s had 
 precious little to do with it. The Holy Mountain is 
 going to be the jolliest place round London. Johnny 
 Fulton has promised me a free pass. He says that as 
 a music-hall and beer-garden the Imperial Temple 
 will be worth . . .” 
 
 “ I think it’s all of it very disgusting.” 
 
 They were near Mrs. Parfitt’s little cottage. Julia’s 
 disgust was quite sincere. Beautiful scenes ; continued 
 attention, such as listening to a long conversation or 
 reading a book through at a sitting ; or, indeed, any 
 long emotional stress, have almost always the effect of 
 setting a man or woman into a different relation to the 
 everyday world. From the new elevation, he or she 
 looks down on mankind struggling, himself or herself 
 included ; looks in the face of fate itself ; and becomes, 
 till the mood wears off, recklessly frank. 
 
 There was now, in Julia’s speech, such a fearnought 
 sincerity that she half frightened Edith Starkey, and 
 when she had finished, she was more than a little 
 frightened at herself. Nurse Parfitt’s welcome, it 
 was, which brought her back to earth, her same self, 
 as it seemed, yet not the same in outlook and intention ; 
 not the same in regard to Alec ; for she felt that Alec 
 had been cheated. 
 
 44 There now, my dears ! ” exclaimed the old woman. 
 44 How glad I be to see ’ee again ! I’ve a-been summut 
 lonely be meself an’ so many things has happened. 
 Now do ’ee take hold the little ’en a minute while I 
 d’ go out an’ make that there kettle boil. You be quite 
 a grand Lun’on lady now, Miss Starkey, my dear.” 
 
 Julia took the baby while Miss Starkey removed her 
 hat before Mrs. Parfitt’s broken scrap of looking-glass. 
 The baby nestled down in her arms, looked up, and 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 283 
 
 crowed to her ; and something of the exalted frankness 
 that remained prompted her to say : 
 
 “ Edie dear, I think he is rather like Alec.” 
 
 “ Alec ! Why should he be like Alec ? Alec Trot- 
 man didn't have anything to do with him.” 
 
 “ But you told me . . .” 
 
 “ A soft boy like that ! With not a penny to bless 
 himself with ! His old man takes care of that.” 
 
 “ But you said quite plainly . . . Don't you re- 
 member that evening at your lodgings in Trowbury ? ” 
 “ No, I don't. I don't remember anything I said 
 then. A lot of nonsense. You were kind, old Julie, 
 I know ; and that's all. If you'd like to know really, 
 I'll tell you. 'Twas that — that beastly old Blue Bore, 
 Ganthorn, and he's been sending me money since, 
 when he's got to, to keep me quiet.” 
 
 Julia got up and put the baby down in a chair. 
 “ Edie, I must go now. Really. I can't wait for tea. 
 Don't stop me. I'll see you to-morrow, when I've had 
 time. . . . No, don't say anything. Good night.” 
 Something in Julia's voice, as though she were forcing 
 it up her throat through a wad of cotton wool, did 
 prevent Miss Starkey from saying anything. 
 
 The last thing Julia heard was the cry of the baby 
 she had so abruptly put down in a chair instead of 
 safely on the floor. She even resented in part its 
 not being Alec's. On the way into Trowbury, she 
 decided to beard the Famous Grocer in his Famous 
 Grocery. She would see the Trotmans. She must 
 see Alec and explain. She didn't care how Mrs. Trot- 
 man sniffed and Mr. Trotman bullied. She had done 
 Alec wrong, and wrong had been done to him. She 
 would put things right. She would tell him. She 
 would tell him that evening. She would . . . 
 
 It must be confessed that her motives, though all 
 good, were nevertheless a little mixed. 
 
284 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 VII 
 
 Mrs. Trot man was in the kitchen making marmalade ; 
 that is to say, she was superintending the servant, who 
 had not yet that day been given time to change her 
 dress. For with a patent orange-slicer Mrs. Trotman 
 had very nearly cut off the top of her finger, and now, 
 with the finger in a rag dolly, she was instructing the 
 servant in the right and wrong way of working the 
 machine. “ We shan't get done to-day," she was 
 saying, “ if you don't hurry up. Put your hands to it 
 properly. You're afraid of your fingers." 
 
 “ I am hurrying up, 'm, all I can." 
 
 “ There ! do be careful, or you'll cut your finger 
 too." 
 
 A ring at the front-door bell. . . . 
 
 “ Who's that ? " exclaimed Mrs. Trotman. “ I'll go. 
 No, you'd better go, Jane. I've got this finger. It may 
 be the Vicar about the parish tea." 
 
 Jane held out her juicy hands helplessly. 
 
 “ Go on ! " urged Mrs. Trotman. “ Wash your 
 hands, stupid ! You'll make every door-handle in the 
 house sticky." 
 
 Julia was on the point of ringing the bell a second 
 time when flushed and dirty Jane opened the door. 
 Was Mr. or Mrs. Trotman in ? she asked. Jane thought 
 so, and the mere young lady from the Emporium was, 
 in accordance with the household etiquette, left stand- 
 ing on the door-mat, where she could smell plainly the 
 sickly, sticky odour of squashed oranges and boiling 
 sugar — a smell that she always expected afterwards on 
 entering the Famous Grocery. 
 
 “ Please 'm," said Jane, quite audibly in the kitchen, 
 “ it's that Miss Jepp from Clinch's." 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 285 
 
 “ What does she want ? Ask her into the sitting- 
 room, not the drawing-room — d'you hear ?— and shut 
 the door.” 
 
 As soon as the door was shut, Julia being safe within, 
 Mrs. Trotman made a rush for her bedroom, to titivate, 
 as she would have said. She tore off the dolly, revived 
 the bleeding, poured some cold water into her wash- 
 hand basin and swished her finger round and round in 
 it. The blood spread through the water in bright red 
 whorls. Mrs. Trotman felt faint. (It was part of 
 her life's ceremonial, a lady-like elegance, to feel faint 
 at the sight of blood.) She sniffed, therefore, at a 
 bottle of salts till her eyes ran and she had to catch 
 hold of the bed-rail. 
 
 She became thoroughly flustered, her brain all of 
 a caddie. It was not the best preparation for meeting 
 Julia with proper dignity. 
 
 But meanwhile, in the sitting-room : 
 
 Alec had been lounging as usual in his father's arm- 
 chair. He did not trouble to move, or even turn his 
 head, until he heard to a certainty that the footstep in 
 the room was an unusual one. Then he looked round, 
 lumped up. 
 
 “ Julie ! ” 
 
 “ Alec ! ” 
 
 With the sensitive ear of a boy baulked in love, he 
 detected the change in Julia's voice. He heard again 
 the former motherly tone. He took Julia into his 
 arms — and was surprised to find her there. 
 
 Had anyone looked at the little scene without 
 imagination, they might have found it rather repulsive, 
 or else rather funny, according to whether prudishness 
 or humour was topmost in their mind. The very 
 callow youth — the motherly Emporium young lady, 
 already approaching a premature middle age — the 
 love-tones in their voices — a lovers' embrace— the 
 
286 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 love-experience of generations suddenly and grotesquely 
 come to a head in this hitherto listless youth and this 
 rather too much dressed woman. . . . Aye ! it was 
 funny, that kiss of theirs, and it was repulsive, there 
 in that ugly sitting-room; it was both funny and 
 repulsive by contrast ; that is to say, the sitting-room 
 was funny and repulsive, but their coming together 
 was one of the things they will remember in heaven if 
 so be they ever get there. 
 
 “ Whatever's brought you ? " Alec asked. 
 
 “ I've heard something important about your Holy 
 Mountain/' 
 
 “ Why didn't you write to me ? What made you so 
 queer ? " 
 
 “ Alec dear, it wasn't my fault. I'd rather not tell 
 you. You don't mind, do you ? " 
 
 In fact, Julia no longer wanted to explain. They 
 looked into one another's eyes. A force, like gravity 
 in its almost inhuman persistence, was drawing them 
 together again. . . . 
 
 “ Here's the old woman ! " said Alec. 
 
 They sprang apart. 
 
 Mrs. Trotman, hurrying into the room, either saw or 
 divined that something untoward was in the air. She 
 drew herself up, still holding the handle of the door, 
 and with that dignity which had so distinguished her 
 as Mayoress, she inquired : “To what do I owe the 
 pleasure ? " 
 
 “ All right," said Alec, not without dignity on his 
 part too. “ Julia has come to tell us something about 
 the Holy Mountain — something important." 
 
 “ Julia ? " 
 
 “ Well then, Miss Jepp." 
 
 “ And what has Miss Jepp to tell us about the Holy 
 Mountain ? " 
 
 “ You're being deceived, madam. Cheated ! " 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 287 
 
 “ Oh, nonsense ! Alec’s friend, Sir Pushcott Bingley, 
 will see to that.” 
 
 44 It’s him who’s doing it ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Trot man was quiet for a short while. She 
 drew up a blind, rearranged an antimacassar. When 
 she did speak, it was with something less of the mayoral 
 dignity. 44 Mr. Trotman must hear of this. But 
 please tell me. ... I don’t mind letting you know 
 that we have heard something. Won’t you sit 
 down ? ” 
 
 44 They’re making it into a sort of big public -house — a 
 music-hall and beer-garden in the Temple ! ” said Julia, 
 plunging straight into her tale. 
 
 44 But please begin at the beginning. — Alec dear, go 
 and ask the Vicar how many pounds of tea he thinks we 
 shall want at the parish tea to-morrow. — Mr. Trotman 
 provides the tea, you know, Miss Jepp.” 
 
 “ Not me ! I’m going to hear. It’s my Mountain, 
 and you can’t say it isn’t.” 
 
 Mrs. Trotman turned to Julia with a jangle of her 
 bracelets and the sweetest of her smiles. 4 4 So kind of 
 you to come ! ” 
 
 Miss Starkey’s account, which was somewhat con- 
 fused, had been plainness itself compared with Julia’s. 
 She, woman-like, remembered everything but the hard 
 facts. During the interview, however, Mrs. Trotman 
 saw more and more that there was good reason to be 
 amiable, and in the end she confessed : 44 Sir Pushcott 
 has told us nothing. He must be making money out 
 of it ; the rents of public -houses are enormous, I know ; 
 but we haven’t seen a penny here except the few pounds 
 he sent us at first. When Mr. Trotman writes we only 
 get a letter saying nothing from the secretary. I 
 always thought it would come to this. Sir Pushcott 
 has no religious principle^; none whatever. You must 
 stay to supper, Miss Jepp, and tell Mr. Trotman about 
 
288 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 it. I don't think I understand everything exactly, but 
 he'll soon see into it." 
 
 “ The Temple a beer-garden ! " echoed Miss Jepp. 
 
 “ And Sir Pushcott's sent us nothing, neither money 
 nor news ! " re-echoed Mrs. Trotman. 
 
 “ Strikes me his promises are like pie-crust. Never 
 could eat that," added Alec with shocking levity. 
 
 “ And who did you say told you ? " Mrs, Trotman 
 asked. 
 
 “ Miss Starkey." 
 
 “ The one who used to be here, in the shop ? " 
 
 “ Yes." 
 
 “ Oh ! " 
 
 Mrs. Trotman went to have a look at the larder, 
 confident that the presence of the servant, whom she 
 told to lay supper, would prevent anything improper 
 between Alec and Miss Jepp. She called in the shop 
 for a tin of ox-tongue, and, generally, arranged for 
 such a spread as Castle Street custom and house-pride 
 would have obliged her to lay before her worst enemy. 
 
 Mr. Trotman, home early because sent for from the 
 Blue Boar, was most gallantly polite to Julia. He 
 hoped she would not object to the simplicity of the 
 tinned fare, and cracked jokes at his wife's expense. 
 “ Plain but good, is our motto, Miss Jepp, in food — and 
 people ! " 
 
 Then the tale is told. Mr. Trotman, seated on one 
 side of the fireplace with his whiskey and after-supper 
 cigar, listens judicially, explaining from time to time 
 the hidden business motives of the events that Julia 
 relates. Julia herself, in the basket chair on the other 
 side, leans forward with her hands in her lap, twiddling 
 her fingers, her face alight with talking. She looks 
 like a girl again when she raises her head. Mrs. Trot- 
 man sits in a low chair between them, and Alec sprawls 
 half-way across the far side of the table. The gaslight 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 289 
 
 brings out the bony substructure of their faces. The 
 air is full of important matters and of trivial smells — 
 whiskey, tobacco, scent, cigarettes. London and the 
 great are on their trial within the sanctity of an English 
 home. The mammon of success and unrighteous- 
 ness is brought to judgment before England's middle- 
 class ideal. 
 
 Julia, unfortunately, being ignorant of the ways 
 of mammon major, was quite unable to make his 
 operations clear. She emphasised the sacrilegious - 
 ness of the affair to ears that were all agog for the 
 monetary side of it. She was more inaccurate than 
 she or the Trotmans knew. Her striving after truth 
 ended in lies and confusion. Mr. Trotman’s business 
 acumen was baffled. 
 
 “ It's very evident that something’s up,” said he 
 wisely. 
 
 “ It ought to be stopped,” said Julia, thinking only 
 of the Temple beer-garden. 
 
 “ Sir Pushcott’s certainly doing something he hasn’t 
 told us about.” 
 
 “ You ought to stop it.” 
 
 “ D’you know, Miss Jepp, I think we ought to see 
 Miss Starkey before taking action in the matter.” 
 
 “ James ! ” This from Mrs. Trotman. 
 
 “ We must be certain of our ground, my dear, and 
 therefore we must see Miss Starkey.” 
 
 “ If she comes into the house, I go out.” 
 
 “ Don’t be silly. Business is business. This is a 
 business matter, nothing to do with you. — Will you, 
 can you, bring Miss Starkey here to-morrow morning, 
 Miss Jepp ? ” 
 
 “ I’ll try,” said Julia. “ If she’ll come. . . .” 
 
 She glanced anxiously at the clock and got up to go. 
 It was fully time for locking the young ladies’ door at 
 the Emporium. 
 
 u 
 
290 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Mrs. Trotman showed her out. She pressed her 
 hand even affectionately. “ You won't mind — will 
 you? — if I ask 'you to bring Miss Starkey in through 
 Gherrybud Lane and the garden — not the front door 
 — you understand — you know. . . . We shouldn't like 
 anybody to see. . . ." 
 
 Alec brushed past his mother. “ I'll take Julia 
 home, mother." 
 
 Very slowly they walked down to the Emporium. 
 
 “ It must be stopped," repeated Julia. 
 
 “ All right, Julia," said Alec airily. 
 
 Another kiss, and another “ We'll manage 'em ! " 
 from Alec. The Emporium door banged. He trotted 
 home, tiptoed past the sitting-room, and slipped into 
 bed. 
 
 What did he care about the Holy Mountain ? 
 
 VIII 
 
 V 
 
 When an emporium has had to beg one of its young 
 ladies to return, it becomes much more lenient to re- 
 quests for hours off. Mr. Clinch grudgingly allowed 
 Julia to go out for the morning. Mrs. Clinch added 
 that they might be able to do without her till tea- 
 time. 
 
 Julia's life seemed to flow backwards and forwards 
 along the London road, between the Emporium and 
 Mrs. Parfitt's, between Trowbury and the Downs. 
 She thought, while she was walking out, of all the 
 times she had tramped that way. Various objects 
 by the roadside revived various bygone feelings. It 
 was a mixed reverie that would look absurd if written 
 in cold black ink. She had not been on that road in 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 291 
 
 such a happy frame of mind since the evening when 
 Ramshorn Hill had moved. “ No, but we bicycled 
 then,” she said to herself. She remembered the evening, 
 every bit of it. Now she was going confidently to 
 fetch Edith Starkey for the confounding of every- 
 body who was trying to cheat Alec, her Alec, over the 
 Holy Mountain. Mr. Trotman, he was a nasty old 
 man and she didn’t like him, but he'd see to it, he'd put 
 it to rights. 
 
 Before she arrived even within sight of Mrs. Parfitt’s 
 cottage, she saw a milk-cart outside the Three Wains 
 public-house, and in the milk-cart she saw a band- 
 box which she was quite sure belonged to Edith Starkey. 
 And as she was taking a peep at the label, she heard 
 Edith Starkey’s voice inside the Three Wains ; a 
 merry laugh and a loud guffaw. She walked shyly into 
 the open door, looked through a little jug-and-bottle 
 window. Miss Starkey was there. She was joking 
 and laughing with a strong brown-faced young carter, 
 who was plainly proud of the young lady’s distinguished 
 attentions. His weathered countenance, the moustache 
 and brows of which were lighter than his skin, and his 
 bright eyes, followed her about the room. Miss Starkey 
 preened and cooed under the half shy, half bold regard 
 of such a splendid young human animal. He thought 
 her a fine hearty lady ; he was sadly idealising her. 
 And she was idealising him. She had seldom met his 
 like. It was a radiantly healthy clean-limbed young 
 fellow, who in his way treated her with much polite- 
 ness. In their little idyll, their morning bacchanal, 
 extremes met for a few minutes on their only common 
 ground, and for a few minutes, both desired what 
 neither had and neither would willingly have kept 
 for long. 
 
 Julia tapped diffidently, and tapped again. 
 
 “ Just a mo’, Jimmy,” said Miss Starkey. 
 
292 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ Oh-aouw ! ” 
 
 “ Hullo, Julie ! What d'you want ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Trotman wants me to take you in there to tell 
 him about the Holy Mountain.” 
 
 “ Does he ? Wants to make use of me again, does 
 he ? Come off his righteous perch, eh ? You can tell 
 him I may call somewhen in the day.” 
 
 “ They asked me to take you there myself. They're 
 very upset, and I couldn't explain properly, like you can. 
 And Edie . . . Mrs. Trotman wants me to take you in 
 through Cherrybud Lane and the garden way. That's 
 why.” 
 
 Tactless Julia ! somewhat too straightforward to 
 be a go-between. Miss Starkey faced round both 
 literally and metaphorically. “ You can tell the 
 Trotmans to go to the devil — all of 'em — d'you hear ! ” 
 Julia stood hesitating. . 
 
 “ I'm going back to London straight away. This 
 young man is taking me to the station, ain't you, 
 Jimmy ? ” 
 
 “ Oh-aouw ! ” 
 
 “ If you wanted to see me, what did you go away 
 last night for ? I came down on purpose to see you.” 
 Miss Starkey returned to her carter, laughing merrily 
 again, whilst Julia retreated from the Three Wains, 
 glancing anxiously up and down the road to see if any- 
 body who mattered had caught sight of her. She 
 walked with a step suddenly grown tired back to the 
 Emporium, and set to work on a yard or two of material 
 which was afterwards to figure in the window as Modish 
 Blouse . The Latest , 7s. Ilf d. 
 
 The land of her castles in the air had always been 
 subject to earthquakes. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 293 
 
 IX 
 
 The result of Miss Starkey's flying visit to Trowbury 
 was at least threefold. In the first place, Julia, feeling 
 unusually lonely, allowed Alec formally to muddle 
 through the formal question, formally accepted him, 
 and formally wore a pretty engagement ring. In the 
 second place, Mr. Trotman wrote to Sir Pushcott 
 Bingley, demanding in full an account of the Holy 
 Mountain and threatening to instruct his solicitor. 
 And, lastly, Alec wrote secretly and posted with un- 
 necessary precautions a letter to the baronet in which 
 he asked boldly for enough money to get married on. 
 
 Sir Pushcott was wanting a change ; the spring 
 had got into his blood too. He decided on a brief 
 motor tour into the West - country. Mr. Trotman's 
 threat to instruct his solicitor might mean a certain 
 amount of trouble — someone else to be squared. 
 Sir Pushcott, therefore, thought it would be well to 
 break his tour at Trowbury and to see how things really 
 stood. 
 
 So, one evening again, his large motor car buzzed 
 over the Downs like an incalculably swift insect and 
 drew up outside the Famous Grocery Establishment. 
 Mr. Trotman was at home. Sir Pushcott flattered 
 himself that he knew his man quite well enough for 
 all practical purposes, and on being shown into the 
 frowsy fripperied dining-room, he led off his hand at 
 once. 
 
 “ Good evening, Mr. Trotman. I have received 
 your letter and have dealt with it myself. You under- 
 stand, of course, that the Committee failed, after 
 paying only two instalments of its rent. Now, if 
 you like to provide the capital — a hundred thousand 
 
294 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 or so — and meet the pending lawsuits and arbitrations, 
 and take the whole matter out of my hands, it will 
 be a great weight off my shoulders. If you are not 
 prepared to lay down that sum, you will be well ad- 
 vised to leave the matter entirely to me. As I told 
 you before, I have some influence in addition to the 
 capital. In a short time, thanks to the Pro Bono 
 Publico Syndicate, there will be money coming in over 
 and above the expenses, and then your son will receive 
 his income regularly, and so forth. If you do wish to 
 take it out of my hands, perhaps you — your son, that 
 is to say — will have the kindness to let me know at 
 once in writing. 5 ' 
 
 'Mendment Trotman assumed an air of apologetic 
 defiance. “ But . . , 55 he began. 
 
 “ I am afraid I haven't time to discuss the matter 
 now. Those are my terms. My car is outside — due 
 at Bath for dinner to-night. Good evening." 
 
 Sir Pushcott went out, by mistake, through the 
 shop. 
 
 A little way down the street, when the car had 
 slowed down behind a straw waggon, Sir Pushcott's 
 hand was grasped, and he heard Alec saying in a voice 
 much cheerier than he had ever heard from him before : 
 “ Did you get my letter, Sir Pushcott ? You haven't 
 answered it." 
 
 44 Hullo, Alec ! Is that you ? How are you now ? 
 Yes, I got your letter. Let me see, what was it you 
 wanted money for ? " 
 
 44 To get married on. ..." Alec's face was 
 glowing. 
 
 44 Why, what a set of harpies you country people are ! 
 What do you want to get married for, eh ? " 
 
 Alec blushed. 44 Please . . ." he said in confusion, 
 then stopped short, like a small shy child out to tea and 
 in want of a second helping. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 295 
 
 Sir Pushcott, like many men who pride themselves 
 on hardness, cuteness, and so on, was touched by the 
 sweethearting of the younger folk. Spite of immense 
 success in life, his own marriage had not quite come up 
 to his expectations, nor yet had it been bad enough 
 utterly to destroy his sense of romance. Alec’s funny 
 speech, his embarrassment and the happy new hope- 
 fulness in his face, touched the heart of the Director 
 of the Halfpenny Press , lifted the hatches of a little 
 stream deep down within him ; which caused him to 
 act neither as the man he aimed at being, nor as the 
 man he had become, but rather as the man he might 
 have been. 
 
 “ What does your father say to it ? ” he asked with 
 a twinkle in his eye. 
 
 “ Oh, he ... He doesn’t know. He’ll ... I don’t 
 know what.” 
 
 “ Come back to him with me,” said Sir Pushcott. 
 “ Jump in. I’ll fix you up.” 
 
 Alec led Sir Pushcott straight to the sitting-room, and 
 once more Mr. Trotman received a frontal attack. 
 
 “ Your son, Mr. Trotman, tells me he is about to be 
 married, and . . .” 
 
 “ Nothing of the sort ! ” 
 
 “ — and I shall be pleased to send him a little cheque 
 — five hundred pounds or so — on account of the Holy 
 Mountain, in advance, you understand. — Let me know 
 the day, Alec. Where are you going to spend the 
 honeymoon ? Eh ? Don’t know ? London ? If so, 
 I’m not sure I can’t lend you a little house of mine just 
 in the centre of all the theatres and sights. Good 
 night, my boy. Good luck ! ” 
 
 Off sped the motor car to Bath. Alec, the bird in 
 his hand at last, slipped out to the Emporium. Mr. 
 Trotman called loudly about the house for his wife. 
 
 A couple of days afterwards, Trowbury had the 
 
296 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 pleasure of reading in the Halfpenny Press a column 
 headed : 
 
 THE HOEY MOUNTAIN 
 
 ALEC TROTMAN'S ROMANCE 
 
 THE COMING WEDDING 
 AT TROWBUTRY 
 
 And that, of course, sealed the betrothal. 
 
 X 
 
 Alec did not fail to wonder, during the next few 
 weeks, if anybody could be quite as happy as himself ; 
 so pleasant it was to be engaged under the protection 
 of Sir Pushcott Bingley. And besides, his Julia was 
 received at Castle Street. Mr. Trotman sat up in 
 his arm-chair, smoking his cheap cigars, and discoursed 
 most civilly on the management of great businesses — 
 grocery shops, town councils, Holy Mountains, the 
 Halfpenny Press . He even began to take a pride in 
 Julia Jepp, and declared her to be a very sensible 
 young woman ; for was it not settled that she was 
 to marry his son, enter into his family, and become 
 in a sense his property ? Nothing that was the property 
 of James Trotman could be allowed to be bad ; else 
 it was not really his property, but a burden unfairly 
 forced upon him. Alec had been all his life a property 
 and an insufferable burden. 
 
 When they could escape from the paternal sun- 
 shine, Alec walked Julia out. Accept Mrs. Clinch's 
 invitation to tea at the Emporium was the one thing 
 he could not bring himself to do. The other young 
 ladies would have stared and giggled so. But they 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 297 
 
 took tea more than once at old Nurse Parfitt’s, amid 
 floods of the old woman's talk. People stopped them 
 in the street to congratulate them, and with kindly 
 voices asked impertinent questions. Presents arrived 
 at Castle Street ; presents from all over the country ; 
 which, as Mr. Trotman remarked, when they were 
 set out on a table in the drawing-room, did him proud. 
 Alec and Julia strolled about the outskirts of the town, 
 entering prim front gardens and peeping into the 
 windows of empty houses, not because they wanted to 
 rent a house — nothing of that sort was to be decided 
 till after the honeymoon, — but because houses and 
 firesides, dear private places, had become of special 
 interest to them. Alec's health improved rapidly. 
 He stood more and more on his own feet. He was 
 becoming a man. 
 
 But whilst those two were building castles in the air- 
 castles on a hill that had once moved and might do so 
 again— the controversy over that same Holy Mountain 
 grew daily more uproarious. That it should be used 
 for pleasure, low common people's pleasure, roused 
 the influential supporters of the Permanent Committee 
 to hysterical indignation. At first this found vent 
 in those newspapers, mostly religious, certainly few 
 and unimportant, which were beyond the control of 
 the Director of the Halfpenny Press . Then the Penny 
 Press , out-voting Sir Pushcott's interest in its manage- 
 ment in a vain hope of increasing its circulation, joined 
 in the howl. Platitudes, nicely reconcocted for its 
 readers, flew about like starlings over stubble. In- 
 dignation meetings were organised. Government in- 
 terference was demanded. The King and Lords 
 were petitioned. A reaction was forecasted. Those 
 who had never supported the religious work of the 
 Permanent Committee, now found themselves more 
 than able, more than willing, to fight (vocally) under 
 
298 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 the banner of religion ; to write, to speak, to denounce 
 and to consign their fellow-men to hell, presumably as 
 luggage in advance. The semi-intelligent, only capable 
 of taking sides, divided themselves up into Trotmanites 
 and Anti-Trotmanites, “ Antichrist is come ! ” said one 
 side, while the others repeated like parrots, “ Business 
 is business ! Progress must not be stayed ! 99 
 
 Alec was scarcely disturbed at all. 
 
 Finally, a syndicate of wealthy men, real and bogus 
 philanthropists, issued an opposition halfpenny news- 
 paper which, for the good of the cause, declined to 
 make a profit. Sir Pushcott was compelled to look 
 about him. By some clever manipulations on the 
 Stock Exchange, and in virtue of some knighthoods 
 procured by his influence with the government, he 
 brought the philanthropists to see the expediency, the 
 true morality, of compromise. Daily Tidings came, 
 after much earnest thought and so forth, to the con- 
 clusion that the Pro Bono Publico Syndicate, under 
 strict inspection, should be given a trial. A committee 
 of very titled and excessively influential men and 
 women was formed to investigate and to advise. The 
 Pro Bono Publico Syndicate solemnly promised to be 
 educational. Th e Halfpenny Press interviewed several 
 doctors on the subject, Sane Amusement a Safeguard of 
 National Health . Insanity, they all agreed, was fre- 
 quently the result of a dull life ; and possibly cancer 
 too ; for, as they pointed out, old maids and pensioners 
 are peculiarly liable to cancer. The compromise was 
 much applauded. It was found to be in accordance 
 with the inborn sense of justice of the British race. 
 
 Julia developed a fixed dislike to the Holy Mountain 
 and everything concerning it. Whenever — and it 
 was often enough — Mr. Trotman laid down the law 
 about it, she became grimly silent and bit her lips 
 into chaps. When Alec tried to impress upon her 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 299 
 
 that their marriage and all their fortunes depended 
 entirely on the Holy Mountain, she appeared quite 
 unable to understand even his simple arguments. 
 By letting him see how unhappy it made her, she 
 effectively, if not openly, forbade him to talk about it. 
 Once or twice they had words. 
 
 The Pro Bono Publico Syndicate arranged to open 
 the Holy Mountain on Whit Monday. On that bank 
 holiday also, Alexander Trotman, Mayor of Trowbury, 
 and Julia Mary Jepp were duly married at the parish 
 church, amid a confusion of cabs, cakes, clergy, speeches, 
 relatives, reporters, congratulations, sightseers and 
 luggage. There is little need to describe the ceremony. 
 Julia did not weep. It was like any other marriage in 
 a country town, only more so. 
 
 Neither is there any need to describe the happiness 
 of the bridal pair. It was at once too much described 
 and too great for description, and it was tainted with 
 an elusive apprehension of no one knew what. Alec 
 felt . . . But Alec was ever incapable of realising his 
 feelings. 
 
 In the words of the Trowbury Guardian : “ The 
 Happy Couple left by the afternoon express for the 
 mansion in London kindly lent them by Sir Pushcott 
 Bingley.” 
 
 XI 
 
 With Alec and Julia, as with so many young married 
 couples from the country, the wonder of London, seen 
 under such special conditions, did but add itself to the 
 wonder of being married and confirm the ceremonial 
 breakage of a new life from the old. Though Julia, 
 at all events, knew only too much of the modern yokel's 
 
300 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 Mecca, everything seemed continuously new to both 
 of them. They basked in the winks of guards and 
 porters, nor did Julia feel herself insulted this time, for 
 was not their position above-board now, and entirely 
 respectable ? 
 
 Mrs. Maclean, the housekeeper of Sir Pushcott 
 Bingley’s bachelor-house, as he had called it in writing 
 to Alec, received them with kindly curiosity. Sir 
 Pushcott, she said with an elderly servant's pleasure 
 in the smallest doings of ‘ the family,' would not 
 obtrude that day. Meanwhile, they were to be sure 
 the house was theirs, though it was not nearly so fine 
 as the house in Park Lane or as Lady Bingley's flat 
 in Kensington. Dinner was timed for eight o'clock. 
 Would that suit them ? 
 
 It was all delightful. They dined together on many 
 courses. Strangely delightful ! They felt, for the 
 time being, master and mistress of the world. They 
 experienced to the full that silent widespread con- 
 spiracy which is always operating to marry and give in 
 marriage. 
 
 Not that they minded. How nice, how much 
 younger, Julia looked ! And how much handsomer 
 Alec had become ! They were each other's. 
 
 One cloud there was. No need to inquire too closely 
 into it. Call it coyness on Julia's part. She desired 
 to go somewhere, to see something, that evening. 
 Alec desired to stay at home till bedtime. Julia took 
 feminine steps to get her own way ; so that when Mrs. 
 Maclean appeared at the end of dinner to gaze on the 
 newly married couple and to excuse her fluttering round 
 by asking if they knew London, Julia said that she did 
 know London, that her husband did not know it at all 
 well, and that they proposed going somewhere that very 
 evening. 
 
 On hearing from the housekeeper that Sir Pushcott 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 301 
 
 had ordered them to have the use of a motor brougham, 
 Alec gave way. 
 
 Where should they go ? 
 
 Mrs. Maclean was ready with a suggestion. The 
 Holy Mountain was, of course, what they ought to go 
 and see — its opening day too. She would ring up the 
 garage and have the motor brougham round. 
 
 Julia's face fell. “ I didn't want to think about that 
 to-day," she whispered while the housekeeper was at 
 the telephone. 
 
 Alec, however, newly-made possessor of Julia, was 
 beginning to think himself a personage. Thoughts 
 struck him very forcibly : “ I am the owner of the 
 Holy Mountain. It has been opened to-day. I 
 moved it. It's mine. We ought to go and see it." 
 He knew also that he would be of consequence there, 
 and after receiving so much attention, he lusted for 
 more. He acted decisively, not waiting to argue or 
 discuss. “ Which way do we go there ? " he asked. 
 
 Mrs. Maclean decided that they ought to go up 
 Oxford Street and past the Park — quite near Sir Push- 
 cott’s other house, — and along the Uxbridge Road. 
 Her philosophy of honeymooning was : “ Keep them 
 on the move, or else they'll be sure to have tiffs." 
 She had detected that this couple was not in complete 
 agreement over some matter or other, and therefore she 
 hastened the more to bustle them off. 
 
 Julia, anxious to go out for her own reasons, was 
 not unattracted by the notion of driving in a private 
 motor through some of the great streets where afore- 
 time she had walked or had driven on a bus. She 
 made her husband's eagerness hers. She put herself 
 into his hands with an almost pathetic renunciation 
 of her customary motherliness. But she had her 
 apprehensions all the same, and on being tucked into 
 the comfortable brougham, a kind of weariness came 
 
302 
 
 HE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 over her. She lost sight, as it were, of the future. 
 It became foggy, dark, uncertain, and consequently 
 to be feared. 
 
 She could have said, “ I told you so ! " when, 
 at the Marble Arch, something went wrong with the 
 machinery, and they had to back, not without risk, 
 into a side street. 
 
 They were tired, both of them, and after taking 
 a more or less fictitious interest in the repairs and 
 the traffic, they sat back on the cushions and nearly 
 fell asleep on one another's shoulders — till Julia saw a 
 man look in at the window and grin — grin unpleasantly. 
 Thereafter she sat bolt upright. 
 
 It was late by the time they had worked themselves 
 through the traffic into the neighbourhood of Acton. 
 Still tireder they were now ; so tired that the lights, 
 the people and the noise seemed part of a dream. 
 
 Suddenly Alec nudged Julia : 
 
 “ I say ! What's that ? " 
 
 Through the hazy air they saw before them, over 
 the housetops, what looked like a huge mound of dull 
 flame. And, as soon as their attention was fixed 
 upon it, they heard snatches of giddy music with an 
 undertone of voices — the peculiar deep uncanny roar 
 of many people shouting, talking and laughing in the 
 distance. 
 
 “ That must be the Holy Mountain," Julia replied. 
 
 “No! Really?" 
 
 “Yes. That's it." 
 
 “ I say, it's fine. Isn't it ? " 
 
 Julia stared at it dully. Then she said in a resigned 
 voice : “ Yes. I suppose it is. It is fine. Lovely ! — 
 Alec, I wish we weren't going there." 
 
 “ We must go on now we've started." 
 
 Alec was beginning to excite himself. The blaze 
 of light acted upon him like the noise — also called 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 303 
 
 blaze — of trumpets. His lethargy drew off. “ Fine ! ” 
 he exclaimed. “ Fine ! And it's all ours, Julie.” 
 
 “ And Sir Pushcott Bingley's, Alec. It’s not really 
 ours. If 'twas . . .” 
 
 “ But it is ! I moved it, didn't I ? ” 
 
 Julia raised herself to face him. 
 
 “ Did you ? ” she said with great emphasis. 
 
 “ Well, I s'pose I did. It moved when I wanted 
 it to, anyhow. Don't you remember ? It moved 
 just as I was kissing you — just then.” 
 
 “ Yes, just as you were kissing me. . . 99 
 “ I believe 'twas the kiss did it,” Alec added with 
 affectionate inconsequence. 
 
 “ No, Alec. You prayed, didn’t you ? ” 
 
 “ I did pray, Julia ; and I did kiss you too. — Julie ? ” 
 “ Yes ? ” 
 
 “ I think 'twas loving you sort o' made me pray 
 properly. 'Twas loving you did it. When you love 
 anybody, you can sort of . . . You're . . . You know 
 what I mean. . . .” 
 
 The brougham stopped in a press of traffic returning 
 to town from Acton. They were nearer the Holy 
 Mountain, and through a gap they could see how the 
 light on the slopes cast itself upwards in great beams, 
 as well as downwards on the crowd of people, and 
 illuminated the shoddy architecture, the ostentatious 
 columns and cornices of the Imperial Temple, renamed 
 the Imperial Hall of Music but still popularly called 
 the Temple. Two searchlights swept the sky. Alec 
 and Julia saw people on the flat roof, and made out 
 black-and-white waiters moving about among the 
 potted bushes and the strings of electric glow-lamps. 
 There are certain lights and conditions of atmosphere 
 which make the ugliest work of man into a thing of 
 surpassing beauty. Those were the conditions that 
 night. The Holy Mountain and the Temple with its 
 
304 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 beer-garden roof seemed like some misty loveliness 
 brought from another world, from the world mankind 
 desires. 
 
 “ I say, Julie ! I say ! Look ! ” 
 
 Alec sat nearer to her and kept up a series of astonished 
 exclamations which fell upon her ear as if they had been 
 emitted from a piece of speaking machinery. 
 
 The brougham moved on a few yards, into a space 
 crowded with vehicles and noisy beyond the ear’s 
 capacity. Underneath a bright canopy on which was 
 picked out in coloured lamps the words — 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 / 
 
 — Alec and Julia saw a long row of turnstiles, and 
 a large notice, No change here . Admission One Shilling . 
 The turnstiles made an insufferable clicking noise 
 though few were entering through them. 
 
 From another row of turnstiles a short distance away 
 a seemingly endless crowd was flowing irregularly in 
 spurts. Cab whistles and the rattle of motor buses 
 seemed almost one with the stink of petrol. 
 
 Like many provincials when confused by the noise 
 of great cities, Julia’s thoughts turned back to the 
 country. It flashed into her mind — the calm open 
 Downs and the fresh wind upon them. And following 
 that vision, came the horror of the moving of the 
 Holy Mountain. She felt inclined to tears ; sad and 
 hemmed in. She would have turned home even then, 
 but that evening Alec had taken the lead. He steered 
 her to a turnstile. The excitement and responsibility 
 combined had wrought him up to something of the 
 alertness of a city-born man. 
 
 “ Late, sir, isn’t it ? ” said the gatekeeper who took 
 their money. 
 
 “ All right,” Alec replied. “ We want to have a look 
 at it.” 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 305 
 
 “ Well, you've never seen the like, and that's a fact. 
 My hands is stiff and black with silver." 
 
 Within the turnstiles, Alec and Julia saw a broad 
 avenue leading straight up to the Temple. On either 
 side were trees in boxes, tiers of lights. Few people 
 were near them. Julia noticed that the audience from 
 the Hall of Music were descending the Holy Mountain 
 by another avenue which led directly from the Temple 
 to the exit turnstiles. The bold stodgy strains of 
 God Save the King forced their way down to her. 
 
 A man wearing a top-hat on which the electric arc- 
 lights shone, was walking down the avenue. Julia 
 saw a woman, unmistakably dressed, dart out from 
 the shelter of one of the bushes, go up to him and 
 pluck his arm. He shook her off violently with 
 gestures of disgust, calling her courtesan in rough 
 language ; and, reeling to the other side of the avenue, 
 she fell against a lamp -post. 
 
 “ Why, it's Edie Starkey ! — Edie ! " cried Julia. 
 
 “ Now you know how I get my living, Julia Jepp. 
 None of your drapers' shops for me ! " 
 
 With a crying moan, like that of wind, Edith Starkey 
 ran away up the slope. 
 
 Alec pulled Julia away. She had burst into tears 
 and was clinging to his arm. “ Oh, I hate this place ! " 
 she wailed. 
 
 Alec loitered about with her for some time, until she 
 was calmer ; and then he started again for the Temple. 
 An impulse, his embarrassment even, compelled him to 
 go ahead. 
 
 They came to the main entrance of the Temple. 
 The God Save the King had ceased. “ Can't go in 
 now. All over ! " said a commissionaire who had 
 Holy Mountain broidered in gold on his peaked 
 cap. 
 
 “ I want to go to the top." 
 
 x 
 
306 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 “ It's too late, sir. All over now/' 
 
 “ I shall go. It's my place.” 
 
 “ Eh, what ? ” 
 
 “ I'm Alexander Trotman.” 
 
 “ What ? ” 
 
 “ I'm Alexander Trotman, I tell you, and I want to 
 go to the top.” 
 
 The commissionaire looked at him closely. “ The 
 devil you are ! — Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “ I'll take 
 your card up to the manager, sir.” 
 
 Alec gave him one of the new visiting-cards his mother 
 had had printed. 
 
 “ If you'll be good enough to wait a moment in the 
 vestibule, sir. . . .” 
 
 The swallow-tailed manager came to them. He was 
 obsequiously polite, examining Alec intently all the 
 while. “ We didn't expect you, or we should have 
 been ready. Sir Pushcott said you were probably 
 coming to-morrow with him. If you had let us know 
 — a proper reception — you will excuse . . .” 
 
 “ I want to go on the top, on the roof,” Alec inter- 
 rupted irritably. 
 
 Was it not his Holy Mountain ? 
 
 “ We've had it cleared ; had to do it a minute or 
 two ago. A young woman — h'm ! ah ! — took her life 
 by jumping off the parapet. We will have the place 
 wired in to-morrow. 
 
 Julia shuddered on Alec's arm. “ Was it Edie 
 Starkey ? ” she whispered. “ No ! Don't ask. I don't 
 want to know. I'm sure 'twas. Poor Edie. . . .” 
 
 The manager was taking them into the lift. They 
 clung together when it started with a jolt. “ Can I 
 send you up anything ? ” he asked, with his eye on 
 Julia. “ A drop of brandy ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ No ! ” said Julia. 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 307 
 
 “ No, thank you,” said Alec. “ Leave us alone, 
 please. All right in the fresh air.” 
 
 After hovering about them for a short time, the 
 manager went below, and they were left alone on the 
 roof. 
 
 Alec led Julia to a seat near the edge of the beer 
 garden. She burst into weeping. “ Alec, it’s wicked. 
 It's wicked, wicked ! I'm sure 'twas poor Edie Starkey. 
 Oh, I hate, I loathe this place ! It's brought her to this 
 and killed her. I wish it was back in Wiltshire again. 
 It all began with this.” 
 
 Alec argued, quite uselessly of course. Julia blamed 
 the Holy Mountain for everything. He tried to distract 
 her by pointing over the London which lay beneath 
 them, a sea of blackness, spotted with lights, and high 
 buildings, and towers like the masts and shroudings of 
 vessels in a harbour. London looked up ; the heavens 
 down. Julia and Alec were suspended, as it were, 
 between the living city and the still, yet hardly in- 
 animate, sky. The night wind was gentle with them, 
 the noise far off. 
 
 Julia was seized with a fit of weeping more violent 
 than before. “ It's wicked, Alec. Oh, how I wish you'd 
 never moved it ! Move it back. Think of poor Edie, 
 broken to bits, all squashed, dead, on the pavement 
 down there. I can see her. Look ! there they 
 are, carrying her down the slope, there — can't you 
 see ? — like a cockroach crawling ! Move it back, Alec. 
 Alec ! ” 
 
 “ How can I ? ” 
 
 “ You can ! ” 
 
 “ I can't, dear. I can't move another mountain.” 
 
 “ If ye had faith as a grain of mustard seed . . .” 
 
 “ 'Twasn't that, Julie. Julie dear, stop crying. Do ! 
 You'll be ill. You'll shake yourself to bits.” 
 
 Julia pulled herself together. Alec's words in the 
 
308 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 brougham came back to her mind, echoed in her ear : 
 I think ’twas loving you sort o’ made me 'pray properly . 
 ’Twas loving you did it. She had the secret. Her mind 
 worked with effortless rapidity. Delilah revived in her. 
 She took up all her sex's weapons — to battle with such a 
 Samson ! 
 
 “ Allie dear, for my sake. ..." 
 
 She wound herself about him, body, mind and soul. 
 She felt him beginning to give way. She kissed him ; 
 maddened him ; implored him. She dragged him to the 
 level of her own despairing ecstasy. Body, mind and 
 soul she dragged, each in its own way. 
 
 “Allie! You love me. Alec! For my sake. . . . Put 
 an end to it all. If you love me, you can. I know it. 
 You know it. It's faith and love, Alec. If you had 
 faith — a little, little faith. . . . Alec ! My love ! You 
 can do it. — For my sake — Alec — dear ! You will. You 
 will ! Alec. . . 
 
THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 
 
 309 
 
 XII 
 
 Hereunder are the headlines of the Halfpenny 
 Press : — 
 
 APPALLING CATASTROPHE 
 
 HOLY MOUNTAIN GONE 
 trotman’s treachery 
 trotman's end 
 
 PERISHES WITH NEWLY WED WIFE 
 UNPARALLELED OCCURRENCE 
 INTERVIEW WITH SORROWING FATHER 
 
 THE MOTHER'S SANITY 
 
 LEADING OPINIONS 
 
 THE NEWS AT THE STOCK EXCHANGE 
 
 ( Copyright ) 
 
 1904 - 9 , 
 

SECOND EDITION 
 
 A POOR MAN’S HOUSE 
 
 By STEPHEN REYNOLDS 
 
 Crown 8vo. Price 6s. Postage 4 d. extra. 
 
 “A Poor Man’s House” is not a novel. In support 
 of his main contention, that the future belongs to “ the 
 poor,” because they possess in a greater degree than any 
 other class not only “the will to live” but “the courage 
 to live,” the author records his experiences as an inmate 
 “of a poor man’s house,” as a fellow-worker with the 
 “poor man,” in this instance a Devon fisherman. It 
 is perfectly safe to say that such an intricate picture 
 of “a poor man’s house” has never hitherto been 
 attempted. It exemplifies in a striking manner the 
 realist principle, that the whole truth about men, told 
 with understanding, is the best form of praise. And at 
 the present moment it is of exceptional importance to 
 bear in mind that homes such as he describes are the 
 ground in which the strength of our Navy has its roots. 
 The reader to whom the MS. was first sent wrote : “ Mr. 
 Stephen Reynolds has produced a book to which it 
 would be difficult to find any adequate parallel. ‘A 
 Poor Man’s House ’ ought to make him famous in one 
 bound.” 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS 
 
 “It is exceedingly difficult to get into contact with the mind of 
 the poor. ... It is only from such a writer as Mr. Reynolds that 
 we can get clear-sighted, candid sympathy. He has the intellectual 
 equipment to enable him to judge sanely. . . . He has a remark- 
 able literary gift. . . . Above all, he has a sympathy which is a 
 kind of genius. At the moment, the problem of poverty is much in 
 men’s minds. Here in this book is first-hand evidence. Apart 
 from its high literary quality, it is full of a most manly and pro- 
 found philosophy. Like Mr. Burns, and unlike almost anybody 
 
else, Mr. Reynolds, out of a large understanding, has the wisdom 
 and courage to treat the poor with respect.” — Mr. John Buchan 
 
 in Westminster Gazette . 
 
 “‘A Poor Man’s House’ is beautiful work. The touching, 
 intensely human picture of the Devon poor man’s life and heart 
 was a difficult thing to attempt . . . and (one would have thought) 
 an impossible thing to succeed in, with so much sympathy and so 
 little sentimentality. The author has made himself the intimate 
 friend and equal, without a touch of offensive patronage, of the 
 splendid folk he writes of. The book is truly of the most crystal- 
 line ; and the author has gone deep into the well of life to find 
 it.” — Observer . 
 
 “An extremely interesting and valuable, ... Its digressions 
 and excursuses on cookery, cleanliness, fishing tackle, dialect — an 
 admirable little essay — and the distinction between courage and 
 pluck, derive value from the directness of their observation, and the 
 constant reference to the concrete example. ... A study remark- 
 able for its sympathy and poetry as well as its minute observation.” 
 
 — Spectator . 
 
 “An inspiriting, real, and outspoken book, with something of 
 the largeness and salty sting of the sea in it, which forms the back- 
 ground and gives a wholesome, breezy tone to the whole. . . . We 
 have nothing but praise for the book’s force and truth. The author 
 has many qualities underlying his strong literary gift. He has a 
 keen eye for character, a racy sense of humour, a broad, hearty 
 enjoyment of human nature. But it is his intellectual sincerity, 
 strongly marked balance and fairness, that reinforces his artistic 
 talents. All the fisherfolk are drawn with the sharp, exact touch 
 of a born observer of men. . . . After turning regretfully the last 
 page of ‘ A Poor Man’s House,’ with its rich diversity of scenes of 
 winter herring fishing, mackerelling at dawn, winkling and prawn- 
 ing with Uncle Jake at dark of night, amid his treacherous rocks, 
 one recognises that the author’s love for the life and the people 
 which has forced him to create this living narrative, will perpetuate 
 itself beyond reckoning, for any man of intelligence who reads the 
 book must love the people and their life too.” — Daily News . 
 
 “ Mr. Reynolds, in a fascinating volume combining observation 
 and a high gift of writing with a wide human sympathy, has pre- 
 sented a striking picture of the Devon fisherman.” — Nation . 
 
 “ Mr. Reynolds writes of the poor man with a comprehension 
 that is all the more valuable because it is infused with a great 
 tenderness.” — English Review . 
 
 JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD, LONDON, AND NEW YORK 
 
THE WORKS OF 
 ANATOLE FRANCE 
 
 1 has long been a reproach to 
 England that only one volume 
 by ANATOLE FRANCE 
 has been adequately rendered 
 into English ; yet outside this 
 country he shares with 
 TOLSTOI the distinction 
 of being the greatest and most daring 
 student of humanity living. 
 
 There have been many difficulties to 
 encounter in completing arrangements for a 
 uniform edition, though perhaps the chief bar- 
 rier to publication here has been the fact that 
 his writings are not for babes — but for men 
 and the mothers of men. Indeed, some of his 
 Eastern romances are written with biblical can- 
 dour. u I have sought truth strenuously,” he 
 tells us, u I have met her boldly. I have never 
 turned from her even when she wore an 
 
THE WORKS OF ANATOLE FRANCE 
 
 unexpected aspect.” Still, it is believed that the day has 
 come for giving English versions of all his imaginative 
 works, as well as of his monumental study JOAN OF 
 ARC, which is undoubtedly the most discussed book in the 
 world of letters to-day. 
 
 V MR. JOHN LANE has pleasure in announcing that 
 the following volumes are either already published or are 
 passing through the press. 
 
 THE RED LILY 
 
 MOTHER OF PEARL 
 
 THE GARDEN OF EPICURUS 
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD 
 
 BALTHASAR 
 
 THE WELL OF ST. CLARE 
 THAIS 
 
 THE WHITE STONE 
 PENGUIN ISLAND 
 
 THE MERRIE TALES OF JACQUES TOURNE- 
 BROCHE 
 
 JOCASTA AND THE FAMISHED CAT 
 
 THE ELM TREE ON THE MALL 
 
 THE WICKER-WORK WOMAN 
 
 AT THE SIGN OF THE QUEEN PEDAUQUE 
 
 THE OPINIONS OF JEROME COIGNARD 
 
 MY FRIEND’S BOOK 
 
 THE ASPIRATIONS OF JEAN SERVIEN 
 
 JOAN OF ARC (z vols.) 
 
 II All the books will be published at 6/- each with the 
 exception of JOAN OF ARC, which will be 25/- net 
 the two volumes, with eight Illustrations. 
 
 11 The format of the volumes leaves little to be desired. 
 The size is Demy 8vo (9 X 5f), and they are printed from 
 Caslon type upon a paper light in weight and strong of 
 texture, with a cover design in crimson and gold, a gilt top, 
 end-papers from designs by Aubrey Beardsley and initials by 
 Henry Ospovat. In short, these are volumes for the biblio- 
 phile as well as the lover of fiction, and form perhaps the 
 cheapest library edition of copyright novels ever published, 
 for the price is only that of an ordinary novel. 
 
 If The translation of these books has been entrusted to 
 such competent French scholars as mr. Alfred allinson, 
 MR. FREDERIC CHAPMAN. MR. ROBERT B. DOUGLAS, 
 
THE WORKS OF ANATOLE FRANCE 
 
 MR. A. W. EVANS, MRS. FARLEY, MR. LAFCADIO HEARN, 
 MRS. W. S. JACKSON, MRS. JOHN LANE, MRS. NEWMARCH, 
 MR. C. E. ROCHE, MISS WINIFRED STEPHENS, and MISS 
 M. P. WILLCOCKS. 
 
 f As Anatole Thibault, dit Anatole France, is to most 
 English readers merely a name, it will be well to state that 
 he was born in 1844 in the picturesque and inspiring 
 surroundings of an old bookshop on the Quai Voltaire, 
 Paris, kept by his father, Monsieur Thibault, an authority on 
 eighteenth-century history, from whom the boy caught the 
 passion for the principles of the Revolution, while from his 
 mother he was learning to love the ascetic ideals chronicled 
 in the Lives of the Saints. He was schooled with the lovers 
 of old books, missals and manuscripts ; he matriculated on the 
 Quais with the old Jewish dealers of curios and objets cT art ; 
 he graduated in the great university of life and experience. 
 It will be recognised that all his work is permeated by his 
 youthful impressions ; he is, in fact, a virtuoso at large. 
 
 11 He has written about thirty volumes of fiction. His 
 first novel was JOCASTA & THE FAMISHED CAT 
 (1879). THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD 
 appeared in 1881, and had the distinction of being crowned 
 by the French Academy, into which he was received in 1896. 
 
 ? His work is illuminated with style, scholarship, and 
 psychology ; but its outstanding features are the lambent wit, 
 the gay mockery, the genial irony with which he touches every 
 subject he treats. But the wit is never malicious, the mockery 
 never derisive, the irony never barbed. To quote from his own 
 GARDEN OF EPICURUS : « Irony and Pity are both of 
 good counsel ; the first with her smiles makes life agreeable, 
 the other sanctifies it to us with her tears. The Irony I 
 invoke is no cruel deity. She mocks neither love nor 
 beauty. She is gentle and kindly disposed. Her mirth 
 disarms anger and it is she teaches us to laugh at rogues and 
 fools whom but for her we might be so weak as to hate.” 
 
 f Often he shows how divine humanity triumphs over 
 mere asceticism, and with entire reverence ; indeed, he 
 might be described as an ascetic overflowing with humanity, 
 just as he has been termed a “ pagan, but a pagan 
 constantly haunted by the pre-occupation of Christ.” 
 He is in turn — like his own Choulette in THE RED 
 LILY — saintly and Rabelaisian, yet without incongruity. 
 
THE WORKS OF ANATOLE FRANCE 
 
 At all times he is the unrelenting foe of superstition and 
 hypocrisy. Of himself he once modestly said : “ You will find 
 in my writings perfect sincerity (lying demands a talent I do 
 not possess), much indulgence, and some natural affection for 
 the beautiful and good.” 
 
 H The mere extent of an author’s popularity is perhaps a 
 poor argument, yet it is significant that two books by this 
 author are in their HUNDRED AND TENTH THOU- 
 SAND, and numbersof themwell intotheir SEVENTIETH 
 THOUSAND, whilst the one which a Frenchman recently 
 described as “ Monsieur France’s most arid book” is in its 
 FIFTY-EIGHTH THOUSAND. 
 
 IT Inasmuch as M. FRANCE’S ONLY contribution to 
 an English periodical appeared in THE YELLOW BOOK, 
 vol. v., April 1895, together with the first important English 
 appreciation of his work from the pen of the Hon. Maurice 
 Baring, it is peculiarly appropriate that the English edition 
 of his works should be issued from the Bodley Head. 
 
 ORDER FORM 
 
 190 
 
 To Mr 
 
 Bookseller 
 
 Please send me the following works of Anatole France : 
 
 THE RED LILY 
 
 MOTHER OF PEARL 
 
 THE GARDEN OF EPICURUS 
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD 
 
 BALTHASAR 
 
 THE WELL OF ST. CLARE 
 THAIS 
 
 THE WHITE STONE 
 PENGUIN ISLAND 
 
 THE MERRIE TALES OF JACQUES TOURNE- 
 BROCHE 
 
 for which 1 enclose 
 
 Name 
 
 Address * 
 
 JOHN LANE,Publhher,Thb Bodley Head, Vico St. London. W. 
 
By MRS. JOHN LANE 
 THE 
 
 CHAMPAGNE STANDARD 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. Fourth Edition 
 
 Morning Post : “The author’s ehampagne overflows with witty sayings 
 too numerous to cite.” 
 
 Academy : — “ Mrs. Lane may congratulate herself on having that blessed 
 sense of humour which is one of the most valuable possessions in life.” 
 
 K I T W Y K 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 With numerous Illustrations by ALBERT 
 STERNER, HOWARD PYLE, and GEORGE 
 WHARTON EDWARDS. 
 
 Times : — “Mrs. Lane has succeeded to admiration, and chiefly by reason 
 of being so much interested in her theme that she makes no conscious effort 
 to please. . . . Everyone who seeks to be diverted will read ‘ Kitwyk ’ for 
 its obvious qualities of entertainment.” 
 
 BALTHASAR AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 Translated from the French of Anatole France 
 C rown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 By GERTRUDE ATHERTON 
 
 SENATOR NORTH 
 
 Crown 8vo. 
 
 6s. 
 
 Seventeenth Edition 
 
 New York Herald: — “In the description of Washington life Mrs. Atherton 
 shows not only a very, considerable knowledge of externals, but also an 
 insight into the underlying political issues that is remarkable.” 
 
 THE ARISTOCRATS 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. Twenty-third Thousand 
 
 The Times: — “Clever and entertaining. . . . This gay volume is written 
 by some one with a pretty wit, an eye for scenery, and a mind quick to grasp 
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 THE DOOMSWOMAN 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. New Edition 
 
 A WHIRL ASUNDER 
 
 Crown 8vo. is. net New Edition 
 
John Lane’s List of Fiction 
 
 By MAUD ANNESLEY 
 
 THE WINE OF LIFE 
 
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 THE DOOR OF DARKNESS 
 
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 ANONYMOUS 
 
 THE MS. IN A RED BOX 
 
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 THE JUST AND THE UNJUST 
 
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 Manchester Guardian : — “ There is much brilliant writing in the book, 
 the style is excellent, and the characters are admirably drawn.” 
 
 St. James's Gazette “ Mr. Richard Bagot has put some capital work 
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 Westminster Gazette: — “Mr. Bagot knows the world of which he 
 writes, and the character studies in this volume are drawn with subtlety.” 
 
 By EMILIA PARDO BAZAN~ 
 
 THE SON the BONDWOMAN 
 
 Translated from the Spanish by E. H. Hearn. 
 
 By NOEL BARWELL 
 
 SOMEONE PAYS 
 
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John Lane’s List of Fiction 
 
 By ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
 A MAN FROM THE NORTH 
 
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 THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE 
 
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 LIFE IN A GARRISON TOWN 
 
 (AUS EINER KLEINEN GARNISON) 
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 DEAR FATHERLAND 
 
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 THE LOVE CHILD 
 
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 JOAN OF THE HILLS 
 
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 THE NAPOLEON OF NOTTING HILL 
 
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 Mr. James Douglas, in the Star : — “ An allegorical romance, a didactic 
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 and a style that is both forcible and polished.” 
 
John Lane’s List of Fiction 
 
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 ASHES 
 
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 KEYNOTES 
 
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 DISCORDS 
 
 Crown 8 vo. 3 s. 6 d. net Sixth Edition 
 
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 short of amazing.” 
 
 Speaker “ The book is true to human nature, for the author has genius, 
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 SYMPHONIES 
 
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John Lane’s List of Fiction 
 
 By the Author of “ Elizabeth’s Children ” 
 
 THE YOUNG O’BRIENS 
 
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 HELEN ALLISTON 
 
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 ELIZABETH’S CHILDREN 
 
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 HELEN OF TROY, N.Y. 
 
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 THE DANGERVILLE 
 INHERITANCE 
 
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 the MAULEVERER MURDERS 
 
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 THE FINANCES OF 
 SIR [OHN KYNNERSLEY 
 
John Lane’s List of Fiction 
 
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 THE GATES THAT SHALL 
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 A CELIBATE’S WIFE 
 
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 THE REALIST 
 
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 MRS. ALBERT GRUNDY 
 
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 PERRONELLE 
 
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 the TWILIGHT of the GODS 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
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John Lane’s List of Fiction 
 
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 THE BELOVED VAGABOND 
 
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 IDOLS 
 
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 THE USURPER 
 
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 WHERE LOVE IS 
 
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 THE WHITE DOVE 
 
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 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA 
 
 Crown 8vo. Price 31. 6 d. each vol. 
 
 A STUDY IN SHADOWS 
 
 THE DEMAGOGUE AND LADY 
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John Lane’s List of Fiction 
 
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 A MISTAKEN MARRIAGE 
 
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 LOVE WITH HONOUR 
 
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 HANDICAPPED 
 
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 about. . . . The details of the life in the Peckham draper’s are made 
 interesting to the reader by the sheer force of their realism. . . . Borlase 
 senior is an admirable piece of character drawing.” 
 
 A GUARDIAN OF THE POOR 
 
 Crown 8 vo. bs. 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette: — “Mr. Baron Russell has succeeded so admirably, so 
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 at the point of my pen for fear they may read like * gush.’ ” 
 
 THE MANDATE 
 
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 Graphic : — “ Besides its merits of originality, it has those of a remarkably 
 virile style, and of a capacity for the portrayal of real passion which we 
 trust to meet again.” 
 
John Lane’s List of Fiction 
 
 By HERMANN SUDERMANN 
 
 THE UNDYING PAST 
 
 A Translation of “Es War” by Beatrice Marshall 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. Fifth Thousand 
 
 Standard: — “ It is practically impossible to have anything but praise for this 
 powerful and virile translation of Sudermanif s impressive work. . . . The 
 book does not even suggest to one that it is a story originally written in 
 another language.” 
 
 REGINA; or, THE SINS 
 OF THE FATHERS 
 
 A Translation of a Der Katzensteg,” by Beatrice 
 Marshall 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. Third Edition 
 
 Spectator: — “The author has handled his terrible theme with wonderful force 
 and simplicity.” 
 
 St. James’s Gazette: — “A striking piece of work, full of excitement and 
 strongly-drawn character.” 
 
 By HENRY SIENKIEWICZ 
 
 THE FIELD OF GLORY 
 
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 Spectator: — “A spirited, picturesque romance . . . full of adventures, 
 related with all the author’s picturesqueness of detail and vigour of outline.” 
 
 By A. C. THYNNE 
 
 SIR BEVILL 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 Academy: — “Altogether delightful, setting the reader amid broom and 
 heather on the Devon Moors, or by the sounding sea on the Cornish coast. 
 . . . All the everyday life is admirably rendered, and many of the side 
 characters are brilliantly sketched.” 
 
 By FIONA MACLEOD ~ 
 
 MOUNTAIN LOVERS 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. New Edition 
 
John Lane’s List of Fiction 
 
 By G. S. STREET 
 THE 
 
 WISE AND THE WAYWARD 
 
 Crown 8 vo. 6s. 
 
 Academy : — “Mr. Street writes easily, with distinction ... he wields a 
 fine swiftly-poised phrase, and has the gift of throwing his characters and 
 situations into strong relief, happily and without tediousness. ” 
 
 Westminster Gazette : — “ The cleverness of Mr. Street’s analysis is 
 undeniable.” 
 
 World : — “ Distinctly a book to be read.” 
 
 THE 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BOY 
 
 Fcap. 8 vo. 3 *. 6 d. net Fifth Edition 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette: — “A creation in which there appeals to be no flaw.” 
 Review of Reviews : — “ A most brilliant satire.” 
 
 World : — “ A delicate and delightful piece of literature.” 
 
 THE 
 
 TRIALS OF THE BANTOCKS 
 
 Crown 8 vo. 35 . 6 d. net 
 
 Saturday Review : — “ Mr. Street has a very delicate gift of satire.” 
 
 Times : — “A piece of irony that is full of distinction and wit.” 
 
 By HUGH DE SELINCOURT 
 
 A BOY’S MARRIAGE 
 
 Crown 8vo. 
 
 6s. 
 
 Second Edition 
 
 Evening Standard : — “Exceedingly realistic ... A daring but sincere 
 and simple book . . . likely to attract a great deal of attention.” 
 
 THE STRONGEST PLUME 
 
 Crown 8vo. 
 
 6s. 
 
 Academy : — “An uncomfortable story for the conventionally minded. It 
 deals a deadly blow to the ordinary accepted notions of the respectable.” 
 
 THE HIGH ADVENTURE 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 A FREAK OF FANCY 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
John Lane’s List of Fiction 
 
 By EDITH WHARTON 
 
 THE GREATER INCLINATION 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. New Edition 
 
 By HANDASYDE 
 
 FOR THE WEEK END 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 Standard ; — “ Only a woman, surely, would write such deep and intimate 
 truth about the heart of another woman and the things that give her joy 
 when a man loves her.” 
 
 By H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON 
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER 
 
 Crown 8vo. 35 . 6d. net 
 
 Saturday Review : — “ Admirably conceived and brilliantly finished.” 
 
 GALLOPING DICK: A Romance 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 Daily Telegraph : — “ An always attractive theme ... a thoroughly 
 effective style.” 
 
 By M. P. WILLCOCKS 
 
 WIDDICOMBE 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6 s. 
 
 Evening Standard “ A fine . . . unusual novel . . . striking studies of 
 
 women.” 
 
 THE WINGLESS VICTORY 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. Third Edition 
 
 - Times : — “ Such books are worth keeping ©n the shelves even by the 
 classics, for they are painted in colours that do not fade.” 
 
 A MAN OF GENIUS 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 LONDON : JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO ST., W. 
 
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