the chasm by bryce walton _it was a war of survival. children against old men. and not a chance in the world to bridge_--- [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, december 1956. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] the old man's face was turning gray with fatigue under the wrinkled brown. he was beginning to get that deadly catching pain in his left chest. but he forced himself to move again, his ragged dusty uniform of the old home guard blending into the rubble the way a lizard merges with sand. he hobbled behind a pile of masonry and peered through the crack. he angled his bald head, listening. his hands never really stopped quivering these days and the automatic rifle barrel made a fluttering crackle on the concrete. he lowered the barrel, then wiped his face with a bandanna. he'd thought he heard a creeping rustle over there. but he didn't see any sign of the children. he'd been picked to reconnoiter because his eyes were only comparatively good. the truth was he couldn't see too well, especially when the sun reflecting on the flat naked angles of the ruined town made his eyes smart and water and now his head was beginning to throb. a dust devil danced away whirling a funnel of dust. sal lemmon looked at it, and then he slid from behind the rubble and moved along down the shattered block, keeping to the wall of jagged holes and broken walls that had once been the main street of a town. he remembered with a wry expression on his face that he had passed his ninety-fourth birthday eight days back. he had never thought he could be concerned with whether he lived to see his ninety-fifth, because there had always been the feeling that by the time he was ninety-four he would have made his peace with himself and with whatever was outside. he moved warily, like a dusty rabbit, in and out of the ruins, shrinking through the sun's dead noon glare. he stopped, and crouched in the shade behind a pile of slag that had once been the iron statue of some important historical figure. he contacted captain murphy on the walkie-talkie. "don't see any signs of children." "max said he saw some around there," murphy yelled. "max's getting too old. guess he's seeing things." "he saw them right around there somewhere." "haven't seen him either." "we haven't heard another word from max here, sal." the old man shrugged. "how could the children have gotten through our post defenses?" he looked away down the white glare of the street. "you're supposed to be finding out," murphy yelled. he had a good voice for a man two months short of being a hundred. he liked to show it off. then sal thought he saw an odd fluttery movement down the block. "i'll report in a few minutes," he said, and then he edged along next to the angled wall. a disturbed stream of plaster whispered down and ran off his shoulder. near the corner, he stopped. "max," he said. he whispered it several times. "max ... that you, max?" he moved nearer to the blob on the concrete. heat waves radiated up around it and it seemed to quiver and dance. he dropped the walkie-talkie. there wasn't even enough left of max to take back in or put under the ground. he heard the metallic clank and the manhole cover moved and then he saw them coming up over the edge. he ran and behind him he could hear their screams and cries and their feet striking hard over the blisters, cracks, and dried out holes in the dead town's skin. he dodged into rubble and fell and got up and kept on running. the pain was like something squeezing in his belly, and he kept on running because he wanted to live and because he had to tell the others that the children were indeed inside the post defenses. he knew now how they had come in. through the sewers, under the defenses. he began to feel and hear them crawling, digging, moving all over beneath the ruins, waiting to come out in a filthy screaming stream. * * * * * sal was still resting in the corner of the old warehouse by the river. a lantern hung on a beam and the dank floor was covered with deep moving shadows. captain murphy was pacing in a circle, looking like something sewn quickly together by a nervous seamstress. doctor cartley sat on a canvas chair, elbows on knees, chin in his hands. he kept looking at the floor. he was in his early eighties and sometimes seemed like a young man to sal. his ideas maybe. he thought differently about the children and where things were going. "we're going to get out tonight," captain murphy said again. "we'll get that barge loaded and we'll get out." sal sat up. the pills had made his heart settle down a bit, and his hands were comparatively calm. "is the barge almost loaded now? it better be," sal said. "they'll attack any minute now. i know that much." "another hour's all we need. if they attack before then we can hold them off long enough to get that barge into the river. once we get into the river with it, we'll be safe. we can float her down and into the sea. somewhere along the coast we'll land and wherever it is will be fine for us. we'll have licked the children. they know we've found the only eatable food stores in god knows how many thousands of miles in this goddamned wasteland. they can't live another month without this stuff, and we're taking it all down the river. that's right isn't it, doc?" cartley looked up. "but as i said before, squeezing a little more life out of ourselves doesn't mean anything to me. what do we want to get away and live a little longer for? it doesn't make sense, except in a ridiculous selfish way. so we live another month, maybe six months, or a year longer? what for?" sal glanced at murphy who finally sat down. "we want to live," murphy said thickly, and he gripped his hands together. "survival. it's a natural law." "what about the survival of the species?" cartley asked. "by running out and taking the food, we're killing ourselves anyway. so i don't think i'll be with you, murphy." "what are you going to do? stay here? they'll torture you to death. they'll do to you what they did to donaldson, and all the others they've caught. you want to stay for that kind of treatment?" "we ought to try. running off, taking all this food, that means they're sure to die inside a few weeks. they might catch a few rats or birds, but there aren't even enough of those around to sustain life beyond a few days. so we kill the future just so we can go on living for a little longer. we've got no reason to live when we know the race will die. my wife refused to fight them. they killed her, that's true, but i still think she was right. we've got to make one more attempt to establish some kind of truce with the children. if we had that, then we might be able to start building up some kind of relationship. the only way they can survive, even if they had food, is to absorb our knowledge. you know that. without our knowledge and experience, they'll die anyway, even if they had a thousand years of food supplies." "it can't be done," murphy said. cartley looked at the shadows for a long time. finally he shook his head. "i don't have any idea how to do it. but we should try. we can't use discipline and power because we're too weak. and too outnumbered. we'd have to do that first in order to teach them, and we can't. so there has to be some other way." "faith?" sal said. he shook his head. "they don't believe in anything. you can't make any appeal to them through faith, or ethics, any kind of code of honor, nothing like that. they're worse than animals." cartley stood up wearily and started to walk away. "they hate us," he said. "that's the one thing we're sure of. we're the means and they're the ends. we made them what they are. they're brutalized and motivated almost completely by hatred. and what's underneath hatred?" he fumed back toward murphy. "fear." sal stood up. "i never thought of them as being afraid," he said. "that doesn't matter," murphy said. "it's the hate and vicious brutality we have to deal with. you do whatever you want to do, cartley. we've voted, and we've voted to move the stuff out tonight on the barge. the world we helped make is dead, cartley. the children grew up in a world we killed. we've all got bad consciences, but we can't do anything about it. the chasm between them and us is too wide. it was wide even before the bombs fell. and the bombs made it a hell of a lot wider. too wide to put any kind of bridge across now." "just the same, we ought to die trying," cartley said. when he went outside, sal followed him. the barge was about loaded. all outer defense units had been pulled in and were concentrated on the head of the pier behind walls of sandbags. burp guns and machine guns were ready, and the barge lay along the side of the pier in the moonlight like a dead whale. there were several sewer openings near the head of the pier. men were stationed around these sewers with automatic rifles, hand grenades and flame throwers. sal walked to where cartley stood leaning against the partly closed door of the rotting warehouse. jagged splinters of steel and wood angled out against the sky. after a while, sal said softly, "well, what could we try to do, doc?" cartley turned quickly. some of the anguish in his eyes had gone away, and he gripped sal's shoulders in hands surprisingly strong for so old a man. "you want to help me try?" "guess i do. like you said, we only have a little time left anyway. and if we can't help the children, what's the good of it?" they stood there in the shadows a while, not saying anything. "this way," cartley said. he led sal down away from the pier and along the water's edge. dry reed rustled, and mud squished under their shoes. "here," cartley said. there was a small flat-bottomed rowboat, and in it were several cartons of food supplies, all in cans. there were also several large tins of water. "we'll need a little time," cartley said. "we'll have to wait. i figure we'll row upstream maybe a few hundred yards, and hole up in one of those caves. we can watch, sal. we can watch and wait and try to figure it out." "sure," sal said. "that seems the only way to start." cartley sat down on the bank near the boat, and sal sat down too. "the children," cartley said, "never had a chance to be any other way. but we're the oldsters, and we've got this obligation, sal. man's a cultural animal. he isn't born with any inherent concepts of right, or wrong, or good or bad, or even an ability to survive on an animal level. we have to be taught to survive by the elders, sal. and we're the elders." he hesitated, "we're the only ones left." a flare of horrid light exploded over the warehouse down river and it lit up cartley's face and turned it a shimmering crimson. his hands widened to perfect roundness and he raised his hands in a voiceless scream to stop the sudden explosions of burp guns, grenades, machine guns, and rifles. looking down river then, sal could see the flames eating up through the warehouse. the pier, the barge, everything for a hundred square yards was lit up as bright as day, and the flare spread out over the river and made a black ominous shadow of the opposite bank. "they're getting away," cartley said. sal watched the barge move out. the children came screaming out of the blazing warehouse, overran the pier, streamed into the water. but a steady blast of fire from the barge drove them back, and in a few more minutes the barge dissolved downriver into darkness. cartley's hands were shaking as he gripped sal's arm. "let's go now. we need time. time may help us a lot, sal. we can wait and watch. we can figure something out." sal heard the screams and mocking savage cries coming up over the water, and then the jagged cries of some oldsters who hadn't managed to get away. still looking downstream toward the blazing pier, sal pushed cartley into the rowboat, and they shoved off. sal started rowing, but he kept looking back. "they should have put them in the same shelters with us," sal said, "that would have made a difference. but they put us in separate shelters." only the oldest and the youngest had been saved. the old out of pity and because they were helpless, had been granted the safety of shelters. the young because they were the symbols of hope had been granted shelters, too. "no," cartley said. "it started long before that. the chasm was building up long before the war. this alienation between the young and the old. between the sun and the seed. that's what we've got to bring back, sal. between us, we have stored up a hundred and seventy-nine years of human culture. there isn't a kid back there, sal, more than twelve years old." "we'll find a way," sal said. the rowboat was about fifteen feet away from the thick reeds growing in the marshy ooze of the bank. cartley heard the sound first and turned, his face white. when sal looked toward the bank, he saw the girl. she came on out from the curtain of reeds and looked at them. she was perfectly clear in the moonlight standing there. she wore a short ragged print dress and she had long hair that seemed silken and soft and golden in the moonlight even though it, her dress, her little legs and her face were streaked with mud. sal hesitated, then pulled heavily on his left oar and the boat nosed toward her. up close, sal could see her face, the clear blue eyes wet, and the tears running down her cheeks. the girl reached out and asked in a sobbing breath, "granpa? is that you, granpa?" "oh god, oh god," cartley said. he was crying as he picked her up and got her into the boat. he was rocking her in his arms and half crying and half laughing as sal rowed the boat upstream. "yes, yes, honey," sal heard cartley say over and over. "i'm your granpa, honey. don't cry. go to sleep now. i'm your granpa and i've been looking for you, honey, and now everything's going to be all right." it's funny, sal thought, as he kept on rowing upstream. it's a funny thing how one little girl remembered her granpa, and how maybe that was the beginning of the bridge across the chasm. citizen jell by michael shaara illustrated by dick francis [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy magazine august 1959. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] the problem with working wonders is they must be worked--even when they're against all common sense! none of his neighbors knew mr. jell's great problem. none of his neighbors, in truth, knew mr. jell at all. he was only an odd old man who lived alone in a little house on the riverbank. he had the usual little mail box, marked "e. jell," set on a post in front of his house, but he never got any mail, and it was not long before people began wondering where he got the money he lived on. not that he lived well, certainly; all he ever seemed to do was just fish, or just sit on the riverbank watching the sky, telling tall stories to small children. and none of that took any money to do. but still, he _was_ a little odd; people sensed that. the stories he told all his young friends, for instance--wild, weird tales about spacemen and other planets--people hardly expected tales like that from such an old man. tales about cowboys and indians they might have understood, but spaceships? so he was definitely an odd old man, but just how odd, of course, no one ever really knew. the stories he told the children, stories about space travel, about weird creatures far off in the galaxy--those stories were all true. mr. jell was, in fact, a retired spaceman. now that was part of mr. jell's problem, but it was not all of it. he had very good reasons for not telling anybody the truth about himself--no one except the children--and he had even more excellent reasons for not letting his own people know where he was. the race from which mr. jell had sprung did not allow this sort of thing--retirement to earth. they were a fine, tolerant, extremely advanced people, and they had learned long ago to leave undeveloped races, like the one on earth, alone. bitter experience had taught them that more harm than good came out of giving scientific advances to backward races, and often just the knowledge of their existence caused trouble among primitive peoples. no, mr. jell's race had for a long while quietly avoided contact with planets like earth, and if they had known mr. jell had violated the law, they would have come swiftly and taken him away--a thing mr. jell would have died rather than let happen. * * * * * mr. jell was unhuman, yes, but other than that he was a very gentle, usual old man. he had been born and raised on a planet so overpopulated that it was one vast city from pole to pole. it was the kind of place where a man could walk under the open sky only on rooftops, where vacant lots were a mark of incredible wealth. mr. jell had passed most of his long life under unbelievably cramped and crowded conditions--either in small spaceships or in the tiny rooms of unending apartment buildings. when mr. jell had happened across earth on a long voyage some years ago, he had recognized it instantly as the place of his dreams. he had had to plan very carefully, but when the time came for his retirement, he was able to slip away. the language of earth was already on record; he had no trouble learning it, no trouble buying a small cottage on the river in a lovely warm place called florida. he settled down quietly, a retired old man of one hundred and eighty-five, looking forward to the best days of his life. and earth turned out to be more wonderful than his dreams. he discovered almost immediately that he had a great natural aptitude for fishing, and though the hunting instinct had been nearly bred out of him and he could no longer summon up the will to kill, still he could walk in the open woods and marvel at the room, the incredible open, wide, and unoccupied room, live animals in a real forest, and the sky above, clouds seen through the trees--_real trees_, which mr. jell had seldom seen before. and, for a long while, mr. jell was certainly the happiest man on earth. he would arise, very early, to watch the sun rise. after that, he might fish, depending on the weather, or sit home just listening to the lovely rain on the roof, watching the mighty clouds, the lightning. later in the afternoon, he might go for a walk along the riverbank, waiting for school to be out so he could pass some time with the children. whatever else he did, he would certainly go looking for the children. a lifetime of too much company had pushed the need for companionship pretty well out of him, but then he had always loved children, and they made his life on the river complete. they _believed_ him; he could tell them his memories in safety, and there was something very special in that, to have secrets with friends. one or two of them, the most trustworthy, he even allowed to see the box. now the box _was_ something extraordinary, even to so advanced a man as mr. jell. it was a device which analyzed matter, made a record of it, and then duplicated it. the box could duplicate anything. what mr. jell would do, for example, would be to put a loaf of bread into the box, and press a button, and presto, there would be _two_ loaves of bread, each perfectly alike, atom for atom. it would be absolutely impossible for anyone to tell them apart. this was the way mr. jell made most of his food, and all of his money. once he had gotten one original dollar bill, the box went on duplicating it--and bread, meat, potatoes, anything else mr. jell desired was instantly available at the touch of a button. * * * * * once the box duplicated a thing, anything, it was no longer necessary to have the original. the box filed a record in its electronic memory, describing, say, bread, and mr. jell had only to dial a number any time he wanted bread. and the box needed no fuel except dirt, leaves, old pieces of wood, just anything made out of atoms--most of which it would arrange into bread or meat or whatever mr. jell wanted, and the rest of which it would use as a source of power. so the box made mr. jell entirely independent, but it did even more than that; it had one other remarkable feature. it could be used also as a transmitter and receiver. of matter. it was, in effect, the sears roebuck catalogue of mr. jell's people, with its own built-in delivery service. if there was an item mr. jell needed, any item at all, and that item was available on any of the planets ruled by mr. jell's people, mr. jell could dial for it, and it would appear in the box in a matter of seconds. the makers of the box prided themselves on the speed of their delivery, the ease with which they could transmit matter instantaneously across light-years of space. mr. jell admired this property, too, but he could make no use of it. for once he had dialed, he would also be billed. and of course his box would be traced to earth. that mr. jell could not allow. no, he would make do with whatever was available on earth. he had to get along without the catalogue. and he really never needed the catalogue, not at least for the first year, which was perhaps the finest year of his life. he lived in perfect freedom, ever-continuing joy, on the riverbank, and made some special friends: one charlie, aged five, one linda, aged four, one sam, aged six. he spent a great deal of his time with these friends, and their parents approved of him happily as a free baby-sitter, and he was well into his second year on earth when the first temptation arose. bugs. try as he might, mr. jell could not learn to get along with bugs. his air-conditioned, antiseptic, neat and odorless existence back home had been an irritation, yes, but he had never in his life learned to live with bugs of any kind, and he was too old to start now. but he had picked an unfortunate spot. the state of florida was a heaven for mr. jell, but it was also a heaven for bugs. there is probably nowhere on earth with a greater variety of insects, large and small, winged and stinging, than florida, and the natural portion of all kinds found their ways into mr. jell's peaceful existence. he was unable even to clear out his own house--never mind the endless swarms of mosquitoes that haunted the riverbank--and the bugs gave him some very nasty moments. and the temptation was that he alone, of all people on earth, could have exterminated the bugs at will. one of the best-selling export gadgets on mr. jell's home world was a small, flying, burrowing, electronic device which had been built specifically to destroy bugs on planets they traded with. mr. jell was something of a technician, and he might not even have had to order a destroyer through the catalogue, but there were other problems. * * * * * mr. jell's people had not been merely capricious when they formed their policy of non-intervention. mr. jell's bug-destroyer would kill all the bugs, but it would undoubtedly ruin the biological balance upon which the country's animal life rested. the birds which fed on the bugs would die, and the animals which fed on the birds, and so on, down a course which could only be disastrous. and even one of the little destroyers would put an extraordinary dent in the bug population of the area; once sent out into the woods, it could not be recalled or turned off, and it would run for years. no, mr. jell made the valiant decision to endure little itchy bumps on his arms for the rest of his days. yet that was only the first temptation. soon there were others, much bigger and more serious. mr. jell had never considered this problem at all, but he began to realize at last that his people had been more right than he knew. he was in the uncomfortable position of a man who can do almost anything, and does not dare do it. a miracle man who must hide his miracles. the second temptation was rain. in the middle of mr. jell's second year, a drought began, a drought which covered all of florida. he sat by helplessly, day after day, while the water level fell in his own beloved river, and fish died gasping breaths, trapped in little pockets upstream. several months of that produced mr. jell's second great temptation. lakes and wells were dry all over the country, farms and orange groves were dry, there were great fires in the woods, birds and animals died by the thousands. all that while, of course, mr. jell could easily have made it rain. another simple matter, although this time he would have had to send away for the materials, through the box. but he couldn't do that. if he did, _they_ would come for him, and he consoled himself by arguing that he had no right to make it rain. that was not strictly controllable, either. it might rain and rain for several days, once started, filling up the lakes, yes, and robbing water from somewhere else, and then what would happen when the normal rainy season came? mr. jell shuddered to think that he might be the cause, for all his good intentions, of vast floods, and he resisted the second temptation. but that was relatively easy. the third temptation turned out to be infinitely harder. little charlie, aged five, owned a dog, a grave, sober, studious dog named oscar. on a morning near the end of mr. jell's second year, oscar was run over by a truck. and charlie gathered the dog up, all crumpled and bleeding and already dead, and carried him tearfully but faithfully off to mr. jell, who could fix _anything_. and mr. jell could certainly have fixed oscar. hoping to guard against just such an accident, he had already made a "recording" of oscar several months before. the box had scanned oscar and discovered exactly how he was made--for the box, as has been said, could duplicate anything--and mr. jell had only to dial oscar number to produce a new oscar. a live oscar, grave and sober, atom for atom identical with the oscar that was dead. * * * * * but young charlie's parents, who had been unable to comfort the boy, came to mr. jell's house with him. and mr. jell had to stand there, red-faced and very sad, and deny to charlie that there was anything he could do, and watch the look in charlie's eyes turn into black betrayal. and when the boy ran off crying, mr. jell had the worst temptation of all. he thought so at the time, but he could not know that the dog had not been the worst. the worst was yet to come. he resisted a great many temptations after that, but now for the first time doubt had begun to seep in to his otherwise magnificent existence. he swore to himself that he could never give this life up. here on the riverbank, dry and buggy as it well was, was still the most wonderful life he had ever known, infinitely preferable to the drab crowds he would face at home. he was an old man, grimly aware of the passage of time. he would consider himself the luckiest of men to be allowed to die and be buried here. but the temptations went on. first there was the red tide, a fish-killing disease which often sweeps florida's coast, murdering fish by the hundreds of millions. he could have cured that, but he would have had to send off for the chemicals. next there was an infestation of the mediterranean fruit fly, a bug which threatened most of florida's citrus crop and very nearly ruined little linda's father, a farmer. there was a destroyer available which could be set to kill just one type of bug, mr. jell knew, but he would have had to order it, again, from the catalogue. so he had to let linda's father lose most of his life's savings. shortly after that, he found himself tempted by a young, gloomy couple, a mr. and mrs. ridge, whom he visited one day looking for their young son, and found himself in the midst of a morbid quarrel. mr. ridge's incredible point of view was that this was too terrible a world to bring children into. mr. jell found himself on the verge of saying that he himself had personally visited forty-seven other worlds, and not one could hold a candle to this one. he resisted that, at last, but it was surprising how close he had come to talking, even over such a relatively small thing as that, and he had concluded that he was beginning to wear under the strain, when there came the day of the last temptation. linda, the four-year-old, came down with a sickness. mr. jell learned with a shock that everyone on earth believed her incurable. * * * * * he had no choice then. he knew that from the moment he heard of the illness, and he wondered why he had never until that moment anticipated this. there was, of course, nothing else he could do, much as he loved this earth, and much as he knew little linda would certainly have died in the natural order of things. all of that made no difference; it had finally come home to him that if a man is able to help his neighbors and does not, then he ends up something less than a man. he went out on the riverbank and thought about it all that afternoon, but he was only delaying the decision. he knew he could not go on living here or anywhere with the knowledge of the one small grave for which he would be forever responsible. he knew linda would not begrudge him those few moments, that one afternoon more. he waited, watching the sun go down, and then he went back into the house and looked through the catalogue. he found the number of the serum and dialed for it. the serum appeared within less than a minute. he took it out of the box and stared at it, the thought of the life it would bring to linda driving all despair out of his mind. it was a universal serum; it would protect her from all disease for the rest of her life. _they_ would be coming for him soon, but he knew it would take them a while to get here, perhaps even a full day. he did not bother to run. he was much to old to run and hide. he sat for a while thinking of how to get the serum to her, but that was no problem. her parents would give her anything she asked now, and he made up some candy, injecting the serum microscopically into the chunks of chocolate, and then suddenly had a wondrous idea. he put the chunks into the box and went on duplicating candy until he had several boxes. when he was finished with that, he went visiting all the houses of all the good people he knew, leaving candy for them and their children. he knew he should not do that, but, he thought, it couldn't really do much harm, could it? just those few lives altered, out of an entire world? but the idea had started wheels turning in his mind, and toward the end of that night, he began to chuckle with delight. might as well be flashed for a rogg as a zilb. he ordered out one special little bug destroyer, from the box, set to kill just one bug, the medfly, and sent it happily down the road toward linda's farm. after that, he duplicated oscar and sent the dog yelping homeward with a note on his collar. when he was done with that, he ordered a batch of chemicals, several tons of it, and ordered a conveyor to carry it down and dump it into the river, where it would be washed out to sea and so end the red tide. by the time that was over, he was very tired; he had been up the whole night. he did not know what to do about young mr. ridge, the one who did not want children. he decided that if the man was that foolish, nothing could help him. but there was one other thing he could do. praying silently that once he started this thing, it would not get out of hand, he made it rain. in this way, he deprived himself of the last sunrise. there was nothing but gray sky, misty, blowing, when he went out onto the riverbank that morning. but he did not really mind. the fresh air and the rain on his face were all the good-by he could have asked for. he was sitting on wet grass wondering the last thought--why in god's name don't more people here realize what a beautiful world this is?--when he heard a voice behind him. the voice was deep and very firm. "citizen jell," it said. the old man sighed. "coming," he said, "coming." seller of the sky by dave dryfoos _no one took old arch seriously; he was just an ancient, broken-down wanderer who went about seeking alms and spreading tales of the great outside. but sometimes children are curious and believing when adults are cynical and doubting...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, february 1955. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] there have always been the touched, the blessés, god's poor. such a one was old arch. archer jakes, the wanderer of the plains. they say he was born on earth in 3042 and taken to mazzeppa as a child. that he learned pilotage and mining. but that he was injured in a cave-in on hurretni in 3068 or thereabouts, and then his wife died in a landing accident and his child was taken from him and adopted by people he never could find. those things are too far distant in time and space to be verified now. but it is a fact that by 4000, when my grandfather hockington hammer was growing up in new oshkosh, old arch was a familiar figure in all the domed cities of the plains. he looked ancient then, with his deformed back that people touched for luck, and his wild hair and beard, and ragged castoff clothing. on his back he carried a roll of cloth he called his bed, though it looked like no bed any city man had ever seen. in his right hand he carried a staff of wood, unless someone bought it from him and gave him a plastic rod in its place. and in his left he carried what he called a billy can, which was a food container with a loop of wire across the top for a handle, and the bottom blackened by what he said was fire. it would have been like no fire any city man had ever seen. even the water in the can would be poison to a city man. when he came in the airlocks the guards would make him throw it away. "why the lock?" he'd demand, coming into a city. "why the lock and why the plastic bubble over all and why the guards? there's no pollution. am i not alive?" the guards would touch his hump and make circular motions at the sides of their heads and raise their eyebrows as if to say, "yes, you're alive. but are you not crazy?" still they would admit him, the only nonresident to walk between the domed cities of the plains and enter all of them; the only man to pass unharmed through the camps of the outsiders who lived in the open on the plains at the heart of the north american continent of earth. and old arch would go to the residence buildings and he'd knock on someone's door--any door, chosen at random--and he'd say, "have you seen the sky and do you know it's blue? have you felt the soft kiss of the breezes? i can show you where to breathe fresh air." maybe the people would say, "phew! does it smell like you, this fresh air?" and slam the door in his face. or maybe they'd say, "come on around to the back, old man, and we'll find you something to eat." then old arch would shoulder his bed and pick up his billy can and his staff and walk down the stairs and go around to the back and walk up the stairs to the rear door. it might be an hour before he appeared there--it might be two. when he did, the people would ask, "why didn't you say something? you should have known they wouldn't let you in the elevator! and twenty flights down and twenty flights up again is too much for a man of your years." then, the next time he came they would do the same thing again. in the kitchen he would refuse all the pills and potions and shots, and insist on bulky foods. these he would eat neatly, holding aside the long white hair around his mouth and brushing the crumbs from it often. what he couldn't eat right away would go into his blackened billy can. the children would come before he finished--those of the household, and neighbor kids too. first they'd stand shyly and watch him from a doorway. then they'd press closer. by the time he got through they'd be fighting to sit on his lap. the winner would climb up and sit there proudly. one of the losers, trying to prove he hadn't lost much, might wrinkle up his nose and say, "what's that awful stink, old man?" and arch would answer mildly, "it's only wood smoke, son." then the children would ask, "what's wood, please? and what's smoke?" and he would tell them. he would tell of the wind and the rain and the snow; of the cattalo herds that roamed to the west and the cities that lay to the east and the stars and the moon that they never had seen. he would claim to have been in the endless forests and on the treeless plains and to have tasted the salt ocean and drunk of the freshwater lakes and rivers. the children would have heard, in their lessons and from their elders, enough to know what he was talking about. sometimes they would tire of it, and ask him to tell of the distant planets and their far-off suns. but this he would not do. "you already hear too much about them," he'd say. "i want you to know earth. your own country. the one planet on which these plastic-covered cities are unnecessary, where you can actually go out and roll on the grass." then the children might ask, "what's grass?" but their fathers would pointedly say, "what about the radioactivity, old man?" "i'm alive," he'd reply. "there's no radioactivity out there." but they'd say, "how can we be sure? there are individual differences of susceptibility. probably you are unhurt by dosages that would kill any normal person." and the mothers would say, "eat some more, old man. eat--and go. bring our babies dreams, if you like, but don't try to tempt them outside. even if it isn't radioactive there, you've admitted it gets hot and it gets cold and the wind blows fiercely hard. our babies were born under shelter, and under shelter they must stay, like us and our parents before us." so old arch would brush off his whiskers one last time and maybe put on an old shirt the father dug up for him and then go out the back way. in spite of what might have been said, he would have to walk the twenty flights down to the ground because he wouldn't be invited to walk through the apartment to the front hall where the elevator was. sometimes people were hostile when he spoke to their children, and they would have him arrested. he was then bathed and barbered in the jail, and was given all new clothes. but they'd always burn his bed, and he'd have trouble getting a new one. and sometimes a jailor might covet the pocketknife he carried, or take away his billy can. on the whole i think he preferred not to go to jail except perhaps in winter, when it was cold outside the city. there were always those ready to talk of asylums, and the need to put him away for his own good. but nobody was sure where his legal residence was, so he wasn't really eligible for public hospitalization. he kept to his rounds. my grandfather remembers standing in his mother's kitchen listening to old arch. it was like meeting one of joseph's brethren and being told exactly what the coat looked like. something exciting out of a dream from the remote past, when all the worlds had on them those bright moist diamonds arch described as morning dew. my grandfather wanted to see the morning dew, though he knew better than to say so. old arch understood. he tried to make the thing possible. but an opportunity to see the morning dew was something he just couldn't give to my grandfather or anybody else. so he decided to sell it. he persuaded a charitable lithographer to make him a batch of stock certificates. they looked very authentic. each said plainly it was good for one share of blue sky, though the fat half-draped woman portrayed in three colors stood outside a domed city pointing not at the sky but at a distant river with forested hills behind it. arch sold his certificates for a stiff price; ten dollars apiece. he could do it because by this time his wanderings followed a fairly definite route. the people who hated or feared or despised him were pretty well eliminated from it, and most of his calls were at apartments where he was known and expected and even respected a little. my grandfather's was one of these--or rather, my great-grandfather's. when arch first brought his stock certificates my grandfather was a little fellow everybody called ham, maybe seven years old. he had a sister named annie who was five. he's given me a mental picture of the two of them standing close together for reassurance, and from an open doorway shyly watching the old man eat and listening to him talk. when my great-grandfather bought a ten dollar stock certificate in my grandfather's name, my grandfather took it as a promise. and his little sister annie was so jealous that the next time old arch came around my great-grandfather had to buy a share for her. * * * * * as they grew to be nine, ten, eleven, twelve, every winter when old arch would come around, my grandfather and his sister annie would ask, "when are you going to take us to see the sky, arch?" and he would say, "when you're older. when your folks say you can go." and, "when it's summer, and not too cold for these old bones." but when my grandfather was fourteen he followed old arch out and down the stairs after the old man had paid his annual call, and he stopped him on a landing to ask, "arch, have you ever taken anyone outside?" "no," arch said, sighing. "people won't go." "i'll go," said my grandfather, "and so will my sister annie." arch looked at him and put a hand on him and said, "i don't want to come between any boy and his parents." "well," said my grandfather, "you sold them a share of sky for each of us. do you really want us to have that, or do you just want to talk about it?" "of course i want you to. but i can't take you outside, boy." my grandfather was disgusted. "there isn't any sky," he said sadly. "it's all talk. the certificates were just for begging." "no," said arch. "it's not all talk and i'm not a beggar. i'm a guide. but it's hard to see the sky right now because it's winter, and there are clouds all over." "let's see the clouds, then," my grandfather said stubbornly. "i've never seen a cloud." the old man sat down on the stairs to consider the matter. "i can't do this thing to your parents," he said at last. "but you can do it to me and my sister," my grandfather charged wildly. "you can come to the house year after year after year, and tell us about the sky and the wind and the moon and the dew and the grass and the sun. you can even take money for our share of them. but when it comes time to produce--when we're old enough to go where these things are supposed to be--you think of excuses. "i don't believe there are any such things," he shouted. "i think you're a liar. i think you ought to be arrested for gypping my dad on the stock deal, and i'm going to turn you in." "don't do that, boy," arch said mildly. "then take us outside--today!" "it's winter, my boy. we'd freeze." "you've said it's pretty in winter! you took the money for the certificate." "i suppose you'll grow away from your parents soon anyhow; i suppose you have to.... get your warmest clothes and meet me at emergency exit four." my grandfather talked it over with his sister annie and of course they didn't have any warm clothes, but they'd heard so often from old arch about the cold that they put on two sets of tights apiece, and two pairs of sox, and then they hunted for the emergency exit. they'd never been there before. they didn't know anyone who had. the signs pointing to it were all worn and defaced. and it was a long way to go. after a while annie began to hang back. "how do we know the exit will work?" she asked. "and how will we get back in if we ever do get out?" "you don't have to come," my grandfather said. "but you'll have to find your own way home from here." "i'll bet i could," she said. "but i'm not going to. i don't think old arch will even be at the exit." but he was. he looked at them carefully to see how they were dressed. "you mean trouble for me, girl," he told annie. "they'll think i took you along to make love to." she had just reached that betwixt and between stage where she was beginning to look like a woman but didn't yet think like one. "pooh!" she said. "i can run faster and hit harder than you can, arch. you don't worry me a bit." old arch sighed and led them through the lock. they stepped out into a raging snowstorm, which soon draped a cloak of invisibility over them. neither my grandfather nor annie had ever smelled fresh air before. it threatened to make them drunk. their nostrils tingled and their eyes misted over and their breath steamed up like bathwater. for the first time in their lives, they shivered. when the city was out of sight in the storm, they stopped for a moment in the ankle-deep snow and just listened. they held their breaths and heard silence for the first time in their lives. old arch reached down and picked up some soft snow and threw it at them. they pelted him back, and then, because he was so old, attacked each other instead, shouting and throwing snowballs and running aimlessly. old arch soon checked them. "don't get lost," he said. "we're walking down hill. don't forget that. we're going into a draw where there are some trees." he coughed and drew his rags about him. "the city is up hill," he said. "if you keep walking around it you'll find a way in." his tone was frightening. annie clung to my grandfather and made him walk close to the old man. it was clear the old man didn't have enough clothes on. he staggered and leaned hard on my grandfather. they kept moving down the slight grade. they saw no sky and little of anything else. the snow was like a miniature of the city's dome, except that this dome floated over them as they walked. its edges were only about fifty yards off. "where are the outsiders?" my grandfather asked. "aren't there people here?" "they're miles away," arch told him. "and indoors. only fools and youngsters are out in this blizzard." "fools is right," annie said tartly. "there was supposed to be sky. and there isn't." old arch staggered again. to my grandfather he said, "could--could you carry my pack?" my grandfather took it and they went on, stumbling blindly through knee-deep drifts, getting more and more chilled and less and less comfortable, 'til they came to a small clump of trees with a solidly frozen creek running through it. here old arch made a lean-to shelter of windfallen limbs. annie and my grandfather helped as soon as they understood the design. arch spread part of his bed over the lean-to, breaking the force of the wind, and put the rest inside. just outside, on a place scraped bare of snow, he built the first wood fire my grandfather and annie had ever seen. he chipped ice from the creek and put it in his billy can and hung the can by its bail over the fire, and in due course they had a little hot tea. the youngsters felt cold but happy. the old man shivered and coughed. he'd kept moving till the tea was made. he sat still to drink it, and couldn't get up. "go to bed," annie told him. "ham will get on one side of you and i'll get on the other. we'll keep you warm." old arch tried to protest but was almost beyond speech. the youngsters didn't know enough to brush the snow off him or themselves. they helped him roll up in his bedding and crawled under the lean-to after him. there they all lay in a heap, getting colder and damper and more miserable, till finally my grandfather couldn't stand it any more. he got up and looked around. the inverted cup of visibility was smaller. darkness fell like a dye-stuff, turning the white snow to gray, to black. it was a bitter night. the first he'd ever had outdoors. it was the first annie'd ever had. the first either had ever spent at the futile task of holding off death. they knew old arch was dying. as the night wore on he sank into semi-consciousness. they hugged him and rubbed his lean old limbs. just before morning the snow stopped. the old man roused a little, became gradually aware of his surroundings. "go look at the sun," he murmured. "go see the sunrise." they went out to look. neither had ever seen a sunrise before. it was mauve first, then red, then gold, then blue. venus led the way, and the sun followed. the moon, deep in the west, was like a tombstone to the dead night. a bird chirruped. a clot of snow fell from a tree with a soft ruffle of cottony drums. my grandfather held his sister's hand and looked and sniffed at the great earth from which he'd been separated by the fear-inspired plastic over his city, so near, now, in the clear morning light. he climbed with annie up the side of the draw and looked out over snow-covered plains stretching to a horizon farther away than the longest distance he'd ever imagined. he went back and took old arch's head up on his knees and said, "is it like this every day?" and the old man said, "no, each day is different." and my grandfather said, "well, i've seen one, anyhow." "that's what i've lived for," said old arch. and he smiled and stopped living. annie and my grandfather left him there and went back to the city and told the guards and their family. a burial party was sent out; guards, in their helmeted spacesuits. people heard about it and followed. everyone was curious because they'd all seen old arch and wondered about him. hundreds of people went out the gate--so many, the guards couldn't stop them. they saw the lean-to and the open fire and the woods and the snow and the frozen creek. they smelled the air and the smoke. they heard a bird. they tossed snowballs. and then they went back and flung rocks through their city's dome. young man from elsewhen by sylvia jacobs _one thing the old man was sure of--there were far fewer things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in his philosophy--till today._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, march 1961. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] a redcap was pushing a wheelchair through the station, under a ceiling so lofty that the place seemed empty, though hundreds of people were milling around, preparing to board the early trains. the old man in the wheelchair had a blanket over his knees, in spite of july heat in los angeles. beside him walked a smartly dressed middle-aged woman, slimmed by diet and with her steel-gray hair looking as if she'd just stepped out of a beauty parlor. she kept up a steady stream of admonitions. "now, papa," she was saying, "don't forget to take your medicine at lunchtime. keep your chair out of the aisle--people have to walk there. and whatever you do, don't go to the club car for a drink--you know it's bad for your arthritis. the doctor said not more than three cigars a day. and if edna isn't at the station to meet you, just wait, do you hear? it's a long drive from her house and she may be late." "hell's fire!" the old man protested. "i was taking trains before you were born! how my boy will stands--" he broke off to ogle a mexican girl, a ripe sixteen, who was walking in the same direction, ahead of them. "papa! act your age!" his daughter-in-law said under her breath. "like they say, a woman's as old as she looks, but a man ain't old till he quits looking," he replied absently. the redcap grinned. the little señorita, not knowing who was watching her but quite sure someone was, paused to put a dime in a coke machine. the wheelchair entourage passed her and the old man craned his neck, looking backward, determined not to miss anything. the girl sat down on a bench to drink her coke. if i were only fifty years younger, the old man thought, i'd buy a coke, too, and sit down beside her.... "papa!" his son's wife cried. "you'll fall out of your chair! why do you always have to embarrass me like this?" but the insistent voice could not interrupt the old man's pleasant daydream of conquest. he had turned off his hearing aid. * * * * * the redcap stopped alongside the third car of the san-francisco-bound streamliner and signaled another redcap who was unloading a baggage truck. the other came over to help and two pairs of strong young arms lifted the old man, wheelchair and all, smoothly onto the platform of the car. his daughter-in-law did not board the train. she stood waving, calling after the old man, "so long, papa! have a nice visit with edna and remember what i told you!" he waved back automatically, but he hadn't heard a word she said. he didn't turn his hearing aid back on until he had been wheeled inside the car. most of the reclining seats were already filled. the redcap pushed the wheelchair the full length of the aisle and parked it in a vacant space beyond the last seat, across from the washroom. he turned it crosswise, so it wouldn't roll when the train started moving, and with its occupant facing the window. "turn me around!" the old man commanded. "like to see who i'm ridin' with. if i want to look out, i always got the opposite window." the redcap complied, but the old man still wasn't satisfied. "better wheel me in the club car straight off," he decided. "sorry, mister," the redcap said, "but you gotta ride in your own car till the conductor takes the tickets. then you can have your train porter take you in there." that wasn't quite true. the conductor could have picked up the old man's ticket in the club car, but this way the redcap was not personally violating the orders of the lady who had given him the tip. "take myself in there, long as he opens the doors," the old man grumbled. but for the time being, he stayed put. the train gave just one lurch, then picked up speed as the straggling city, then trees and suburbs and finally fields flowed past the opposite window. now the old man felt free--for a day, at least, until his daughter edna would take over the job supervising his every move--but at first the trip was lonely. nobody talked to him and the only diversion in the car was a baby, which started squalling. the old man found himself thinking how much friendlier the atmosphere was in the pool hall on figueroa, where he rolled himself almost every day when he took his "walk" to watch the boys shoot pool. he could get there alone from his son's house, for there were driveways he could use to cross the streets, avoiding curbs. he was always welcome in the pool hall and he saw to it that he remained welcome. every month, when his social security check came, he would buy a box of cigars and a couple of bottles and take them to the pool room, where he poured drinks for everybody until his money was used up. what else was money good for but to have a good time? * * * * * he felt more at home in that dingy place, with the walls covered with pinups, than he did in his son's modern ranch-style house. for all his daughter-in-law's fussing over him, her efforts to keep him on the diet and the medicines that were supposed to prolong his life, he knew she was glad to get rid of him for the rest of the summer. he knew because he'd heard what jane said to her best friend, sarah tolliver. jane kept track of him by the squeaking of his wheelchair, and once he had bought a can of oil at the drugstore, and oiled the wheels so they didn't make a sound as he rolled up the inclined planks will had laid over the kitchen steps. sarah and jane had been in the dining area, having coffee, and the old man turned up his hearing aid so he could hear what they were talking about from the kitchen. they were talking about him. "you don't know how lucky you are," sarah was saying, "that it was his legs gave out on him--not his head. when i was working at the hospital, i saw so many old folks who were just zombies, not knowing who they were, where they were, or what time it was. i tell you, there's nothing worse than that. but will's dad? why, he's sharp as a tack. nobody puts anything over on him." "he's sharp, all right," jane agreed, "in some ways. but if he had the use of his legs, he'd be chasing after women. and that pool hall he hangs out in! when a man gets to be seventy-eight, you'd think he'd spend his time in church, not in a dive like that." "what do you care where he goes?" sarah asked. "at least it gives you some time to yourself." that was it. the young folks wanted some time to themselves. it was only natural. well, jane would have the house to herself, with no old man underfoot for the next few months, while he was at edna's. edna was his own flesh and blood; she would mix him a cocktail before dinner and serve him steaks, not baby food. she would kid with him about what a casanova he was before her ma domesticated him, and light his cigars instead of hiding the box and doling them out one by one. she would call him george instead of papa, but it would only be an act, just to make her old father feel good because she didn't expect him to live much longer. for all the time it would be understood that he was at john and edna's house for a visit, that the place he lived was with will and jane. the truth was that neither of the girls would miss him if he didn't wind up at either place. but what a way to waste a whole golden day he had to _himself_, with neither daughter nor daughter-in-law to boss or kid him around. he had looked forward to this day as a day of adventure, a day when anything could happen, and now he was starting it off on the wrong foot, wallowing in self-pity. what he needed was a good stiff drink. yes, at ten o'clock in the morning! when the conductor took his ticket, the old man demanded, "where in hell is the porter?" * * * * * it was a long train and she was hitting ninety now, and though you would not realize it in the sound-insulated, air-conditioned coaches, you did when the porter had to use his full weight to push the door open against the wind, when you heard the clackety-clack of the wheels on the rails, a fountain of noise rising up between cars, when the wheelchair swayed precariously as it was pushed across the iron treads over the couplings. the other coaches were filled with bored passengers in various stages of somnolence, people to whom the trip was merely a means of getting somewhere else. the club car was different; this was the gathering-place of those to whom the trip was an end in itself. it was filled with the smell of ginger ale, good whiskey and the perfume emanating from two young women at one of the small tables, periodically inspecting their makeup and hairdos in little mirrors, waiting for some nice young men to arrive. regretfully, the old man realized that he was not a candidate for the honor. but a few drinks would dull the twinges in his crippled legs and make him feel years younger. the white-coated waiter moved a chair, pulled the wheelchair up next to another small table and placed a paper napkin meticulously on it. the old man decided to start with a bottle of beer. plenty of time to work up to the stronger stuff, and this way the minimum of pocket money his daughter-in-law had provided would last longer, perhaps until some free spender started buying drinks. as it turned out, he caught his benefactor before the girls did. it was a young man of perhaps thirty-five, a dead ringer for marshal wyatt earp. he went directly to the old man's table, as if he had picked him out. as a matter of fact, he had. "may i sit here?" he asked. "glad to have you," the old man said, and meant it. he inspected the newcomer carefully. it would be almost too good to be true, to meet one of those actor fellows on the train. no, he decided, the clothes weren't casual enough for hollywood; they didn't look like southern california at all. more the way he imagined an english banker would dress. striped pants, cutaway, and a white silk scarf knotted at the throat. but an englishman, the old man figured, would order ale instead of beer, and this one simply pointed to the old man's beer bottle when the waiter came to take his order. "my name's george murton," the old man said. "you can just call me george." "yes, indeed," the stranger agreed. "i see we shall get on famously. mine is sandane." "anybody ever tell you that you look like wyatt earp, sandy?" the old man asked. "earp? i'm afraid i've never met the gentleman." "should have known. you're the bookish type. prob'ly never watch television. sure don't talk like a westerner, either. you come from california or elsewhere?" "i come from elsewhen." * * * * * old george almost choked on a swallow of beer. of course! that was why sandane dressed funny, talked funny; he'd just stepped out of a time machine, like in the play last night on channel two. it all fitted in with the old man's feeling that this was a day for adventure. but he mustn't act too surprised; if he did, sandane would take him for one of those old codgers who think horse-and-buggy thoughts in the jet age. a lot of younger folks, too, would say time travel was impossible, the same ones who'd called artificial satellites impossible. but george murton had seen so many new developments in his lifetime that it was not difficult for him to accept the idea that this young man came from tomorrow. "how long you plan to be here?" he asked casually. "or maybe i should say--how long you plan to be here--now?" "not long. just until i can get a body." george found that remark a little confusing. it didn't belong in the script about the time machine. he felt as if he'd switched channels in the middle of the first act and tuned in on a murder mystery. he leaned across the table and said in a low tone, "if you're figurin' on gettin' a hired gun to kill somebody, you'd better not talk about it in here. too public." "on the contrary, it would have to be a living body. but perhaps you're right. we could talk more freely in my compartment. would you care to join me there, george? we could have some refreshment sent in." "sure would. got a lot of questions i'd like to ask you. you see, i'm the curious type and i hang around mostly with a bunch of young punks that don't know nothin' except about the fights and the world's series. since my legs give out on me, i don't get around much. to tell you the truth, this is the first time i ever met a fellow from--elsewhen." "is it really?" sandane said politely. "well, then, you should find it quite interesting. what shall we have to drink?" "bourbon always suits me." "bourbon? one of the royal families?" "hell, no. you're in america, sandy, the good old u.s.a. we don't have no royal families. bourbon is a drink. whiskey, _spiritus frumenti_, hard liquor." "fine. we shall order two flagons of it." "comes in fifths and you drink it in shot glasses, unless you want a mix. rather have mine straight, with a water chaser." "my error. i seem to have my periods mixed. suppose you order, since you know so much more than i about the customs of your time?" the old man's happy smile suddenly faded and sandane added hastily, "i shall pay for it, of course. it's only fitting that you should be my guest, because i believe you can be a great help to me." this time he had hit the jackpot, the old man reflected as he was wheeled through the dining car to the first class section of the train, with a porter pushing his chair, sandane opening the doors, and a bottle of good bourbon cradled cozily in his lap. wait till the boys at the pool hall heard about this trip! * * * * * the first shot of bourbon warmed his stomach in the good old familiar way, and somehow that was confirmation that the rest of it was real, too. "how come you talk the language so good?" he asked his host, after the porter left them alone in the compartment. "is that surprising?" sandane asked. "it shouldn't be. i'm a student of history, in your period on a research project. naturally, i would have to prepare myself by studying the language of the country and of the period, in order to pass as one of you." "you do real good, sandy, considering. but why do you want to act like ordinary folks? seems to me you ought to go on tv and tell everybody. bet some big news commentator would be proud to interview you." "most people of your time would consider it a hoax." "maybe. but as long as you told me this much, let's have the rest of it. how does this time machine of yours work?" "not a machine, george. a capacity of the human mind. dormant in your period, except for rare individuals. but in--elsewhen--we have learned how to use it. beyond that i can give you no details. if i gave them, the method of tapping this talent would be discovered before it actually was. that is why i can't really talk with anyone about it. so i can only hint, as i did with you. if i encounter skepticism, i pass it off as a joke. this time i was lucky--i found someone who would accept it on faith. have another?" "don't mind if i do. but it strikes me i'm the lucky one." "perhaps. you could be two thousand dollars richer as a result of having met me." the old man paused with his shot glass halfway to his mouth and set it down again. "well, now! i'd be glad to give you any information that would help you. i seen a lot in my life. but two thousand dollars--ain't that a mite steep?" "two thousand, give or take twenty--whatever i have left when we reach san francisco. money of this period will be of no use to me if we complete the transaction, so i may as well give you all of it. you see, the body i'd like to buy is yours." "hold on, now!" the old man exclaimed, propelling his chair toward the door of the compartment and fumbling for the knob. "what am i supposed to do with the money if you get my body?" "please don't be alarmed! it would be an exchange. you'd get the body i'm using and the money besides." "why in the hell didn't you say so in the first place? for trade, sandy, you wouldn't owe me a dime. but i don't get it. why should you trade a young, healthy body like yours for this old crippled-up one? i'd be getting all the best of it!" "you may not think so when i tell you that this body i'm using is due to disintegrate into its component elements in about two weeks, give or take a day or so." "sandy, you're just going to have to do some explaining. i still might take you up on the deal, but i got to understand what i'm getting into." "you have a right to an explanation. and i can give it to you without revealing the actual process of the time transfer. you see, the mind is capable of an indefinite number of transfers. but a body can be used for only one. before we overcame that obstacle, we made some serious mistakes." "what happened?" * * * * * "it was pretty bad during the experimental trials," said sandane. "the pioneers, who transferred in their own bodies, were stuck irrevocably in the past. to overcome that, some transferred only mentally, which meant they had to enter unbidden into a host body of the target period. the more highly trained mind naturally had more strength--the host lost his identity. what was worse, when the visitor transferred back he sometimes entered an occupied body instead of his own. when two equally strong minds contest for one body the result is insanity. and worst of all, the former host body was left mindless--alive, but how shall i say it--?" "like a zombie?" the old man asked. "somebody who don't know who he is, where he is, or what time it is?" "yea, that's a very good description. of course, this had to be stopped." "you didn't stop it soon enough," the old man said dryly. "must be a lot more of you fellows from elsewhen around than i figured." "i assure you we don't do it any more. we grow bodies for transfer purposes in tanks. like this one, for example." "well, i do declare," the old man said. "now, that's what i call progress. according to that, when your old body wears out, you get a new one." "we haven't achieved immortality yet. the mind has its own natural span. it is true, however, that we have a greater life expectancy, and as long as a person lives he can have a body of his choice. but let's not get off the subject. the point is that i can't transfer back without a body, or i might get into one that's occupied. and i can't take this one with me. so i have to have one that is--well, if you'll forgive me being so blunt, more or less useless to its occupant." "it's the truth, sandy, and nobody knows it better than me. but the part i don't understand is why the body you're using has to fall apart in two weeks, if you leave it here." "it is actually good for several months after the transfer. i've used up most of the time with my researches. but as to your question--surely you see why we can't leave a lot of displaced bodies cluttering up the past. the few pioneers who got stuck in previous periods were bad enough. they lived longer than anyone else of the periods, but they were taken as rare freaks of nature. if this happened on a larger scale, it would excite comment. medical men would examine these people and find certain evolutionary developments--the secret would be out. in order to avoid that, the bodies grown artificially for transfer purposes have a built-in trigger mechanism. this also prevents anyone from over-staying his allotted leave. if i don't find a body to transfer back in within the next two weeks, i'll be dead." "and if you do, i'll be dead," the old man said. "i'm afraid so. meanwhile, though, you'll have a young, healthy body to do with as you please, and some money to spend. it will happen suddenly; there will be no discomfort. i thought you looked like a man who would appreciate that. you would be cheated out of a decent funeral, however--there will be nothing resembling a body left to bury." "funerals!" the old man snorted. "them as got nothing else to look forward to figure on fancy funerals. me, i don't hanker after anything i can't be around to enjoy." "i'm sorry i can't offer you more than two weeks, give or take a day. i was unavoidably detained." "can't be helped. i ain't likely to get a better offer, so i'm taking you up on it. and i admire you for an honest man. you could just as well of told me i'd have two years--or twenty. i'll do the right thing by you, too. i won't let out your secret--long as i'm sober, that is." * * * * * the young man from elsewhen smiled. "i'm not worried about that," he said, "who would believe your unsupported statement?" "you got a point there," the old man admitted. "don't hardly believe it myself, till it happens. when do you do this switch business?" "just before we reach san francisco, if that suits you." "suits me fine. but i got a daughter, name of edna bowers, meeting me at the station there. how you figure on getting away from her?" "it won't be difficult. i will stay with her for a few days; then she simply will not see me rolling that chair down the block. i will get to the transfer point by cab and she will turn a report in to the police that her father is missing. they will, of course, not find the missing person." "you mean you can fix it so she looks right at my body, with you inside it, and don't see anything?" "certainly. i can control the mind of anyone of this period at will. anyone of my time could do so. it's easy." "you can? well, then, why in the hell didn't you? why should you ask me my druthers when you could take over my body whether i liked it or not?" "that would be highly unethical." "sure would. but to save your life, seems to me you wouldn't be so squeamish. people nowadays would think like that, anyway. i can see that they'd have to change a lot before they could be trusted with the kind of powers you got in elsewhen." "they will," the young man from elsewhen assured him. "human nature is not immutable. but i take it we are agreed that we trade bodies just before we reach our destination. shall we have a toast to it?" he filled the old man's shot glass so full it sloshed over in the moving train. "before we drink to it," old george objected, "hadn't you ought to give me the money to bind the bargain?" "why?" his host asked. "it's in my pocket, which will be yours when we trade." "that's right!" the old man said. "i get the clothes, too, don't i? kind of a dignified getup. sure would admire to be seen in that! here's to it!" they clicked glasses and downed the drinks. "now, shall we have some lunch?" sandane asked. "you bet. say, on the train, i'm tempted to order all the things that ain't good for me. if i do, my arthritis will be giving me hell tomorrow. i'm used to that, but as long as you'll be the one to suffer, maybe i should stick to my diet." "order what you like. i can control the pain for you easily enough." "can you teach me to do that?" the old man asked eagerly. "wouldn't want you to be giving out any secrets you ain't supposed to, but surely that couldn't do any harm." "it wouldn't do you any good, either," sandane replied. "this body won't give you a bit of trouble as long as it lasts. i absolutely guarantee that." "not even a headache the morning after?" "not even a headache. not even fatigue." "think of it! no hangovers in elsewhen. must be a wonderful age to live in." "you'd be surprised how many people want to get away from it," sandane remarked. "shall we have something sent in or go to the diner?" "let's go to the diner," old george decided. "i want to look over some of the chicks on this train. could be one of them is a stranger in san francisco, needs somebody to show her the town." "could be," sandane agreed. * * * * * after a hearty lunch, without a look at the right side of the menu, the old man started drinking again. he kept pleasantly tipsy all afternoon, trying to submerge the recurrent thought that this couldn't really be going to happen. sandane continued to act the affable host, but made no move to put his plan into operation. they were in sandane's compartment when the loudspeakers announced that passengers who were leaving the train at oakland should get ready. the waiting was getting on the old man's nerves. "all right," he told sandane, "if this is all a gag, the joke's finished." "it's not a joke," sandane protested. "then put up or shut up." "very well," sandane said. "close your eyes and relax. you will go to sleep for a few moments." the old man was determined to stay awake to see what went on. but in spite of himself, his eyes closed, his head drooped forward. he dreamed a long and involved dream about cities of the future, where all the people had miraculous powers. it seemed to go on for days, yet when he awoke, with a start, the train still had not reached oakland. he stood up abruptly as he realized that he was alone in the compartment. where was sandane? next he realized that he was standing, that he _was_ sandane, or at least in sandane's body. he took two steps to the mirror and stared at it. cutaway, striped pants, face the spitting image of wyatt earp. it was the old man in the wheelchair who had left the compartment. when he disembarked at san francisco, he scanned the crowd for the wheelchair and soon spotted it. edna had spotted it first--she was pushing it herself while a redcap followed, carrying the blanket and the old battered valise that the occupant of the chair had insisted on taking into his own coach. george tipped his derby to edna. "mrs. bowers, i presume? your father was telling me many nice things about you on the train." edna laughed. "so you're the gentleman he was with! i guessed from his breath he'd had company!" "now, edna," a cracked old voice complained, "ain't no harm in buying a few drinks for an old man." * * * * * george looked at the man in the chair in amazement. was that the way he had sounded? somehow, through the hearing aid, his own voice had seemed louder, less faltering. "only too happy to do it, sir," george said. "the pleasure was all mine." he wanted to add that sandane was acting his part superbly, but didn't know just how to say it before edna. "we could give you a lift to your hotel," edna suggested. "thank you, madam, but i don't believe i shall check into a hotel as yet. i shall leave my bags here until later in the evening." george was surprised how quickly he had assumed the manner of speaking that went with his clothes. "well, take a couple of drinks for me," the old voice interjected. "say hello to them pretty girls for me, too. so long, sandy, and good luck." "so long, george," george replied, his voice choking up with pity for an old man who could not do what he wanted to do on this beautiful evening, in this beautiful city. when they had gone, he walked out of the station, enjoying every step of the vigorous young legs, feeling every muscle of the vigorous young body, glowing with life. outside, he paused for a moment on the sidewalk before calling a cab. two weeks, give or take a day or so, would be long enough to do the town. and two thousand dollars, give or take twenty, would be enough to do it on. the young-old man from elsewhen and the present was going to have one hell of a good time. not snow nor rain by miriam allen deford _sam should have let the 22 nixies go to the dead letter office ... or gone there himself for sanctuary!_ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, november 1959. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] on his first day as a mail carrier, sam wilson noted that inscription, cribbed from herodotus, on the general post office, and took it to heart: "not snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." it couldn't be literally true, of course. given a real blizzard, it would be impossible to make his way through the pathless drifts; and if there had been a major flood, he could hardly have swum to deliver letters to the marooned. moreover, if he couldn't find the addressee, there was nothing to do but mark the envelope "not known at this address," and take it back to be returned to the addresser or consigned to the dead letter office. but through the years, sam wilson had been as consciously faithful and efficient as any persian messenger. now the long years had galloped by, and this was the very last time he would walk his route before his retirement. it would be good to put his feet up somewhere and ease them back into comfort; they had been sam's loyal servants and they were more worn out than he was. but the thought of retirement bothered him. mollie was going to get sick of having him around the house all day, and he was damned if he was going to sit on a park bench like other discarded old men and suck a pipe and stare at nothing, waiting for the hours to pass in a vacuum. he had his big interest, of course--his status as a devoted science fiction fan; he would have time now to read and reread, to watch hopefully from the roof of his apartment house for signs of a flying saucer. but that wasn't enough; what he needed was a project to keep him alert and occupied. on his last delivery he found it. the ochterlonie building, way down on lower second avenue, was a rundown, shabby old firetrap, once as solid as the scotsman who had built it and named it for himself, but now, with its single open-cage elevator and its sagging floors, attracting only quack doctors and dubious private eyes and similar fauna on the edge of free enterprise. sam had been delivering to it now for 35 years, watching its slow deterioration. this time there was a whole batch of self-addressed letters for a tenant whose name was new to him, but that was hardly surprising--nowadays, in the ochterlonie building, tenants came and went. they were small envelopes, addressed in blue, in printing simulating handwriting, to orville k. hesterson, sec.-treas., time-between-time, 746 ochterlonie building, new york 3, n. y. feeling them with experienced fingers, sam wilson judged they were orders for something, doubtless enclosing money. * * * * * in most of the buildings on his last route, sam knew, at least by sight, the employees who took in the mail, and they knew him. a lot of them knew this was his last trip; there were farewells and good wishes, and even a few small donations (since he wouldn't be there next christmas) which he gratefully tucked in an inside pocket of the uniform he would never wear again. there were also two or three invitations to a drink, which, being still on duty, he had regretfully to decline. but in the ochterlonie building, with its fly-by-night clientele, he was just the postman, and nobody greeted him except howie mallory, the decrepit elevator operator. sam considered him soberly. it was going to be pretty tough financially from now on; could he, perhaps, find a job like howie's? no. not unless things got a lot tougher; standing all day would be just as bad as walking. he went from office to office, getting rid of his load--mostly bills, duns and complaints, he imagined, in this hole. there was nothing for the seventh floor except this bunch for time-between-time. the seventh floor? he must be nuts. the ochterlonie building was six floors high. puzzled, he rang for howie. "what'd they do, build a penthouse office on top of this old dump?" he inquired. the elevator operator laughed as at a feeble jest. "sure," he said airily. "general motors is using it as a hideaway." "no, howie--no fooling. look here." mallory stared and shook his head. "there ain't no 746. somebody got the number wrong. or they got the building wrong. there's nobody here by that name." "they couldn't--printed envelopes like these." "o. k., wise guy," said howie. "look for yourself." he led the way to the short flight of iron stairs and the trap door. while mallory stood jeering at him, sam determinedly climbed through. there was nothing in sight but the plain flat roof. he climbed down again. "last letters on my last delivery and i can't deliver them," sam wilson said disgustedly. "somebody's playing a joke, maybe." "crazy joke. well, so long, howie. some young squirt will be taking his life in his hands in this broken-down cage of yours tomorrow." sam wilson, whom nothing could deter from the swift completion of his appointed rounds, had to trudge back to the post office with 22 undelivered letters. years ago the united states post office gave up searching directories and reference books, or deciphering illiterate or screwy addresses, so as to make every possible delivery. that went out with three daily and two saturday deliveries, two-cent drop postage, and all the other amenities that a submissive public let itself lose without a protest. but there was still a city directory in the office. sam wilson searched it stubbornly. time-between-time was not listed. neither was orville k. hesterson. there was nothing to do but consider the letters nixies and turn them over to the proper department. if there was another bunch of them tomorrow, he would never know. * * * * * retirement, after the first carefree week, was just as bad as sam wilson had suspected it was going to be. not bad enough to think yet about elevator operating or night watching, but bad enough to make him restless and edgy, and to make him snap mollie's head off until they had their first bad quarrel for years. he'd never had time enough before to keep up with all the science fiction magazines and books. now, with nothing but time, there weren't enough of them to fill the long days. what he needed was something--something that didn't involve walking--to make those endless hours speed up. he began thinking again about those 22 nixies. he sat gloomily on a bench in tompkins square in the spring sunshine: just what he had sworn not to do, but if he stayed home another hour, mollie would heave the vacuum cleaner at him. in the public library he had searched directories and phone books, for all the boroughs and for suburban new jersey, connecticut and pennsylvania; orville k. hesterson appeared in none of them. he didn't know why it was any of his business, except that time-between-time had put a blot on the very end of his 35-year record and he wanted revenge. also, it was something to do and be interested in. in a way, science fiction and detection had a lot in common, and sam wilson prided himself on his ability to guess ahead what was going to happen in a story. so why couldn't he figure out this puzzle, right here in manhattan, terra? but he was stymied. or was he? sam took his gloomy thoughts to mulligan's. every large city is a collection of villages. the people who live long enough in a neighborhood acquire their own groceries, their own drugstores, their own bars. the wilsons had lived six years in their flat, and mulligan's, catercornered across the street, was sam's personal bar. he was cautious as to what he said there. he'd heard enough backtalk already when he had been indiscreet enough once, after four beers, to express his views on ufos. he had no desire to gain a reputation as a crackpot. but it was safe enough to remark conversationally, "how do you find out where a guy is when he says he's someplace and you write him there and the letter comes back?" "you ought to know, sam," said ed, the day barkeep. "you were a postman long enough." "if i knew, i wouldn't ask." "ask information on the phone." "he hasn't got a phone." that was the weirdest part of it--a business office without a phone. in every bar, at every moment, there is somebody who knows all the answers. this somebody, a nondescript fellow nursing a collins down the bar, spoke up: "it could be unlisted." sam's acquaintance didn't include people with unlisted phones; he hadn't thought of that. "then how do you find out his number?" "you don't, unless he tells you. that's why he has it unlisted." the police could get it, sam thought. but they wouldn't, without a reason. "hey, maybe this guy's office is in one of them flying saucers and he forgot to come down and get his mail," ed suggested brightly. sam scowled and walked out. nevertheless.... nothing to do with ufos, of course. that was ridiculous. * * * * * but suppose there was a warp in the space-time continuum? suppose there had once been another ochterlonie building, or some day in the future there was going to be another one, somewhere in new york? there wasn't another now, in any of the boroughs, or any other building with a name remotely like it; his research had already established that. sam went back to the public library. the building he knew had been erected in 1898. he consulted directories as far back as they went; there never had been one of the name before. then a time-slip from the future? that was hopeless, so far as he could do anything about it, so he cast about for another solution. how about a parallel world? that could be, certainly: some accident by which mail for that other ochterlonie building, the seven-story one, had (maybe just once) arrived in the wrong dimension. he couldn't do anything to prove or disprove that, either. what he needed was a break. he got it. one morning in early summer his own mailbox in the downstairs hallway disgorged a long envelope, addressed to mr. samuel wilson. the upper left-hand corner bore a printed return address: time-between-time, 746 ochterlonie building, new york 3, n. y. he raced upstairs, locked himself in the bathroom, the one place mollie couldn't interrupt him, and tore the envelope open with trembling fingers. it was a form letter, with the "dear mr. wilson" not too accurately typed in. it enclosed one of those blue-printed envelopes in simulated handwriting. the letterhead carried the familiar impossible address, but no phone number. maybe it was chance, maybe it was esp, but he himself had got onto time-between-time's mailing list! * * * * * he had trouble focusing his eyes to read the letter. dear mr. wilson: would you invest $1 to get a chance at $1,000? of course you would, especially if, win or lose, you got your dollar back. in this atomic age, yesterday's science fiction has become today's and tomorrow's science fact. time-between-time, a new organization, is planning establishment of a publishing company to bring out the best in new books, both fact and fiction, in the field of science, appealing to people who have never been interested until now. before we start, we are conducting a poll to find out what the general public thinks and feels about our probabilities of success. we're asking for your co-operation. our statisticians have told us that from the answers to one question--which may look off the beam but isn't--we can make a pretty good estimate. here it is: if tomorrow morning a spaceship landed in front of your house, and from it issued a band of extraterrestrial beings, who might or might not be human in appearance, what, in your best judgment, would be your own immediate reaction? check one, or if you agree with none of the choices, indicate in the blank space beneath what your personal reaction would probably be. 1. phone for the police. 2. attack the aliens physically. 3. faint. 4. run away. 5. call for assistance to seize the visitors. 6. greet them, attempt to communicate, and welcome them in the name of your fellow-terrestrials. 7. other (please specify). return this letter, properly marked, in the enclosed envelope. to defray promotion expenses, enclose a dollar bill (no checks or money orders). at the conclusion of this poll, all answers will be evaluated. the writer of the one which comes nearest to the answer reached by our electronic computer, which will be fed the same question, will receive $1,000 in dollar bills. ties will receive duplicate prizes. in addition, all participants, when our publishing firm has been established, will receive for their $1 a credit form entitling them to $1 off any book we publish. don't delay. send in your answer now. only letters enclosing $1 will be entered. very truly yours, time-between-time, orville k. hesterson, sec.-treas. * * * * * sam wilson read the letter three times. "it's crazy," he muttered. "it's a gyp." what he ought to do was take the letter to the post office--mr. gross would be the one to see--and let them decide whether this hesterson was using the mails to defraud. let mr. gross and his department try to find 746 in the six-story ochterlonie building. as a faithful employee for 35 years, it was sam's plain duty. but then it would be out of his hands forever; he'd never even find out what happened. and he'd be back in the dull morass that retirement was turning out to be. "sam!" mollie yelled outside the locked door. "aren't you ever coming out of there?" "i'm coming, i'm coming!" he put the letter and its enclosure back in the envelope and placed them in a pocket. time enough to decide that afternoon what he was going to do. he escaped after lunch to what was becoming his refuge on a park bench. there he read the letter for the fourth time. for a long while he sat ruminating. about three o'clock he walked to the general post office--walking had become a habit hard to break--and hunted up the man who now had his old route, a youngster not more than 30 named flanagan. from the letter sam extracted the return envelope. "you been delivering any like this?" he asked. flanagan peered at it. "yeah," he said. "plenty." he looked worried. "gee, wilson, i'm glad you came in. there's something funny about those deliveries, and i don't want to get in dutch." "funny how?" "my very first day on the route, i started up to the seventh floor of that building to deliver them--and there wasn't any seventh floor. so i asked the old elevator man--" "howie mallory. i know him. he's been there for years." "i guess so. anyway, he said it was o. k. just to give them to him. he showed me a paper, signed with the name of this outfit, by the secretary or something--" "orville k. hesterson," sam said. "that was it--saying that all mail for them was to be delivered to the elevator operator until further notice. so i've been giving it to him ever since--there's a big bunch every day. is something wrong, sam? have i pulled a boner? am i going to be in trouble?" "no trouble. i'm just checking--little job they asked me to do for them, seeing i'm retired." sam was surprised at the glibness with which that fib came out. flanagan looked still more worried. "he said their office was being remodeled or something, so he was looking after their mail till they could move in." "sure. don't give it another thought." another idea occurred to him; he lowered his voice. "i oughtn't to tell you this, flanagan, but every new man on a route, they kind of check up on him the first few weeks, see if he's handling everything o.k. i'll tell them you're doing fine." "hey, thanks. thanks a lot." "don't say anything about this. it's supposed to be secret." "oh, i won't." sam wilson waved and walked out. he sat on the steps a while to think. was old howie mallory pulling a fast one? was _he_ orville k. hesterson? had he cooked up a scheme to make himself some crooked money? * * * * * three things against that. first, those nixies the first day: why wouldn't mallory have told him the same thing he told flanagan? sam would have believed him, if he had said they were building an office on the roof and giving it a number. second, howie just wasn't smart enough. of course he could be fronting for the real crook. but sam had known him for years, and old howie had always seemed downright stupidly honest. a man doesn't suddenly turn into a criminal after a lifetime of probity. third, if this was some fraudulent scheme involving mallory, nobody the old man knew--least of all the postman who used to deliver mail to that very building--would ever have been allowed to appear on the sucker list. sam wilson thought some more. then he hunted up the nearest pay phone and called mollie. "mollie? sam. look, i just met an old friend of mine--" he picked a name from a billboard visible from the phone booth--"bill seagram, you remember him--oh, sure you do; you've just forgotten. anyway, he's just here for the day and we're going to have dinner and see a show. don't wait up for me. i might be pretty late.... no, i'm _not_ phoning from mulligan's.... now you know me, mollie; do i ever drink too much?... yeah, sure, he ought to've asked you too, but he didn't. o.k., he's impolite. aw, mollie, don't be like that--" she hung up on him. sam wilson stood concealed in a doorway from which he could see the cramped lobby of the ochterlonie building. it was ten minutes before somebody entered it and rang for the elevator. the minute howie mallory started up with his passenger, sam darted into the building and started climbing the stairs. he heard mallory passing him, going down again, but the elevator wasn't visible from the stairway. on the sixth floor, after a quick survey to see that the hall was clear and the doors closed that he had to pass, he found the iron steps to the trapdoor. the roof was just as empty as the other time he had visited it. no, it wasn't. in a corner by the parapet, weighted with a brick to keep it from blowing away, was a large paper bag. sam picked up the brick and looked inside. it was stuffed with those blue-printed return envelopes. he looked carefully about him. there were buildings all around, towering over the little old ochterlonie building. there were plenty of windows from which a curious eye could discern anything happening on that roof. but at night anybody in those buildings would be either working late or cleaning offices, with no reason whatever to go to a window; and sam was sure nothing was going to happen till after dark. it was a warm day and he had been carrying his coat. he folded it and put it down near the paper bag and sat on it with his back against the parapet. he cursed himself for not having had more foresight; he should have brought something to eat and something to read. well, he wasn't going to climb down all those stairs and up again. he lighted his pipe and began waiting. he must have dozed off, for he came to himself with a start and found it was almost dark. the paper bag was still there. it was just as well he had slept; now he'd have no trouble staying awake and watching. he might very well be there all night--in fact, he'd have to be, whether anything happened or not. the front door would be locked by now. mollie would have a fit, but he had his alibi ready. there was only one explanation left. not time travel. not alternate universes. not an ordinary confidence game. not--decidedly not--a hoax. if he was wrong, then tomorrow morning he'd take the whole business to mr. gross. but he had a hunch he wasn't going to be wrong. * * * * * it was 12:15 by his wristwatch when he saw it coming. it had no lights; nobody could have spotted it as it appeared suddenly out of nowhere and climbed straight down. it landed lightly as a drop of dew. the port opened and a small, spare man, very neatly dressed, as sam could see with eyes accustomed to the darkness, stepped out. orville k. hesterson in person. he tiptoed quickly to the paper bag. then he saw sam and stopped short. sam reached out and grabbed a wrist. it felt like flesh, but he couldn't be sure. "who are you? what are you doing here?" the newcomer said in a strained whisper, just like a scared character in a soap opera. so he spoke english. good: sam didn't speak anything else. "i'm from the united states post office," sam replied suavely. well, he had been, long enough, hadn't he? "oh. well, now look, my friend--" "_you_ look. talk. how much are you paying the elevator operator to put your mail up here every day?" "five dollars a day, in dollar bills, six days a week, left in the empty bag," answered hesterson--it must be hesterson--sullenly. "that's no crime, is it? call this my office, and call that my rent. all i need an office for is to have somewhere to get my letters." "letters with money in them." "we have to have funds for postage, don't we?" "what about the postage on the first mailing list, before you got any dollars to pay for stamps?" if it had been a little lighter, sam would have been surer of the alarm that crossed hesterson's face. "i--well, we had to fabricate some of your currency for that. we regretted it--we aim to obey all local rules and regulations. as soon as we have enough coming in, we intend to send the amount to the new york postmaster as anonymous conscience money." "how about the $1,000 prize? and those dollar book credits?" "oh, that. well, we say '_when_ our publishing firm has been established,' don't we? that publishing thing is just a gimmick. as for the $1,000, we give no intimation of when the poll will end." sam tightened his grasp on the wrist, which was beginning to wriggle. "i see. o.k., explain the whole setup. it sounds crazy to me." "i couldn't agree with you more," said mr. hesterson, to sam's surprise. "that's exactly what, in our own idiom, i told--" sam couldn't get the name; it sounded like a grunt. "but he's the boss and i'm only a scout third class." his voice grew plaintive. "you can't imagine what an ordeal it is, almost every week, to have to land in a secluded place where i can hide the flyer, make my way to new york, and buy a bunch of stamps and mail a batch of letters in broad daylight. we can simulate your paper and printing and typing well enough, but"--that grunt again--"insists we use genuine stamps. i told you we try to follow all your laws, as far as we possibly can. it's very difficult for me to keep this absurd shape for long at a time; i'm exhausted after every trip. i can assure you, these little night excursions from the mother-ship to pick up the letters are the very least of my burdens!" "what in time does your boss think he's going to gain by such a screwy come-on?" "'in time'? oh, just an idiomatic phrase. like our calling our organization time-between-time, time of course being just a dimension of space. i learned your tongue mostly from the b.b.c. and i don't always understand your speech in new york. my dear sir, do you here on this planet ask your bosses why they concoct their plans? mine has a very profound mind; that's why he is the boss. all i know is that he persuaded the council to try it out. a softening-up process--isn't that what you people call it when you use it in your silly wars with one another?" "softening for what?" but sam wilson knew the answer already. * * * * * "why, for the invasion, of course," said orville k. hesterson, whose own name was probably a grunt. "surely you must be aware that, with planetwide devastation likely and even imminent, every world whose inhabitants can live comfortably under extreme radiation is looking to yours--earth, as you call it--as a possible area for colonization? so many planets are so terribly overcrowded--there's always a rush for a new frontier. we've missed out too often; this time we're determined to be first." "i'll be darned," said sam, "if i can see how that questionnaire would be any help to you." "but it's elementary, as i believe one of your famous law-enforcers once declared. first of all, we're gaining a pretty good idea of what kind of reception we're likely to meet when we arrive, and therefore whether we're going to need weapons to destroy what will be left of the population, or can reasonably expect to take over without difficulty. we figure that a cross-section of one of your largest cities will be a pretty good indication, and we can extrapolate from that. in the second place, the question itself is deliberately worded to startle the recipients, who have never in their lives contemplated such a thing as an extraterrestrial visitor--" "not me. i'm a science fiction fan from way back. it's all old stuff to me." hesterson clicked his tongue--or at least the tongue he was wearing. "oh, dear, that _was_ an error. we tried particularly not to include on our lists subscribers to any of your speculative periodicals. that wasn't my mistake, thank goodness; it was another scout who had the horrible job of spending several days here and compiling the lists. under your present low radioactivity it's real agony for us." "i'll tell you one mistake you did make, though," said sam angrily. "you ought to've arranged with the elevator man before your first lot of answers was due. if you want to know, that's how i got onto the whole thing. i'm a mail carrier--i'm retired now, but i was then--and i was the one supposed to deliver the first batch. mallory--that's the elevator operator--laughed in my face and told me there wasn't any 746 in this building, and i had to take the letters back to the post office--on my _last_ delivery!" sam couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. "after 35 years--well, that's neither here nor there. but i didn't like that and i made up my mind to find out what was happening." "so that's it. oh, dear, dear. i'll have to compensate for that or i _will_ be in trouble." sam had had enough. "you are in trouble right now," he growled, pushing the little alien back against the parapet. "we're staying right here till morning, and then i'm going to call for help and take you and your flying saucer or whatever it is straight to the f.b.i." the counterfeit mr. hesterson laughed. "oh, no indeed you aren't," he said mildly. "i can slip right back into my own shape whenever i want to--the only reason i haven't done it yet is that then i wouldn't have the equipment to talk to you--and i assure you that you couldn't hold me then. on the contrary. as you just pointed out to me, i did make one bad error, and my boss doesn't like errors. i have no intention of making another one by leaving you here to spread the news." "what do you mean?" sam wilson cried. for the first time, after the years of accustomedness to the idea of extraterrestrial beings, a thrill of pure terror shot through him. "this," said the outsider softly. * * * * * before sam could take another breath, the wrist he was holding slid from his grasp, all of mr. hesterson slithered into something utterly beyond imagining, and sam found himself enveloped in invisible chains against which he was unable to make the slightest struggle. he felt himself being lifted and thrown into the cockpit. something landed on top of him--undoubtedly the package of prize entries and dollar bills. his last conscious thought was a despairing one of mollie. sam wilson, devoted mail carrier, was making a longer trip than any persian courier ever dreamed of, and not snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night could stay him from his appointed round. but he may not be gone forever. if he can be kept alive on that planet in some other solar system, they plan to bring him back as exhibit one whenever world war iii has made earth sufficiently radioactive for orville k. hesterson's co-planetarians to live here comfortably. journey work by dave dryfoos _get mad, old man, but don't give up; you're not through by a long shot. somewhere there's a job for you, a job that youth can't do ... a dangerous job, but a good one that'll bring you fame, fortune and peace...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, january 1955. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] in a central california tomato field a dusty-faced man opened the autodriver of a nuclear-powered truck and inserted a cannery's address card so the truck would know where to deliver its load. six old men--the tomato pickers--waited for their pay in the truck's lengthening shadow. most of them smoked or dozed, too tired for talk. ollie hollveg, tallest and oldest of the pickers, eyed the heavy-set rancher who sat at the tally table figuring the payroll. for this day's work ollie expected even less pay than usual; the mumbling, pencil-licking rancher--his name was rost--seemed to be overacting the role of harried proprietor. soon ollie saw his guess confirmed. a look of frustrated rage spread from face to face as each of the other pickers was in turn called to the table and paid. all were overage. none dared protest. at seventy a poor man without relatives willing to care for him was supposed to let himself be permanently retired to a home for seniles. if he wasn't senile and didn't want a home with barred windows and a barbed wire fence, he had to lie low and keep his mouth shut. anyone could charge an overage person with incompetence. the charge was not a crime and so had no defence. all of which was old stuff to ollie hollveg. he'd been dodging the geriatricians for sixteen years. he considered himself used to the setup. yet something about the rancher, rost--maybe his excessive weight, in contrast with the pickers' under-fed gauntness, or maybe his cardboard cowboy boots and imitation sombrero--made ollie boil in spite of himself. he tried not to show his feelings. but when he was called to the tally table the rancher scowled up at him defensively and said, "don't glare at me, hollveg! if you moved as fast picking tomatoes as you do collecting your pay, you'd have earned more than this." he pushed out a little pile of coins that came to four dollars eighty-seven cents. "odd pennies?" ollie's voice broke as he fought to keep it under control. "odd pennies, when picking's at the rate of two bits a lug? that can't be right. just because we're old, you're stealing from us!" rost's fat face turned livid. "call me a thief?" he sputtered. "get off my land!" rost jumped clumsily to his feet, upsetting the tally table. ollie bent to retrieve the coins scattered in the dust. "don't try to steal from me!" rost shouted. he pulled out a small gas gun and discharged it under ollie's nose. ollie pitched forward onto his face, twitched, moaned, and lay still. * * * * * the deputy sheriff held an ampoule under his nose and brought him to after setting the squad car on the beamway, proceeding under remote control toward the county seat. the first thing ollie thought of was his day's pay. he'd never received it. worse--his bedroll was left behind. and there was no stopping nor turning on the beam way. he complained bitterly. "you won't need that stuff," the sharp young deputy said. "not where you're going." "i suppose rost needs it!" ollie protested. "he might at that. all he's got is those measily four rented acres of tomatoes. the cannery pays him the same as if he had four hundred acres and could pick by machine. "about all the profit he can make is what he chisels out of his pickers. you'll be better off in a home, pop, than trying to work cheaper than a machine." "those homes are prisons!" the deputy sighed. "i know how you feel. my old grandfather cried when we put him in. but we couldn't support him and he had no way of making a living. "the world changes faster than the people in it, pop. science all the time lets us live longer, but faster and faster it keeps changing the way we do things. an old guy falls so far behind the times, the only place for him is a home." "but if a man wants to stay out," said ollie, "i don't see why he can't." "old guys are dangerous to the rest of us. i saw three people killed, not long ago, trying to dodge an oldtimer who walked too slow to get across a wide street before the lights changed against him." "they could have slowed the signal," ollie said. "but no! always it's the man who has to adapt to the machine, not the machine to the man. the only way to get by in this world is to find some machine you just naturally fit." "you sound kind of bitter." "why not? i used to be a stock control clerk, keeping track of spare parts supply for a nationally distributed line of machine tools. i had twenty girls working for me. then one day they put in a big computer." he sighed. "no wonder these suicide salesmen do so well. if i had the money i'd hire somebody to knock me off right now." "don't be stupid!" the deputy snarled. "you wouldn't be losing your freedom if you'd had sense enough to stay out of a fight. and when you talk about suicide salesmen, you sure prove you can't take care of yourself!" but the deputy was kinder than he sounded. rather than allege incompetence, he charged ollie with an assault against rost. so instead of being remanded to the geriatricians, ollie was kept overnight in jail and ordered held, next morning, for want of fifty dollars bail. an hour after bail had been set, a dapper thin faced bailbond broker came to see him. "want out?" "sure." "if i put up bail you'll be out." "no home?" "you're classified as a criminal, ineligible for a home till either you're found not guilty or serve your time." "well, but i'm broke. i can't buy a bailbond." "you can work it off. i'm going to spring you right now. as soon as they let you out, meet me in the southwest corner of the park, just across from the post office." ollie did. he thought his bail had been arranged by the deputy. the broker kept him waiting in the park for half an hour, but was brisk when he appeared. "my name is lansing," he said. "come on. we're taking a little trip." he steered ollie to the copter tower at the park's center and with him boarded its endless-belt manlift. they were carried ten stories to the roof, and as they stepped off the manlift an empty copter hovered at hand. it bore on sides and bottom an address, a phone number, and the word _bailbonds_, all in big letters. the copter rose under the tower's control as soon as they'd entered it, and continued to rise till lansing selected a prepunched destination card and slipped it into the auto-pilot. then a knowing red light winked on, the copter levelled off and headed southwest, and lansing took one of a pair of chintz-padded wicker seats, motioning ollie into the other. "how do you like the idea of going to a home?" he asked abruptly. "i'd rather be dead." "i know someone who agrees with you. a fellow with bad health who wants to die but doesn't have the guts to do the necessary. feel like helping him out?" ollie sighed, smiled grimly, and shook his head. "no, thanks!" "you might die yourself, hollveg." lansing's voice was heavy with menace. "i might," ollie agreed hotly. "i might get murdered. and maybe the same thing will happen to this supposedly sick man you want me to help out. he may not want to die any more than i do. i've heard you suicide salesmen do a lot of murder-for-hire." "you've heard too much, hollveg." lansing took a plushlined metal case from an inside pocket and removed from it a filled syringe, complete with needle. "this won't hurt," he said in a sneering imitation of a doctor. "but it'll end your independence like a barbed wire fence." ollie began to sweat. "i've heard of those zombie-shots too," he said. he looked wildly around, then controlled himself and gestured almost calmly toward the sky, land, and water visible through the cabin's plastic walls. "maybe you can put the needle away for a while," he suggested. "i'm not going to walk out on you right now." lansing smiled and complied. "you may keep your health a long time yet," he said urbanely. "if you're sensible, we might even find steady work for you." ollie suppressed a shudder. lansing tuned in a western on the physeo. soon the odor of sage and horse-sweat filled the cabin. ollie watched avidly. he hadn't seen enough physeo to be bored with it. there was a mouth watering camp supper scene, with pleasant odors of broiling beef and burning wood; and a stirring moonlit love scene with a wholesome girl who smelled of soap and starch, and only faintly of cosmetics. but then came the climactic chase, a combined stampede, stage-coach race, and indian fight. so much alkali dust poured from the physeo that ollie got a fit of coughing. he couldn't stop. after several excruciating minutes he lay down on the floor and gasped to lansing for a drink of water. "there isn't any," lansing told him sharply. "and brother, you'd better get up from there, because you'll have to move fast when we get to frisco." without knowing what would result, ollie made sure he neither got up nor stopped coughing till they reached san francisco which was fifteen minutes later. the pretense involved intense effort for so old a man. his voice went. he was clammy with sweat from head to foot. his face was pale and his hands cold. by the time the copter reached the roof of san francisco's union square tower, ollie was actually unable to jump out of the cabin in the thirty seconds allotted by the remote traffic-control system. lansing tried to carry him out, but the result was merely a delay that damned the stream of traffic. a winged inspector buzzed them, took remote control of their copter, and led it to the emergency tower at civic center. ollie was taken off on a stretcher. lansing, his urbanity washed away in a flood of redfaced rage, was still in the copter when it rose. and the hypo was still in his pocket; with ollie due to get medical attention, he hadn't been able to use it. ollie didn't dare stay long in the hospital. as soon as his stretcher was set down on the receiving ward floor, he rolled out of it and with the help of a fat steward struggled to his feet. "thanks," he whispered hoarsely. "i have to go now." "you can't!" said the steward. "you haven't even been examined yet." "it's against my religion to have to do with medicine," ollie improvised. "besides, i'm perfectly well." "yeah? what about your voice--or lack of one?" "a coughing spell. i'm over it now. and my voice is coming back." it was. the steward unbuttoned his coat and scratched his belly meditatively. "if you don't want treatment you don't have to have it," he said finally. "the joint's overcrowded now." ollie didn't congratulate himself when he got out. he was now a fugitive from both the geriatricians and the underworld. soon the police would want him for bail-jumping, and meanwhile they'd grab him for vagrancy if they caught him off skidrow. he headed that way at once, walking over to mission and down it toward third. a clock on a store-front said five twenty. he felt overdue for supper and bed. he counted his change--three dollars and forty-two cents. he had no bedroll; no overcoat, either. even in this nice summer weather it might be a little tough for a fellow to get by on the road with so little plunder. eighty-six was a trifle old for the rugged life. what he needed, of course, was a white-collar job. not only needed, but deserved--he was a good clerk. therefore he should go to the hearst building at third and market and scan the want ads posted there. as he'd been doing when in san francisco for forty years. he thought of some of the many times he'd stared at that bulletin board. he'd gone there often during the years he'd worked as a construction timekeeper, before that skill became obsolete. then there'd been an interval when he'd sold rebuilt window washers--for a firm which still owed him money. and he'd haunted the board during the months he'd had that job in the automatic grocery, replenishing the dispensing machines' merchandise. none of his jobs had come from a want ad. but he had to go look. it was a ritual. * * * * * the years had made the ritual a hard one for him. he could read the fine-printed columns only with head cocked an arm's length away from a cheap reading glass held up to them. he took a lot of room; forced a white-capped young mechanic to peer awkwardly around him. embarrassed, ollie moved out of the way. he'd begun to walk off when the young fellow stopped him. "i don't think you saw this one, dad," he said, pointing. older men (the ad read) without dependents needed for dangerous scientific experiments. if able to pass intensive physical and mental tests report for interview to civilian personnel office, short air force base, short, utah. "i don't know where the place is at all," ollie complained wearily. "just this side of salt lake, on the main line," the young man said. "i served there, so i'm curious. if you're not--well--" he shrugged and edged away. "thanks, son," ollie called after him. "i'm going to follow that up." the young man walked on without looking back. ollie felt committed, not only by his offhand declaration, but by his ritual. he'd come to look for a job; he'd found one for which he was eligible; he must go after it. he headed down third street toward the freight yards but stopped at a skidrow restaurant for a bowl of stew and a cup of coffee. passing an old-fashioned catchpenny grocery he went in and bought a half-dozen rolls to take with him. the proprietor, squat, unshaven, and swarthy, picked out a large red apple and slipped it in with the rolls. "good for you," he said, smiling. ollie shook his head. the grocer frowned, then replaced the apple with an orange. "easier on teeth," he said. "thank you," said ollie, smiling. "you make me feel lucky. i'm answering a want ad--maybe i'll get the job." the grocer smiled vaguely. "i hope." then his face livened. "what job? in paper?" "yes." there could be no other, for a man his age. "it says 'dangerous,'" said the grocer. "i think maybe they cut you up, find out how you live so long. or make you sick to try new cure. "you find better job--or home. that one bad." there was a slight pause. "look. i close soon. you sweep store, i give you dollar." "you're a good guy," said ollie. "but i've got three dollars now." he showed them proudly. "you save yours for somebody who doesn't have a job to try for." he tucked the rolls and orange inside his shirt, marched valiantly out of the dark little store, and continued on to the yards. the heavy traffic there confused him briefly. transcontinental freight was carried in long trains of rubber-tired cars towed on elevated beamways by remotely-controlled, nuclear-fueled steam tractors. here at the san francisco yards the trains were broken up and the individual cars hauled by turbo-tractor on city streets and suburban roads for delivery at the addressees' doors. the cars were huge, the noise and bustle awe-inspiring. ollie stood outside the main exit watching the little tractors and big cars emerge, till a beamway bull came over, flashed a badge, and told him to move on. he did. he was a fugitive from so many things; he couldn't afford resentments. he went on around the yards. they were vast. he felt sure that somewhere there must be an unguarded entry, and set out to find it, moving cautiously from shadow to shadow along the high plasti-board fence. twice he blundered into watchmen. once he nearly got himself run over. but after a couple of hours he saw a bindlestiff slip through an unguarded gate, and in half a minute he was right behind the man. ollie moved away from him. there was safety in solitude. besides, he had to find a salt lake train. the sealed cars were addressed like so many packages. but he had to have light to read by, and he risked discovery every time he moved into the light and took his stance behind the reading glass. there were other hazards; television beams for the yard clerks to read numbers by, invisible beams for the bulls to catch him with, headlights that suddenly flashed on blindingly, humped cars rolling unattended on silent, murderous tires. ollie felt like an ant on a busy sidewalk, liable to be crushed under foot at any moment. but an added hazard helped him find his train. the bulls had read that want ad too. they were out in force around a string of cars. he slipped between two sleepy-looking men, checked an address, and then slipped out again, certain every car would be inspected before departure. a good way down the yard he hid at the base of the fence, dozing and shivering for several hours as he lay stretched out on the dew-chilled concrete. he checked each outbound train as it went by, and again knew his by the bulls on it. they were on the cowcatcher and in the cab, on the car roofs, and in the caboose with the train-crew of three trouble-shooting mechanics. highlights gleamed on their weapons. their job was to keep or get all transients off that train--and they would if they could. ollie let most of the train go past. the caboose came by at about fifteen miles an hour with a sharp-eyed guard head-and-shoulders out of the cupola. ollie let him get past, too--and hoped he went on looking toward the front. he began to hobble parallel to the train, dismayed at the stiffness that had set in while he lay out on the damp concrete. as the rear of the caboose drew even with him he emerged from the shadows and dived for the coupling at the car's rear. he caught it clumsily, tore the nail off his left ring finger, but hung on. he tried to trot but the train dragged him. he gave a leapfrog player's jump and landed on top of his own hands, his thighs around the coupling, his nose against the rear platform-wall of the caboose. the engine jerked slack out of the long train and nearly dislodged him. one at a time he moved his hands from the coupling to the base of the wall. he edged in a little closer. the train gathered speed. he wasn't really on but he couldn't safely get off. he'd intended climbing under the caboose to its rear truck, but the bulls and his own lack of agility made this impossible so now he must ride where he was, exposed to battering wind and searching cold as the train crossed the high sierras, and also exposed to the whims of the trainmen if any should come out on the platform and look down. he'd seen men shot off trains. but he didn't worry about it. instead, like the old hand he was, he tried to sleep while clinging there. * * * * * at sparks the train stopped for a maintenance check. the guards formed a perimeter but ollie was inside it. too stiff to move far, he stayed in a shadow while the mechanics inspected, then he climbed under the caboose and stretched out on a girder separating two tires of the rearmost, six-tired truck. the tremendous tires fanned up hot winds when rolling, and these had warmed the steel he lay on. before the train started he ate a roll, sucked the orange, and stretched out face down for the speed run across the central nevada flatlands. the guards stayed behind. after the train had started, one of them shined a light directly in ollie's eyes. the train kept on. and he was too close to the tires to be shot at; rubber-coated death whirled within three inches at either side of him. as the train picked up speed he was careful to lie still, but beyond making sure he didn't touch the tires ollie tried to put all thought of risk from his mind. he saw a sudden vivid picture of his dead wife and son as they'd looked before the undertaker fixed them. they'd been killed while travelling. in times when to succeed was to get somewhere, they'd been killed en route. he couldn't remember where to. they'd died in a head-on crash caused by a stranger's error in judgment. a thing that didn't happen any more, now that highway vehicles were controlled by beamed energy instead of individual drivers. the highway was one place where the human had been tested against the machine and found inferior. the office was another. if minna and charlie hadn't died so long ago, they might have lived to see him now--a bindlestiff so low he even lacked a bindle. still, it was lonely with no one in the whole wide world to care whether he lived or died. he sighed, shifted his position, and was nearly jerked under the wheels by sudden contact with the tire on his right. it was over in an instant. the tire simply ripped the coat from his back. he still wore the sleeves. the rest was gone. weathered thread had saved him. * * * * * he had ample time to think about the irony of that before rosy dawnlight was reflected into his face from a glittering salt-pan. he knew then he was still west of salt lake city, and that short air force base was close. also close, now that night had withdrawn its concealment, was discovery. he was sure to be found when next the train stopped. therefore he eased himself out of his coatsleeves. he moved gingerly, but still chanced death to improve his appearance. the train slowed, stopped. someone called, "here he is," and a redhaired air policeman leaned under the caboose, looked him over, and said, "come on out, pop." ollie's legs were stiff. the airman had to help. "you're in kind of rough shape," he said. "where did you think you were going?" "why--uh--east." ollie cast down his eyes, ashamed even to admit he'd once entertained the notion he might get a job. the airman wasn't fooled. "you slipped through the train guards after the job we've got here. didn't you, pop?" "all i want is out," said ollie stubbornly. "well," said the airman, "you can't get off the base without a pass. you'll have to go up to civilian personnel and get one." "can't i wash first?" he could. he could also get a jeep ride to the terra-cotta headquarters building, with a stop along the way for a canteen-cup of coffee and a slice of bread. when they got to headquarters the airman asked, "tell the truth, now; didn't you really come after this job?" ollie wouldn't admit he'd lied about it, so he lied again. "i've seen some of the other guys come in after it," the airman insisted, "and you look as good as any of them. why not try for it, now you're here?" he gave ollie a long application to fill out and left him at a desk just outside the personnel office. from somewhere came the clatter of a facsimile-printer, carrying the day's message from ghq. a boy whistled above the squawk of a superwave radio. but otherwise the place seemed deserted at that early-morning hour. for lack of anything better to do, ollie filled out the application, leaving the job title blank. the only thing that gave him pause, aside from the difficulty of seeing, was his arrest record, and in time he decided to put it down just as it was, including the pending assault charge with its implication of jumped bail. after an hour a young captain entered the building and went to the office marked adjutant. a fat major gave ollie a piercing glance and then entered the civilian personnel office. at about five minutes of eight the place suddenly boiled with military and civilian people of all ages and both sexes. things quieted promptly at eight. a blond youth came out of the office, glanced at ollie's application form, kept it, and invited him inside. "first thing for you," he said, "will be a physical exam." he took ollie to another room and turned him over to a young medic who put him in a box like a steam cabinet, attached electrodes to his temples, wrists, ankles, and chest, and put a helmet on his head. for five minutes ollie stood encased, his stomach fluttering as he recalled the grocer's warning. he waited for the vivisection to begin. it didn't. he was removed from his shell and handed an inked graph. "here's your profile," the medic said. "it's good, considering. take it back to the fellow who brought you here." he did and was ushered into a glassed-in office containing two desks, each labelled civilian personnel officer. at one sat the fat major. at the other, a tallish young civilian held ollie's application. "my name is katt," the civilian said, getting up to shake hands. "this is major brownwight." the major also shook his hand. katt placed a straightbacked chair between the two desks, and invited ollie to sit in it. ollie did, gazing uncertainly from one man to the other. "we heard you arrived by train early this morning," katt said. "yes, sir." "you were first reported in sparks, but i'll bet you boarded that train in san francisco." "yes, sir. what's the penalty?" "none. i like it. it's enterprising, athletic, and even brave for a man of your years to do that for a job. shows resourcefulness. also skill, because men are trying to nip rides here from all over the united states, but very few arrive." "they're too old," said major brownwight. he turned to katt and added, "i still don't think it's an old man's job!" "well sir," said katt, stifling a sigh, "your predecessor understood and approved of it. these old-timers have a lower metabolic rate than younger people, with all that that implies. they don't mind the enforced inactivity, they won't use up so much oxygen nor need so much food, they won't spend so many hours in sleep. all qualities we need." "maybe so." the major turned to ollie and said, "i just transferred in here. you know more about this than i do." "i don't even know what you're talking about," ollie told him. "without divulging classified information," said katt, "for which you are not yet cleared, i can tell you these are little one-man jobs. small stuff--for pioneering. that's why we want you men with lots of patience, who're used to being alone. people without a fixed place in society, and not too much to leave behind. a husky old itinerant like you is just what we want." "for what?" ollie insisted. "to travel--as a sort of working passenger, since piloting will of course be mechanical--in the first manned spaceships to leave earth for the stars." "spaceships?" "sure. solo spaceships. super-fast, which means the trip will seem relatively short while you're on it, and will give you extra earth-years of life in the end. "the job is much easier and less hazardous than the train ride that brought you here. you're a natural for it. you really fit it." "do i, now?" a quick glow of inner warmth melted many bad years away. ollie grinned. "you know," he said, "in a way that's a disappointment." "how so?" asked the major aggressively. "don't you want the job?" "yes, sir. i want it. but all these years i've been telling myself that somewhere on this earth was a place i'd fit into, if only i could find it. now you tell me i fit in, but the place isn't here on earth after all!" "not right now, no," said katt. "but you'll be back. rich and famous, too. no home for you, mr. hollveg--you'll have a nice place of your own." and he did--after photographing the planets of arcturus. our town by jerome bixby _the jets got all the young ones in smoky creek. only the old folks were left--with their memories. and the jets--friendly or hostile--would never get them...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, february 1955. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] a jet bomber and four fighters had appeared low over bald ridge, out of the east. they'd curved up as one to clear lawson's hill, their stubby wings almost brushing the treetops, their hiss and thunder rolling back and forth between the valley walls like a giant's derision; they'd dipped into the valley proper, obviously informed that smoky creek, tennessee (population 123) had no anti-aircraft installations, and circled the town at about five hundred feet. they circled and looked down--broad slavic faces with curious expressions, seen through plexiglass, as if thinking: _so this is an american small town._ then they took altitude and got to work. the first bomb was aimed at the big concrete railway bridge spanning the upper end of the valley; that was the main objective of the attack. the bomb exploded four hundred yards north of the bridge, at about six hundred feet altitude--the ideal point from which to flatten smoky creek. low altitude bombing can be tricky, of course, especially in mountain country. a-bombs were cheap though, turned out by the carload; not like 20 years before, when they were first developed. so it was likely the bombardier tripped a bomb over the town just for the hell of it. the next bomb got the bridge. the next tore up a quarter mile of track. the next tore up a quarter mile of road. that was the mission. the bomber circled, while the fighters strafed smoky creek for good measure; and then they roared away past lawson's hill, over bald ridge, into the east toward their invasion-coast base. everybody died. the bombs were midget a's, designed for tactical use; so smoky creek wasn't reduced to dust--just to sticks. there wasn't much heat from the bomb and there was hardly any residual radiation. but everybody in town died. concussion. smoky creek had been comprised of one main street and three cross streets, and that's not much area--the wave had thumped down from right above, like a giant fist. everybody died, except twenty-one old men and women who had been off in the woods at the far end of the valley, on their annual grandfolk's picnic. they didn't die, except inside. * * * * * three months later, an enemy jet came out of the sky and over the valley. a scoop arrangement under its belly was sniffing tennessee and alabama air for radioactive particles. it sniffed low over the town, and then again--a ruined town might hide an underground lab and converter--and then it barrel-rolled and crashed. nine rifle bullets had hit the motor; straight back through the jet intake, into the blades. a year after that another jet came low over the town, and it crashed too. only three bullets this time; but a jet motor's like a turbine--you get a blade or two, and it goes crazy. two years after that, ben bates (no longer mayor ben, because a mayor has to have a town; but still the man in charge) knocked off playing horseshoes in what had been the town hall. now the building served as a recreation hall; there were horseshoe pits at one end of the long room, there were tables for checkers and cards, and a short tenpin alley along one wall. three years ago the alley had been twice as long as it was now; but then there were young men around who could peg the length of it without tiring every time. overhead the roof sagged, and in one place you could see quite a piece of sky--but under the hole the old men had rigged a slanted board watershed that led to a drainage ditch; and scattered through the room were a lot of supporting posts and timber braces. actually the building was about as safe as it had ever been. there were other buildings like it; buildings that the bomb hadn't pounded flat or made too risky. they were propped up and nailed together and buttressed and practically glued so they'd stay up. from outside you'd think they were going to crumble any minute--walls slanted all cockeyed, boards peeled off and hanging, and roofs buckling in. but they were safe. fixed up every which way--from the inside. all from the inside; not an inch of repair on the outside. it had to be that way, because the town had to look like a dead town. after the men had finished propping, the women had come along with all the furniture and things they'd salvaged, and they swept and scrubbed and did a hundred jobs the men never would have thought of; and so the old people ended up with half a dozen buildings to live in, secretly and comfortably, in the town that had to look dead. "arthritis is bad," ben bates told his teammates and opponents. "hell, i'm just giving away points. maybe next week. i'll rest up, and kick you all around next week." he lit a cigar, a big grey man with long legs and a good-humored mouth, and he watched dan paray throw one short; then he strolled over to kibitz at the checker game between fat sam hogan and windy harris, at one of the tables near the door. late morning sunlight slanted in through the window by the table and struck light off windy's glasses as he leaned across the board, thumped a checker three times and said triumphantly, "king me, sam. you're getting blind, i swear. or dumber." behind his back ben bates heard a shoe ring against the stake; then he heard it spin off, and he grinned at owen urey's bullfrog cussing. tom pace was saying urgently, "look--look, jim, damn it, you didn't no more shoot down that plane singlehanded than i did. we was all shooting. godamighty--where you get off claiming _you_ brung it down?" ben turned and sat down at the table next to the checker game, and stretched his legs in the sunlight. he raised thick brows like clumps of steel-wool at tom and at old jim liddel, who sat in his pillowed armchair like a thin, scowling, bald, mansized spider. "you keep talking so high and mighty," tom said, "we'll carry you out o' here and take you and dump you in the creek. you can tell the fish about who got the plane." "still arguing over who planted the shot, huh," ben grinned. "regular feud, you two." "well, hell, ben," tom said, and bit down on his gums so his whiskers almost hid the end of his nose. "i just get filled up on this old windbag hollering how he--" "you go call me a windbag once more, tom pace," jim liddel said, and he stirred his all but helpless body in the armchair, "you're gonna have a sore eye, you seventy year old whippersnapper. _i_ brung it down." "in a hog's behind, you brung it down, mister dan'l boone!" "it 'us just after i let loose it started smoking," old jim snarled, "and nobody else was shooting right then! you're gonna get a sore eye, i swear--tobacco in it. i can spit to where you sit, and i can spit faster'n you can move, i bet, unless you're faster'n a fly, and you ain't. you just ask anybody who was there ... it 'us just after i shot it started--" tom pace thumped the table. "_i_ was there, you old ... now, now, jim, don't spit, for godsake! hold on. what i mean, i was there too, and maybe somebody's shot from a second or two before was what done the trick. maybe even my shot! takes a plane a while to know it's hurt, don't it? ever think o' that?" "maybe," ben bates said. "maybe, maybe. and maybe. let it go, you two. it ain't important who done it; we oughta just be grateful we got it." "grateful _i_ got it," jim liddel grunted. tom pace said, "now, looky here, jim--" ben bates nudged tom's leg under the table; and then slowly, fingering his jaw he said, "well, now, jim ... i figure maybe you did, at that. like you say, it smoked and crashed right after you shot, so i always kind o' figured it _was_ you brought it down. but that's a hard thing to prove." jim snorted. "can't prove it! but i got it, all right. a man knows when he sunk a shot." "in a varmint, maybe," tom pace objected, "or a man. but you claiming to know where to hit a plane the worst?" "we was _all_ shooting at the front, up where they put the motor," jim said nastily. "don't know about planes, but i know my aim. i got it square-on." "well," ben said, "why don't you just let it lay, eh, tom? jim's got a lot on his side." he looked sidewise at old jim, and saw that jim was still scowling at tom. old jim was ninety eight, and some set in his notions. "mm. hell," tom said reluctantly, after a second, "i ain't saying you _didn't_, jim. that ain't my intent. i just get burned when you yell you did, like no man dared say you was wrong. sure, maybe you're right. but ain't you willing to admit you might be wrong too?" "_no_," jim liddel yelled, and from the checker table came windy harris's encouraging, "you tell 'em who got that plane, jim!" ben bates scraped an inch of ash off his cigar against the table-edge, sighed and got up. he looked down at the glowering pair and said, "well, come the next plane, if there is one, we'll shove a rifle in your hand, jim, and see how good your eye is. you too, tom. till that time, reckon this is no place for a reasoning man." "sit down, ben bates," old jim snarled. "if you're a reasoning man, sit down. be glad to talk to one, after tom here goes away." "you go to hell. _i_ ain't going no place," tom said, and he picked up the cards and started shuffling them in his stiff hands. ben sat down and stretched out his legs again. after a second, old jim said wistfully, "you know, i wish i _could_ still handle a rifle, ben. or do anything but sit. no way for a man to live, to have dead legs and dying arms." he shifted in his cushions. "you know, i reckon when i start to really die--die all over--i'm gonna get up out o' this chair. i'll stand up, somehow, even if it kills me faster. a man oughta fall when he dies, like a tree, so they know he stood up in his time. a man oughtn'ta die sitting down." "sure, jim," ben said. "you're right about that." "never had a sick day in my life, until they dropped that bomb. why, i could outpitch and outchop and outshoot any of you whippersnappers, until they ..." old jim walloped the chair arm. "damn, i made up for it, though! didn't i? _they_ put me in a chair, i sat in it and _i_ got me an airyplane, and that's more'n they could do to me, by golly, they couldn't kill me!" "sure, jim," ben said. "and when my time comes, i'll be up and out o' this chair. man oughta fall and make a noise when he dies." "sure, jim," ben said. "but that's a long ways off, ain't it?" jim closed his eyes, and his face looked like a skull. "you squirts always think a man lives forever." * * * * * from outside came the late morning sounds: the murmuring of smoky creek at the edge of town, under its cool tunnel of willows; the twittering of a flock of robins circling above; the constant soft rustle of the trees that crowded the green hills around. from the warehouse down by the tracks came the faint sounds of livestock--and the voices of the men whose job it was to look after them this week: to feed them, turn them out into the big pens for an hour's sunlight, then drive them back into the warehouse again. lucky the warehouse had stood the bomb--it was perfect for the use. "wonder how the war's going," tom pace said. he dropped some cards and bent painfully to retrieve them; his voice was muffled: "i just wonder how it's going, you know? wonder who's killing more than who today. "maybe," tom continued, coming up, "it's all over. ain't seen no planes for couple years now. maybe somebody won." ben shrugged. "who knows. don't matter none to us. we're ready as we can be if another plane comes around. other than that, it ain't our concern." "darn tootin'," tom said, and pushed the cards together and started shuffling again. jim liddel said, "war!" and looked like he'd bit into spoiled meat. "never settled nothing ... just makes the biggest dog top-dog for a while, so he can get his way. man, i wish i could still lift a rifle, if an airyplane come around! i'd love to get me another one." he put his thin back against the cushions and pushed at the edge of the table with his hands. jim's fingers didn't move so well any more; some were curled and some were straight out, and the joints were different sizes, and now they were trembling a little. "sometimes when i think o' johnny and helen and all the kids--when i think o' that day, and those damn bombs, and that white tower o' smoke up over the town, i ... oh, godamighty, i'd love to see another airyplane! i'd shout and yell and pray; i'd pray almighty god for you to get it!" ben pulled on his cigar with stiff lips, and said slowly, "well, we might, jim. we just might. two out o' seven ain't bad." he puffed out smoke. "we been running in luck, so far, what with nobody ever coming back loaded for bear. reckon that means the other five didn't see us, low as they was; probably didn't even know they was being shot at." "they musta found bulletholes, though," tom pace said. "afterwards. not a chance we'd all miss--" he bobbed his beard at old jim--"'specially with dan'l boone here plugging away. they'd know they was shot at, all right. might even find rifle bullets." "maybe they did," ben said. "nobody ever come snooping back, though." "wouldn't know where to, would they?" windy harris said. he and fat sam hogan had stopped playing checkers, and had been listening. "smoky creek looks dead as sodom. buildings all down, and stuff knee-deep in the streets. bridge down, and the road out. and the valley is way the hell out o' the way ... no call for them to suspect it more'n anyplace else. less, even. they'd likely figure somebody took a potshot from a hill ... and there's a pack o' hills between here'n outside. "looks like," ben said. "we just got to keep it that way. we got a good plan: if the plane's up high, we just freeze under cover; if it comes down low a time or two, we figure we're likely spotted and start shooting. we shoot, and maybe it shoots too, and we pray." "it's a good plan," jim liddel said, looking out the window. "we got two." windy harris got up and stretched out his arms. "two ain't _enough_," old jim said bitterly. "well," windy said, "i hope we keep on getting 'em--them as sees us, anyway. hope nobody _ever_ knows we're here. it's peaceful here. way off by ourselves, nothing to do but get up and go to bed, and do what we want in between." he sent tobacco juice into the cuspidor by the door. "right now, me, i guess i'll go fishing down by the creek--promised maude i'd bring home a cat or two for supper. anybody come along?" tom pace shook his head, and old jim looked like he'd like to go, if he only could--and ben said, "maybe i'll be down a little while later, windy. keep to the trees." windy left, and tom pace shuffled the cards and looked over at jim liddel. "you going to play with ben and me, you old windbag, or you going to keep bragging so loud a man can't stand your company?" "why, you whippersnapper," jim growled, "you just go ahead and run 'em. reckon a reasoning man and a nitwit's about the best i can do right now." tom dealt out two cards, and said, "war!" without dealing out the rest. he looked at ben, his eyes cloudy. "got a cigar, ben?" ben handed one over and held a match, and tom got it going, puffing longer than he had to, like he didn't want to talk yet. then he said, "it didn't have to happen." he worked the cigar over to the corner of his mouth and settled it in the nest of stained whiskers there. "none of it had to happen--what happened here, and whatever happened outside the valley. it just didn't have to happen." "'course it didn't," ben said. "never has to. it just always does. some people got reasons to let it happen, and some ain't got the sense not to." fat sam hogan said, "i don't figure there's anything in the world a man can't sit down and talk out, instead o' reaching for a gun. don't know why that oughtn'ta hold for countries." ben bates looked at one of the two cards tom pace had dealt--his hole card. it was a four, and he lost interest. "yup," he said, "it holds all right ... they'll just both reach half the time anyway. one war on top of another. even one right after this one, ten years or so, if this one's over. i just bet. every country wants a piece out o' the next one's hide--or his poke--and they won't give an inch except in talk; they won't really buckle down to stop a war. never. not if they can't get what they want by talk." he looked at the card again, just in case--a four, sure enough. "only time there's never a war is when everybody has what they want, or figure they can get it without killing somebody. but the second they see that's the only way, then it's war. war, war, war. it's a rotten way to run a world, killing to decide who's right or wrong ... 'specially killing people who got damn little say about it. but i seen three-four wars now, and they don't look to stop soon, judging." he shook his head wonderingly. "put half the money they spend on killing toward curing, instead, and helping them that wants, and finding out all about diseases and such ... why, shucks, it'd be a brand-new world." "i seen five," jim liddel said. "i seen wars come and go. i fought in one. afterwards, every time, they say everything's fine. the war to save this or that's over, and things are fine. then somebody wants something somebody else has, and they're at it again, like two bulls trying to hump the same heifer. bulls don't have enough sense to know there's enough cows to go around; but people ought. it's a big enough world." he worked those hands of his together until they were clasped, and he pushed them that way against the table-edge until the overgrown knuckles looked like chalk. "when i think o' that noise, and that cloud, ... how we come running and screaming back here into all the dust and mess, and all them bodies ... i ... ben, i...." "you lost heavy, jim," ben said. he let smoke out of his lungs, and it curled off into the broad beam of sunlight that came through the window, and it looked like the smoke that had shadowed a murdered town. "heavy. you lost heavier'n any of us." "you can't count it," old jim said, and the chalk was whiter. "we all lost the same; i just had more of it. our kids and their kids--and _their_ kids ... lost heavy? what can a man lose more'n his life?... and if you're as old as us, what's your life except the family you made out o' your own flesh? what else's a man got when he's eighty or a hundred?" tom pace said, "ruth and dave and their kids. i remember little davey. he called me tom peach. i bought him a toy plane for his birthday. that was a couple days before the real planes come. i buried it with him ... i think. i think it was him i put it with. it mighta been joey ... they looked alike." "a man ain't nothing, when he's as old as us," jim liddel said, his skull sockets closed, "except what he done. _he_ ain't much any more, himself; he's mostly what he done with his life, whatever he done and left around that he can point to and say, 'i did that', that's all. and what's he got left if they take that away? we can't make it again. we made smoky creek; built it; wasn't a thing here that didn't come out o' us or ours. we made the valley, after god give it to us; wasn't a thing here we didn't let live or help live or make live. we made our families, and watched 'em fit into the town and the valley, like the valley fits into the world, and we watched 'em go on doing what we done before them: building and working and planting and raising families--going on, like people got to go on. that's the way it was. that's what we had. until they dropped the bomb and killed it--killed all we done that made us men." tears were squeezing out of the skull sockets, and ben bates caught tom pace's eye and looked away, out the window, at the green walls of the valley that was a coffin. "i just wish an airyplane would come around again," old jim said. "_i--just--wish._ you know, ben?" ben tried to talk and had to clear his throat; he put out his cigar in the ashtray, as if that was what was wrong with his throat, and said, "i know, jim. sure. and maybe you'll get your wish." he pushed back his chair and tried to grin, but it came out sour. "maybe you will, you old fire-eater--and what if one comes and we get spotted and it shoots us up or goes back and tells everybody we're here? that's one wish we don't want the good lord to grant, ain't it? ain't it, now?" jim didn't say anything. ben got up and said, "'bout noon. guess i'll go home for a bite and then go down and fish with windy." jim said, thinly, "i meant, i wish one would come and we'd _get_ it." "well, maybe one will," ben said, turning toward the door. "they built a slew o' them. and maybe _we_ will, if it does." * * * * * he stopped by the door of the town hall to listen carefully, his sharp old eyes half-shut. behind him, at the far end of the room, somebody made a ringer, and dave mason said, "nice, owen," in his reedy voice. ben listened and didn't hear what he was listening for. he stepped past the rifle that leaned beside the door and made his way to the end of the porch, walking close to the wall. the summer sun stood at noon, and the porch was in shadow; beyond, the street was a jumble of boards and broken glass, its canyon walls of leaning building-fronts and sagging porches, its caverns of empty windows and doorways shimmering in the heat. you couldn't see much dirt along the way; where the debris didn't come to your knees, it reached over your head. at the end of the porch ben stopped and listened again; heard nothing. he stepped down and walked as fast as he could--damn arthritis again--to the porch of the next building. this had been fat sam hogan's hardware store, and about all that was left of it was the porch; the rest was a twisted mess of wood that slumped away to the ground at the rear. the porch had been down too, right after the bombing--but the old men, working at night, had raised it and braced it up. something to walk under. a springfield stood, oiled and waiting, against the wall. ben paused and touched the barrel--it was his own. or rather it had once been his own; now it was the town's, strictly speaking, to be used by whoever was nearest it when the time came. it was a good gun, a straight-shooter, one of the best--which was why it was here instead of at his house. a man could get a better shot from here. he went on, hugging the wall. he passed a rifle wedged up between the fender and hood of norm henley's old model a, and he remembered how the bomb had flipped the car right over on its top, and how the car must have protected norm from the blast--just a little. enough so they found him two blocks up the street, in front of his mashed house, trailing blood from every hole in him, to get to his family before he died. ben passed rifles leaned against walls and chairs on porches, rifles standing behind trees, leaned in the cracks between what buildings still stood to provide cracks, even old jim's carbine lying under the ledge of the pump-trough in front of mason's general store. all of them in places where they were protected from rain or snow, but where they were easy to get at. he passed sixteen rifles--walking, as everybody walked when they were out of doors, as close to the walls of the buildings as possible. when you had to cross open spaces you ran as fast as your seventy or eighty year old legs would take you--and if you couldn't run, you walked real fast. and always you listened while you walked; particularly you listened before you went out. for planes. so you wouldn't be spotted from the air. at the end of the porch of the last building on the street, ben paused in the shade and looked out across the creek to where the first plane they'd shot down had crashed--the one jim claimed to have got by his lonesome. they'd buried what they found of the pilot, and cleared away every last bolt and nut and scrap of aluminum, but the long scar in the ground remained. ben looked at it, all broken up by rocks and flowers and bushes the old people had transplanted so it wouldn't show from the air; and he looked at the cemetery a hundred feet beyond at which the scar pointed like an arrow--the cemetery that wasn't a cemetery, because it didn't have headstones; just bodies. a town that was dead shouldn't have a lot of new graves--the dead don't bury themselves. a pilot might see a hundred graves he hadn't seen before and wonder--and strafe. so ben looked at the flat ground where those hundred bodies lay, with only small rocks the size of a man's fist with names scratched on them to mark who lay beneath; and he thought of his daughter may, and owen urey's son george who'd married may, and their three kids, and he remembered burying them there; he remembered their faces. the blood from eyes, nose, ears, mouth--_his_ blood it was, part of it. then ben looked up. "we ain't looking for trouble," he said to the empty blue bowl of sky. "but if you do come, we're ready. every day we're ready. if you stay up high, we'll hide. but if you come down low, we'll try to get you, you crazy murderers." * * * * * his house was only a few yards farther on; he got there by sticking under the trees, walking quickly from one to the next, his ears cocked for the jetsound that would flatten him against a trunk. way off to his left, across a long flat of sunflowers and goldenrod, he saw windy harris down on the creekbank, by the bridge. he yelled, "they biting?"--and windy's faint "got two!" reminded him of all old jim had said, and he shook his head. he left the trees and walked fast up his front path. his house was in pretty good shape. all four houses on the outskirts had come off standing--his and windy's and jim's and owen urey's. they'd needed just a little bracing here and there, and they were fine--except owen's. owen had stomped around in his, and listened to the sounds of it, and said he didn't trust it--and sure enough, the first big storm it had gone down. now ben and his wife susan lived downstairs in his house; joe kincaid and his wife anna lived on the second floor; and tom pace lived in the attic, claiming that climbing the stairs was good for his innards. anna kincaid was sitting on the porch-swing, peeling potatoes. ben said, "afternoon, anna," and saw her pale bright eyes flicker up at him, and that scared smile touched her mouth for just a second; then she hunched her shoulders and kept on with the potatoes, like he wasn't even there. ben thought, _it must be lonely to be that way_--and he attracted her attention again, his voice a little louder: "hope you're feeling fine, anna." again the flicker of eyes. "just fine, ben, thanks," she said, almost in a whisper. "peeling spuds." "i see." her knife sped over a potato, removing a spiral of skin. she popped out an eye with a twist of the point. "think keith'll be back from the war today, ben? it's been so long ... i hate to think o' my boy fighting out there so long. will they let him come home soon, ben?" "they will, anna. i think they will, real soon. maybe tomorrow." "_will they?_" "sure." keith kincaid was under one of those fist-sized rocks, out in the cemetery that wasn't a cemetery--next to his wife, june hogan, and their four kids. but anna kincaid didn't know that. since the bomb, anna hadn't known much of anything except what the old people told her, and they told her only things that would make her as happy as she could be: that keith was in the army, and june was off with the kids having a nice time in knoxville; and that they'd all be back home in a day or so. anna never wondered about that "day or so"--she didn't remember much from day to day. joe kincaid sometimes said that helped a little, as much as anything could. he could tell her the same nice things every day, and her eyes would light up all over again. he spent a lot of time with her, doing that. he was pretty good at it, too ... joe kincaid had been doctor joe before the bomb. he still doctored some, when he could, but he was almost out of supplies; and what with his patients being so old, he mostly just prayed for them. in the kitchen, susan had lunch ready and waiting--some chicken from last night, green beans, boiled potatoes and a salad from the tiny gardens the women tended off in the weedy ground and around the bases of trees where they wouldn't be seen. on the way in ben had noticed that the woodbox was about empty--he'd have to bring home another bag of charcoal from the "general store"--which was windy's barn, all braced up. into it the old people had taken every bit of clothing, canned food, hardware, anything at all they could use in the way of housekeeping and everyday living, and there it all stood; when somebody needed something, they went and took it. only the canned foods and tobacco and liquor were rationed. every week or so, around midnight, fat sam hogan and dan paray went into the big cave in lawson's hill, right near where the second plane had crashed, and set up a lot of small fires, back where the light wouldn't be seen; they made charcoal, and when it cooled they brought it down to the "store," for cooking and such--a charcoal fire doesn't give off much smoke. over coffee, ben said, "reckon i'll fish some this afternoon, honey. how's a cat or two for supper sound?" "why, goodness, ben, not for tonight," susan smiled. "you know tonight's the social; me and anna are fixing a big dinner--steaks and all the trimmings." "mm," ben said, draining his cup. "forgot today was sunday." "we're going to have some music, and owen urey's going to read shakespeare." ben pursed his lips, tasting the coffee. it was rationed to two cups a day; he always took his with his lunch, and sometimes he'd have sold a leg to dive into a full pot. "well ... i might as well fish anyway; take in some fun. fish'll keep till tomorrow, won't it?" "you can have it for breakfast." she sat down across the table and picked up the knitting she'd been on when ben came home; he had a hunch it was something for his birthday, so he tried not to look interested; too early to tell what it was, anyway. "ben," she said, "before you go--the curtain pole in the bay window come down when i was fixing the blankets over it for tonight. the socket's loose. you better fix it before you go. you'll maybe get home after anna and me want to light the lamps, and we can't do it till it's fixed." ben said, "sure, hon." he got the hammer and some nails from the toolbox and went into the parlor, and dragged the piano bench over in front of the bay window. the iron rod was leaning by the phonograph. he took it up with him on the chair and fitted the other end of it into the far socket, then fitted the near end into the loose socket, and drove nails around the base of the socket until the thing was solid as a rock. then he got the blanket from the couch and hung it down double over the rod, and fitted the buttonholes sewn all along its edge over the nails driven around the window casing, and patted it here and there until not a speck of light would escape when the lamps were lit. he inspected the blankets draped over the other windows; they were all right. the parlor was pretty dark now, so he struck a match to the oil lamp on the mantle, just so susan and anna could see to set the table. when the others arrived, they'd light the other lamps; but not until; oil was precious. the only time anybody in town ever lit a lamp was on social night: then the old people stayed up till around midnight for eats and entertainment; otherwise everybody got to bed at eight or so, and climbed out with the dawn. he went back into the kitchen and put away the hammer, and said, "my second cup still hot, honey?" she started to put down her knitting and get up, and he said, "just asking," and pressed her shoulder till she sat again. he went around her and filled his cup at the stove. "ben," she said, when he sat down again, "i wish you'd take a look at the phonograph too. last time the turntable made an awful lot of noise.... i wish it could sound better for tonight." "i know, honey," ben sighed. "that motor's going. there ain't much i can do about it, though. it's too old. i'm scared to take it apart; might not get it back together right. when it really quits, then i guess i'll fool around and see what i can do. heck, it didn't sound too bad." "it rattled during the soft parts of the music." ben shook his head. "if i try, i might ruin it for good." he smiled a little. "it's like us, suse--too old to really fix up much; just got to keep cranking it, and let it go downhill at its own pace." susan folded her knitting and got up. she came around the table, and he put an arm around her waist and pulled her into the chair beside him. "it'll go soon, won't it, ben?" she said softly. "then we won't have any music. it's a shame ... we all like to listen so much. it's peaceful." "i know." he moved his arm up and squeezed her thin shoulders. she put her head on his shoulder, and her grey hair tickled his cheek; he closed his eyes, and her hair was black and shining again, and he put his lips against it and thought he smelled a perfume they didn't even make any more. after a moment he said, "we got so much else, though, suse ... we got peaceful music you can't play on a machine. real peace. a funny kind of peace. in a funny-looking town, this one--a rag town. but it's ours, and it's quiet, and there's nothing to bother us--and just pray god we can keep it that way. outside, the war's going on someplace, probably. people fighting each other over god knows what--if even he knows. here, it's peaceful." she moved her head on his shoulder. "ben--will it ever come here, what's going on outside? even the war, if it's still going on?" "well, we were talking about that this morning down at the hall, suse. i guess it won't. if rifles can stop it, it won't. if they see us from the air, we'll shoot at 'em; and if we get 'em we'll clean up the mess so if anybody comes looking for a missing plane, they won't give smoky creek a second look. that's the only way anything can come, honey--if they see us from the air. nobody's going to come hiking over these mountains. there's noplace they'd want to get to, and it's sure no country for fighting." "if the war _is_ over, they'll likely be around to fix up the bridge and the road. won't they?" "maybe so. sooner or later." "oh, i hope they leave us alone." "don't worry, hon." "ben--about the phonograph--" "suse ..." he turned his head to look at her eyes. "it's good for longer'n we are. that motor. so's the bridge, the way it is, and the road ... we'll be gone first. before they get around to fix 'em. before the phonograph gives out. what we want is going to last us--and what we don't want will come too late to hurt us. _nothing's_ going to hurt our peace. i know that somehow. we got it, and it'll be like this for as long as we're here to enjoy it ... i _know_." "ben--" "if i want to go fishing," ben said, and pressed her head against his shoulder again, "i go. if i want to relax with the men, i do it. if i want to just walk and breathe deep, i do it--keeping to the trees, o' course. if i want to just be with you, i do it. it's quiet. it's real quiet in our rag town. it's a world for old people. it's just the way we want it, to live like we want to live. we got enough gardens and livestock, and all the canned stuff in the store, to last us for a ... for as long as we got. and no worries. about who's fighting who over what. about who won. about how the international mess is getting worse again, and we better make more bombs for the next one. about who's winning here and losing there and running neck-and-neck someplace else. we don't know any things like that, and we don't want to know. it don't matter none to us ... we're too old, and we seen too much of it, and it's hurt us too bad, and we know it just don't matter at all." "ben ... i got to crying today. about may and george and the children. i was crying, and thinking about that day...." "so did i think. none of us ever forgets for a minute. for a second." his lips thinned. "that's part of why we do what we do. rest is, we just want to be left alone." they sat in silence for a moment, his arm around her shoulders, his other hand holding hers. then he released her hand and thumped his own on the table, grinned at her and said, "life goes on, now! reckon i'll go down and get that cat--or go walking--or just go soak in some sun. what time are the folks showing up for--" jetsound slammed across the peaceful valley. * * * * * ben got up and walked as fast as he could to the door, picked up the rifle leaning there, cocked it. looking toward town he saw that tom pace had been on his way home, and the sound had caught him between trees. tom hesitated, then turned and dived toward the tree he'd just left--because a rifle was there. ben saw men pour out of the doorways of the two habitable buildings on main street; they stuck close to the walls, under the porches, and they picked up rifles. motionless, hidden, in shadows, under trees, in doorways, behind knotholes, they waited. to see if the plane would buzz the town again. it did. it came down low over main street while the thunders of its first pass still echoed and rolled. frightening birds out of trees, driving a hare frantically along the creekbank, blotting out the murmur of the creek and the tree-sounds, driving away peace. they saw the pilot peering through the plexiglass, down at the buildings ... he was past the town in four winks; but in two they knew that he was curious, and would probably come back for a third look. he circled wide off over the end of the valley, a vertical bank that brought a blinding flash of sunlight from one wing, and he came back. ben leveled his rifle and centered the nose of the plane in his sights. for some reason--probably because the valley walls crowded the town on both sides--the planes always lined up with main street when they flew low over the town. the plane grew at startling speed in ben's sights--it loomed, and the oval jet intake was a growling mouth--and he waited till it was about two seconds and a thousand feet from him; then he sent his bullet up into that mouth: a bullet aimed by a man who'd handled a rifle for sixty years, who could pop the head off a squirrel at a hundred feet. a running squirrel. that was the signal, ben's shot. from under the tree tom pace's rifle spoke. the jet was past town then, and he wheeled to follow it with his eyes; its whining thunder lashed down and pressed his ears, lowering suddenly in pitch as it receded; and though he couldn't hear them for the thunder, he knew that nineteen rifles had roared before it completed its turn, each aimed head-on at the plane. aimed by men and women who could shoot with ben, and even outshoot him. the plane coughed. lurched. it had time to emit a fuzzy thread of black smoke before it nosed down and melted into the ground and became a long ugly smear of mounds and shreds and tatters of flame. the sounds of the crash died. ben heard men shouting; loudest of all was old jim liddel's, "got him ... by god, i prayed, and we got him!" behind him susan was crying. ben saw men and women head for the crash-site; immediately they'd start to carry away what debris wasn't too hot to handle. then they'd wait, and as soon as anything was cool enough it would be carried off and hidden. and there'd be a burial tonight. ben saw that some of the men had carried old jim's chair out onto the porch of the town hall; and he saw that jim was half-standing out of his cushions, propped up on his fists and still shouting; and ben wondered if the maker wasn't on the porch there with jim, waiting for jim to fall and make his noise. * * * * * he turned away--at seventy you don't want to see a man die--and went inside and put his rifle on the kitchen table. he crossed to the cabinet under the sink to get his reamer and oiling rag. every rifle was taken care of that way. right now tom pace and dan paray were hurrying around gathering rifles to clean them, load them. no rifle must miss fire, or throw a bullet an inch off aim--because that might be the rifle whose aim was right. "lucky we got that one," he said. "i think he saw us, suse ... he come in low and sudden, and i think he saw us." "was--was it one of theirs, ben ... or one of ours?" "don't know. i didn't even look. i can't tell 'em apart. owen'll be around to tell me when they find out ... but i reckon it was one of ours. if he saw us and didn't shoot, then i reckon it was one of ours. like the last one." "oh, _ben_," susan said. "ben, ain't it against god?" ben stood looking out the window over the sink; watching a cloud of yellow dust settle over the wreckage of the plane, and a cloud of black smoke rising from the wreckage to darken the yellow. he knew some of the men would be passing buckets from the well, and spading dirt on the flames where they weren't too hot to get to. "that's the way it is," he said. "that's how we decided. god didn't stop the bomb dropping, suse ... for whatever reasons he had. it don't seem he'd deny us the right to shoot rifles, for the reasons we got. if we get turned away at the gates, we'll know we was wrong. but i don't think so." quiet was returning to the valley; the birds had already started singing again. you could hear the trees. from the direction of the creek came windy harris, running, and he broke the quiet with a shout as he saw ben by the window: "got it, huh, ben?" "sure did," ben said, and windy ran on. ben looked toward the porch of the town hall. old jim had sunk back into his pillowed chair, and he was shaking his fist, and ben could hear him yelling, "got it ... _got_ it, we did!" _he'll be around for a while yet, old jim_, ben thought, and turned back to the table. he sat down and listened to the sounds of the valley, and his eyes were the eyes of the valley--they'd seen a lot, and understood enough of it. "it don't matter whose it was," he said. "all of a cloth." he slid the reamer into the barrel of the rifle, and worked it. "the hell with the war. even if it's over, the hell with it. with any war. nothing's ever going to give us back what we lost. let 'em stay away, all them that's to blame. them and their planes and wars and bombs ... they're _crazy_!" his lips curled as he worked the reamer. "let 'em stay out o' what they left us for lives. don't want to hear what they're doing, or _how_, or _why_, or _who_ ... don't want to hear about it. it'd be _crazy_. the hell with 'em. _all_ o' them. _the hell with the whole twentieth century._" scanned images of public domain material from the google print archive. tommy wideawake tommy wideawake by h. h. bashford * * * * * published by john lane the bodley head new york and london mcmiii _copyright, 1903_ by john lane contents chapter page i--in which four men make a promise 9 ii--in which two rats meet a sudden death 19 iii--in which a hat floats down stream 34 iv--in which a young lady is left upon the bank 46 v--in which april is mistress 55 vi--in which four men meet a train 69 vii--in which madge whistles in a wood 79 viii--in which two adjectives are applied to tommy 90 ix--in which tommy climbs a stile 100 x--in which i receive two warnings, and neglect one 114 xi--in which tommy is in peril 121 xii--in which tommy makes a resolve 133 xiii--in which the poet plucks a foxglove 142 xiv--in which tommy converses with the pale boy 153 xv--in which some people meet in a wheatfield 160 xvi--in which tommy crosses the ploughing 169 xvii--in which tommy takes the upland road 173 xviii--and last 186 i in which four men make a promise we were sitting round the fire, in the study--five men, all of us middle-aged and sober-minded, four of us bachelors, one a widower. and it was he who spoke, with an anxious light in his grey eyes, and two thoughtful wrinkles at the bridge of his military nose. "tommy," he observed, "tommy is not an ordinary boy." we were silent, and i could see the doctor's lips twitching beneath his moustache, as he gazed hard into the fire, and sucked at his cigar. the colonel knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and resumed: "i suppose," he said, "that it is a comparatively unusual circumstance to find five men, unrelated by birth or marriage, who, having been friends at school and college and having reached years of maturity, find themselves resident in the same village, with that early friendship not merely still existent, but, if i may say so, stronger than ever." we nodded. "it is unusual," observed the vicar. "as you know," proceeded the colonel, a little laboriously, for he was a poor conversationalist, "the calls of my profession have forbidden me, of late years, to enjoy as much of your company as i could have wished--and now, after a very pleasant winter together, i must once again take the eastern trail for an indefinite period." we were regretfully silent--perhaps also a little curious, for our friend was not wont to discourse thus fully to us. the poet appeared even a little dismayed, owing, doubtless, to that intuition which has made him so justly renowned in his circle of admirers, for the colonel's next remarks filled us all with a similar emotion. "dear friends," he said, leaning forward in his chair, and placing his pipe upon the whist table, "may i--would you allow me so to trespass on this friendship of ours, as to ask for your interest in my only son, thomas?" for a minute all of us, i fancy, trod the fields of memory. the poet's thoughts hovered round a small grave in his garden, wherein lay an erstwhile feline comrade of his solitude, whose soul had leaped into space at the assault of an unerring pebble. the vicar and the doctor would seem to have had similar reminiscences--and had i not seen a youthful figure wading complacently through my cucumber frames? we all were interested in tommy. another chord was touched. "he is motherless, you see, and very alone," the colonel pleaded, as though our thoughts had been audible. we remembered the brief bright years, and the long grey ones, and steeled our hearts for service. "i have seen so little of him, myself," continued the colonel. "he is at school and he will go to college, but a boy needs more than school and college can give him--he needs a hand to guide his thoughts and fancies, and liberty, in which they may unfold. he needs developing in a way in which no school or college can develop him. i would have him see nature, and learn her lessons; see men and things, and know how to discern and appreciate. i would have him a little different--wider shall i say?--than the mere stereotyped public-school and varsity product--admirable as it is. i would have him cultured, but not a worshipper of culture, to the neglect of those deeper qualities without which culture is a mere husk. "i would have him athletic, but not of those who deify athletics. "above all, i would have him such a gentleman as only he can be who realises that the privilege of good birth is in no way due to indigenous merit." he paused, and for a while we smoked in silence. "he will, of course, be away at school for the greater part of each year. but if you, dear friends, would undertake--in turn, if you will--to supervise his holidays, i should be more than grateful. we grown men regard our life in terms--a boy punctuates his, by holidays--and it is in them, that i would beg of you to influence him for good." he turned to the poet. "tommy," he said, "has, i feel sure, a deeply imaginative nature, and i am by no means certain that he is not poetical. in fact, i believe he once wrote something about a star, which was really quite creditable--quite creditable." the poet looked a little bewildered. "and i believe that tommy has scientific bents"--the colonel looked at the doctor, who bowed silently. then he regarded me a little doubtfully--after a pause. "tommy is not an ordinary boy," he repeated, somewhat ambiguously i thought. lastly, he turned to the vicar, "i could never repay the man who taught my boy to love god," he said simply, and we fell once more to our silence, and our smoking, while the flames leaped merrily in the old grate, and flung strange shadows over the black wainscot and polished floor. camslove grange was old and serene and aristocratic, an antithesis, in all respects, to its future owner, whose round head pressed a pillow upstairs, while his spirit wandered, at play, through a boy's dreamland. the colonel waved his hand. "it will all be his, you see, one day," he said, almost apologetically, "and i want the old place to have a good master." i have said that the colonel's request had filled us with dismay, and this indeed was very much the case. we all had our habits. we all--even the doctor, who was the youngest of us by some years--loved peace and regularity. moreover, we all, if not possessed of an actual dislike for boys, nevertheless preferred them at a considerable distance. and yet, in spite of all these things, we could not but fall in with the colonel's appeal, both for the sake of unbroken friendship--and in one case, at least (he will not mind, if i confess it), for the sake of a sweet lost face. and so it came about that we clasped hands, in the silence of the old study, where, if rumour be true, more than one famous treaty has been made and signed, and took upon our shoulders the burden of thomas, only son of our departing friend. the colonel rose to his feet, and there was a glad light in his eyes. he held out both hands towards us. "god bless you, old comrades," he said. then, in answer to a question, "tommy returns to school, to-morrow, for the easter term, and his holiday will be in april, i fancy. to whom is he to go first?" we all looked at each other with questioning eyes--then we looked at the fire. the silence began to get awkward. "shall we--er--shall we toss--draw lots, that is?" suggested the vicar, rather nervously. the idea seemed good, and we resorted to the time-honoured, yet most unsatisfactory, expedient of spinning a penny in the air. the results, combined with a process of exclusion, left the choice between the poet and the doctor. the vicar spun, and the poet called. "heads!" he cried, feverishly. and heads it was. a smile of relief and triumph was dawning on the doctor's face, when the poet looked at him, anxiously. "is there not--" he asked. "is there not a method of procedure, by which one may call thrice?" "threes," remarked the vicar, genially. "of course there is--would you like me to toss again?" "i--i think i would," said the poet, meekly. then turning, apologetically, to the colonel, "it's better to make _quite_ sure, don't you think?" the doctor looked a little crestfallen, but agreed, and the vicar once more sent the coin into the air. "tails," cried the poet, and as the coin fell, the sovereign's head lay upward. the poet drew a deep breath. "it would seem," he said, bowing to the doctor, "that tommy may yet become your guest." "there is another go," said the doctor, and the vicar tossed a third time. "heads," cried the poet, and heads it proved to be. the poet wiped his forehead, after which the colonel grasped his hand. "write and tell me how he gets on," he said. "i cannot tell you how grateful i am to you--to all of you." "no, of course not--that is, it's nothing you know--only too delighted to have the dear boy," stammered the poet. "er--does he--can he undress himself and--and all that, you know?" the colonel laughed. "why, he's thirteen," he cried. a little later we took our departure. in a shadowy part of the drive the poet pulled my sleeve. "can boys of that age undress themselves and brush their own teeth, do you suppose?" he asked. "i believe so," i answered. the poet shook his head sorrowfully. "i don't know what mrs. chundle will say," he remarked. and at the end of the drive we parted, with averted looks and scarce concealed distress, each taking a contemplative path to the hitherto calm of his bachelor shrine. ii in which two rats meet a sudden death "the country is just now at its freshest," said the poet, waving his hand towards the open window and the green lawn. "the world is waking again to its--er, spring holiday, tommy, and you must be out in the air and the open fields, and share it while you may." the poet beamed, a little apprehensively it is true, across the breakfast table at tommy, who was mastering a large plate of eggs and bacon with courage and facility. "it's jolly good of you to have me, you know," observed tommy, pausing a moment to regard his host. "on the contrary, it is my very glad privilege. i have often felt that my youth has been left behind a little oversoon--i am getting, i fancy, a trifle stiff and narrowed. you must lead me, tommy, into the world of action and sport--we will play games together--hide and go seek. you must buy me a hoop, and we will play marbles and cricket--" and the poet smiled complacently over his spectacles. tommy wriggled a little uneasily in his chair, and looked out of the window. the trees were bending to the morning wind, which sang through the budding branches and hovered over the garden daffodils. away beyond the lawn and the meadows the hills rose clear and bracing to the eye, and through a chain of willows sped the wavering blue gleam of sunny waters. "i--i'm an awful duffer at games," said tommy, with a blush on his brown cheeks, and horrid visions of the poet and himself bowling hoops. the poet drew a deep breath of relief. "you love nature, dear boy--the sights and sounds and mysteries of the hedgerow and the stream--is it not so?" "yes," said tommy, dubiously. "i--i'm rather a hot shot with a catapult." the poet gazed out across the garden. a small green mound beneath the chestnut tree marked the grave of the fond delicia--a tribute to tommy's skill. involuntarily, the poet sighed. tommy looked up from the marmalade. "you don't mind, do you?" he asked anxiously. "no, no, of course not, dear boy," said the poet with an effort. "that is--you--you won't hit anything, will you?" "rather," cried tommy. "you jolly well see if i don't." delicia's successor looked up from her saucer on the rug, and the "morning post" slipped from the poet's nerveless grasp. "you--oh tommy, you will spare the tabby," he gasped tragically, indicating the rug and its occupant. tommy grinned. "all right," he said,--adding as a comforting afterthought, "and cats are awful poor sport, you know--they're so jolly slow." but the poet was far away. with every meal mrs. chundle brought a pencil and paper, for as likely as not inspiration would not scorn to come with coffee or hover over a rasher of bacon. and it was even so, at this present. tommy watched the process with some curiosity. then he stole to the window, for all the world was calling him. but he paused with one foot on the first step, as the poet looked up from his manuscript. "how do you like this?" he asked eagerly: oh the daffodils sing of my lady's gown, the hyacinths dream of her eyes, and the wandering breezes across the down, the harmonies dropt from the skies, are full of the song of the love that swept my citadel by surprise. oh the woods they are bright with my lady's voice, the paths they are sweet with her tread, and the kiss of her gown makes the lawn rejoice, the violet lift her head. yet, lady, i know not if i must smile or weep for the days long sped. the poet blinked rapturously through his glasses at tommy, listening respectfully, by the window. "they're jolly good--but i say, who is she?" the poet seemed a little puzzled. "i am afraid i do not comprehend you," he said. "the lady," observed tommy. "i didn't know you were in love, you know, or anything of that sort." the poet rose to his feet, with some dignity. "i am not in love, thomas," he said. "i--i never even think about such things." tommy turned back. "i say, if you're going to the post-office with that will you buy me some elastic--for my catty, you know?" he said. just then the housekeeper entered, and tommy went out upon the lawn. "please, sir, there's a friend o' mister thomas's a settin' in the kitchen, an' 'e's bin there a hower, pretty nigh--an' 'is talk--it fairly makes me blood rise, and me pore stomach that sour--an', please, 'e wants ter know if mister thomas is ready to go after them rats 'e was talkin' of, an' if the cholmondeleys, which is me blood relations, 'ad 'eard 'im--lord." mrs. chundle wiped her brow at this appalling supposition, and the poet gazed helplessly at her. "did you say a friend of mr. thomas's?" he asked. "yes, sir, an' that common 'e--'e's almost took the shine off of the plates." "dear, dear! how very--very peculiar, mrs. chundle." a genial, red countenance appeared at the doorway. "beg pawdon, sir, but the young gemman 'e wanted me to show 'im a nest or two o' rats down becklington stream, sir--rare fat uns they be, sir, too." "i--i do not approve of sport--of slaying innocent beings--even if they be but rodents; i must ask you to leave me." the poet waved his hand. the rubicund sportsman looked disappointed. "beg pawdon, sir, i'm sure. thought 's 'ow it were all right, sir." "i do not blame you, my good man. i merely protest against the ruling spirit of destruction which our country worships so deplorably. you may go." and all this while tommy stood bare-headed on the lawn, filling his lungs with the morning's sweetness, and feeling the grip of its appeal in his heart and blood and limbs. a sturdy little figure he was, clad in a short jacket and attenuated flannel knickerbockers which left his brown knees bare above his stockings. the blood in his round cheeks shone red beneath the tan, and there were some freckles at the bridge of his nose. in his hand was a battered wide-awake hat--his usual headgear--and the origin of his sobriquet--for he will, i imagine, be known as tommy wideawake until the crack of doom, and, maybe, even after that. with all his appreciation of the day, however, no word of the conversation just recorded missed his ears, and i regret to say that when the red-cheeked intruder turned a moment at the garden gate, tommy's right eyelashes trembled a moment upon his cheek while his lips parted over some white teeth for the smallest fraction of a second. then he kicked viciously at a daisy and blinked up at the friendly sun. the poet stepped out on the lawn beside him with a worried wrinkle on his forehead. "i feel rather upset," he said. "let's go for a walk," suggested tommy. the poet considered a moment. an epic, which lagged somewhat, held out spectral arms to him from the recesses of his writing-desk, but the birds' spring songs were too winsome for prolonged resistance, and to their wooing the poet capitulated. "let us come," he said, and they stepped through the wicker gate into the water-meadows. the becklington brook is only a thin thread here, but lower down it receives tributaries from two adjoining valleys and becomes a stream of some importance, turning, indeed, a couple of mills, before it reaches the arrowley, which enters the isis. the day was hot--one of those early heralds of june so often encountered in late april, and the meadows basked dreamily in the sun, while from the hills came a dull glow of budding gorse. the poet was full of fancies, and as the house grew farther behind them, and the path led ever more deeply among copse and field, his natural calm soon reasserted itself. from time to time he would jot down a happy phrase or quaint expression, enlarging thereon to tommy, who listened patiently enough. plop. a lazy ripple cut the surface of the stream, and another, and another. tommy lifted a warning hand and held his breath. yes, sure enough, there was a brown nose stemming the water. in an instant tommy was crouching in the reeds, his hand feeling in his pocket, and his small body quivering. the poet's mouth was open. followed a twang, and the whistle of a small projectile, and the rat disappeared. but the stone had not hit him. "tommy!" protested the poet. but his appeal fell on deaf ears, for tommy was watching the far side of the stream with an anxious gaze. suddenly the brown nose reappeared. he was a very ugly rat. "tommy!" said the poet again, weakly. the rat was making for a bit of crumbled bank opposite, and tommy stood up for better aim. the poet held his breath. one foot more and the prey would be lost, but tommy stood like a young statue--then whang; and slowly the rat turned over on his back and vanished from sight, to float presently--a swollen corpse--down the quiet stream. "well hit, sir," cried the poet. tommy turned with dancing eyes. "jolly nearly lost him," he said. "you should just see young collins with a catty. he's miles better than me." but the poet had remembered himself. "tommy," he said, huskily, "i--i don't approve of sport of this kind. cannot you aim at--at inanimate objects?" "it's a jolly poor game," said tommy--then holding out the wooden fork, with its pendant elastic. "have a try," he said. the poet accepted a handful of ammunition. "i must amuse the boy and enter into his sports as far as i may if i would influence his character," he said to himself. tommy stuck a clod of earth on a stick some few yards away, at which, for some time, the poet shot wildly enough. yet, with each successive attempt, the desire for success grew stronger within him, and when at last the clod flew into a thousand crumbs, he flushed with triumph, and had to wipe the dimness from his glasses. oh, poets! it is dangerous to play with fire. plop. and another lusty rat held bravely out into the stream. "oh, get him, get him!" cried tommy, jumping up and down. "lend me the catty. let me have a shot. do buck up." but the poet waved him aside. "there shall be no--" he hesitated. this rat was surely uglier than the last. "no unseemly haste," concluded the poet. did the rat scent danger? i know not, but, on a sudden, he turned back to shelter. and, alas, this was too much for even principle and conscience--and whang went the catapult, and lo, even as by a miracle (which, indeed, it surely was), the bullet found its mark. and i regret to say that the vicar, leaning unnoticed on a neighbouring gate, heard the poet exclaim, with some exultation: "got him." "oh, _well_ hit!" cried tommy. "by jove, that was a ripping shot." the poet blushed at the praise--but alas for human pleasures, and notably stolen ones, for they are fleeting. "hullo," said a sonorous voice. they both turned, and the vicar smiled. the poet was hatless and flushed. from one hand dangled a catapult; in the other he clutched some convenient pebbles. "really," said the vicar, "i should never have thought it." the poet sighed, and handed the weapon to tommy. "run away now, old chap," he said, "and have a good time. i think i shall go home." tommy trotted off into the wood, and the vicar and the poet held back towards the village. "how goes the experiment?" asked the former, magnanimously ignoring the scene he had just witnessed. the poet shook his head. "it is hard to say yet," he replied. "i have not seen any _marked_ development of the poetical and imaginative side of him--and he brings some very queer friends to my house. but he's a good boy, on the whole, and the holidays have only just begun." in the village street they paused. "i--i want to go to the post-office," said the poet. "all right," said the vicar. "don't--please don't wait for me," said the poet. "it's a pleasure," replied the vicar. "the day is fine and young, and it is also monday. i am not busy." "i really wish you wouldn't." the vicar was a man of tact, and had known the poet since boyhood, so he bowed. "good day," he said, and strolled towards the parsonage. the poet looked up and down the long, lazy street. there was no one in sight. then he plunged into the little shop. "some elastic, please," he said, nervously. "thick and square--for a catapult." iii in which a hat floats down stream "and so my boy has taken up his abode with our friend, the poet," wrote the colonel to me. "do you know, i fancy it will be good for both of them. i have long felt that our poet was getting too solitary and remote--too self-centred, shall i say? "and yet i have, too, some misgivings as to his power of controlling tommy--although my faith in mrs. chundle is profound. "tommy, as you know, is not perhaps quite so strong as he might be, and needs careful watching--changing clothes and so on. you recollect his sudden and quite severe illness just after the chantrey's garden party last year." i laid down the letter and smiled, for i had wondered at the time at tommy's survival, so appalling had been his powers of absorption. "poor colonel," i reflected. "he is too ridiculously wrapped up in the young rascal, for anything." the letter ran on: "spare no expense as to his keep and the supplying of his reasonable wishes, but do not let him know, at any rate for the present, that he is heir to camslove--i think he does not realise it yet--and for a while it is better he should not. "my greeting to all the brothers. there are wars and rumours of wars in the air of the northwest...." i restored the letter to my pocket, and lay back in the grass, beneath the branches. wars and rumours of wars--well, they were far enough from here, as every twittering birdling manifested. the colonel had always been the man of action among us, though he, of us all, had the wherewithal to be the most at ease. one of those strange incongruities with which life abounds, and which, i reflected, must be accepted with resignation. i had always rather prided myself upon the completeness with which i had resigned myself to my lot of idleness and obscurity, and to my own mind was a philosopher of no small merit. i lay back under the trees full of the content of the day and the green woods and abandoned myself to meditation. whether it was the spirit of spring or some latent essence of activity in my being, i do not know, but certain it is that a wave of discontent spread over me--a weariness (very unfamiliar) of myself and my cheap philosophy. i sat up, wondering at the change and its suddenness, groping in my mind for a solution to the problem. could it be that my rule of life was based on a fallacy? surely not. suddenly i thought of tommy and took a deep breath of the sweet woodland air, for i had found what i had wanted. resignation--it was a sacrilege to use the word on such a day. yes, i thought, there is no doubt that the instinctive philosophy of boyhood is the true rule of life, as indeed one ought to have suspected long ago. to enjoy the present with all the capacity of every sense, to regard the past with comparative indifference, since it is irrevocable, and the future with a healthy abandonment, since it is unknown, and to leave the sorrows of introspection to those who know no better--avaunt with your resignation. and even as i said it i saw the reeds by the pool quiver and a pair of brown eyes twinkle joyously at me from their midst. "hello, tommy!" i cried. he emerged, clad only in an inconspicuous triangular garment about his waist. "i've been watching you ever so long," he said triumphantly. "been bathing?" i asked. "rather. it's jolly fine and not a bit cold. i say, you should have seen the old boy potting rats." "the poet?" i murmured in amaze. tommy nodded. "he is getting quite a good shot," he said. "he was doing awful well till the vicar saw him about an hour ago--an' then he wouldn't go on any more." "i should think not," said i. "the humanitarian, the naturalist, the anti-vivisectionist, the anti-destructionist--it passes comprehension." tommy took a header and came up on to the sunny bank beside me, where he stood a moment with glowing cheeks and lithe shining limbs. "this is ripping," he said--every letter an italic. "this is just ab-solutely ripping." i laughed at his enthusiasm, and, as i laughed, shared it--oh the wine of it, of youth and health and spring--was i talking about resignation just now?--surely not. tommy squatted down beside me on his bare haunches, with his hands clasped over his knees. "i have heard from your father to-day," i said. tommy grunted, and threw a stick at an early butterfly. he was always most uncommunicative where he felt most, so i waited with discretion. "all right?" he queried, presently, in a nonchalant voice. i nodded. "he says he's afraid you're not very strong." tommy stared, then he looked a little frightened. "i--of course i'm not _very_ strong, you know," he said thoughtfully, casting a glance down his sturdy young arms. "but i can lick young collins, an' he weighs seven pounds more than me, an' i can pull up on the bar at gym--" i hastened to reassure him. "he referred to your attack last summer, you know, after the chantrey affair." tommy grinned expansively. "i expect the pater didn't know what it was," he said. "but i did." "you--you never told him?" in an anxious voice. "no." tommy sighed. "the pater does hate a chap being greedy, you see, and--those strawbobs were so awfully good. i couldn't help it--an' father thought i'd got a--intestinal chill, i think he said." tommy gave a passing moment to remembrance. then he jumped up. "i'm quite dry again," he said, looking down at me. "so i guess i'll hop in." the remark appeared to me slightly inconsequent, but tommy laughed and drew back under the shade of the tree. then came a rush of white limbs, and he was bobbing up again in the middle of the sunny pool. "well dived," i cried, encouragingly, but he looked a little contemptuous. "it was a jolly bad one," he said, "a beastly...." delicacy forbids me to record the exact word he used, but it ended with "flopper." he crawled out again, and shook the water from his eyes. "i say, won't you come in?" he cried eagerly. "it's simply grand in there, and a gravel bottom." but i am a man of careful habits, and sober ways, with a reputation for some stateliness both of behaviour and bearing, and i shook my head. tommy urged again. "it's not as if you were an old man," he cried. the thought had not occurred to me. age, in our little fraternity had been a matter of but small interest. we had pursued the same routine of gentle exercise, and dignified diversion, quiet jest and cultured occupation, for so many years now, that we had seemed to be alike removed from youth and age, in a quiet, unalterable, back-water of life, quite apart from the hurrying stream of contemporary event. no, i was certainly not an old man, unless a well preserved specimen of forty-eight, with simple habits, can so be styled. tommy stood expectant before me, his bare feet well apart, a very embodiment of young health, and, as i looked at him, a horrid doubt crept into my mind--had i--could i possibly have become that most objectionable of persons, a man in a groove? "do come," said tommy. "don't be a fool," said wisdom (only i was not quite sure of the speaker). i looked round at the meadow, and the wood, and saw that we were alone. "it is april," i said weakly. "but it's quite warm--it is really." and so i fell. to you, o reader, it may seem a quite small matter, but to me it was far from being so, for as i climbed the bank from each glad plunge i felt in my blood a strange desire growing to do something, to achieve, to surmount. such emotions i had not known for years--not since--a time, when, on a day, i had set myself to love seclusion and inactivity, and to live in study and retrospect, on the small means that were mine. ah, tommy, never think that if any one desire be unfulfilled, life has therefore lost its sweetness, and its mission, and its responsibility! "cave," hissed tommy, from the water. i held my breath, and sure enough there were voices along the path, and close at hand, too. i made a desperate leap, and entered the water with a quite colossal flop, for i am moderately stout. and, even so, i had barely time to wade in up to my neck, before two figures, those of a little girl and a young lady, tripped into sight. "why," said the little girl, "there's old mr. mathews and a little boy in the pool. how funny." the young lady--it was lady chantrey's governess--hesitated a moment and then courageously held on. "yes," i heard her say. "it certainly is peculiar, quite peculiar." whether she referred to me, or the situation, or an affair of previous conversation, i did not know. i did not, indeed, much care, for surely this was enough that i, a philosopher of dignity, a bachelor of some importance, at any rate in camslove, should have been seen in a small pool, with only a draggled head above the surface, by lady chantrey's daughter, and her governess. i crept out, and had perforce to sit in the sun to dry, praying earnestly lest any other members of the surrounding families should come that way. tommy was in high spirits. "it's done you lots of good," he said. i glared at him. "what do you mean?" i asked coldly, for his words seemed suggestive. "you look so jolly fresh," he observed, dressing himself leisurely. i felt that it was time i returned, and invited tommy to partake of lunch with me. he declined, however, as he had thoughtfully provided himself with food, before starting out with the poet. "so long," he said. as i glanced up the brook, before returning homewards, i saw a sailor hat, navigating a small rapid. "but i have no walking-stick," i reflected. "and it is in the middle of the stream." iv in which a young lady is left upon the bank the sailor hat bobbed, merrily, down the stream, scorning each friendly brown boulder that would have stopped it, and dodging every drooping bough that would have held it back. for was not its legend of h. m. s. daring, and must not the honour of britain's navy be manfully maintained? tommy sat peacefully just above the bathing pool, munching his sandwiches, and letting the clear water trickle across his toes, very much contented with himself, and, consequently, with his environment also. "oh please--my hat," said a pathetic voice. tommy turned round, and on the path behind him stood the little girl, who had passed, a short while before. she was quite breathless, and her hair was very tangled, as it crept about her cheeks, and hung over her brow. her hands were clasped, and she looked at tommy, appealingly. tommy surveyed the hat, which had swung into the pool. "it's too deep, just there, for me to go in, with my clothes on," he said. "but there's a shallow part a little way down, and i'll go for it there. come on." he jumped up, and crammed his stockings and shoes into his pockets, as they ran down the path, beside the brook. "how did you lose it?" he asked. "i was climbing a tree--and--and the wind blowed it off." "oh!" "my governess is reading a book, about half a mile up the stream, where the poplars are." "oh!" tommy felt strangely tongue-tied--a new and wholly perplexing experience. he was relieved when they arrived at the shallows, and waded carefully into the stream. as the hat sailed down, he dexterously caught it, and came back in triumph. "oh, thank you so much. i hope you aren't very wet." tommy examined the upturned edge of his knickerbockers, and then looked into a pair of wide black eyes. "not a bit, hardly," he said, and he thought her cheeks were redder than any he had seen. he did not, as a rule, approve of girls, but he felt that there was a kindred spirit twinkling behind those black eyes. "i think i must go back," said she. "wh--what is your name?" stammered tommy, with a curious desire to prolong the time. she laughed. "i think you might tell me yours." "i got your hat for you." "you liked getting it." "you'd have lost it, if i hadn't gone in." "no, i shouldn't. i could have got it myself. i'm not afraid." tommy capitulated. "they call me tommy wideawake," he said. "what a funny name. i thought you looked rather sleepy, when i saw you on the bank just now." "you looked jolly untidy," retorted tommy irrelevantly. "are you the browny whitey colonel's son?" tommy spoke with aroused dignity. "you must not call my father names," he said. "i'm not. i think he's a splendid brave man, and i always call him that, because his face is so brown and his moustache and hair so very white." tommy blushed. then he said very slowly, and with some hesitation, for to no one before had he confided so much: "i think he is the bravest--the bravest officer in the whole army." then his eyes fell, and he looked confusedly at his toes. the stream was rippling softly over the shallows, full of its young dream. then-"i'm madge chantrey," said a shy voice. tommy looked up eagerly. "why, then i must have seen you in church--but you looked so different you know, so jolly--jolly different." madge laughed. "i've often seen you, in an eton jacket, with a very big collar, and you always went to sleep in the sermon, and forgot to get up when the vicar said 'and now.'" tommy grinned. then an inspiration seized him. "i say; let's go on to the mill, an' we'll pot water-rats on the way, an' get some tea there. he's an awful good sort, is the miller. his name's berrill, and he's ridden to london and back in a day, and it's a hundred and fifty miles, and he can carry two bags of wheat at once, and there's sure to be some rats up at becklington end, and it's only about three o'clock--and it's such an absolutely ripping day." he stopped and pulled up some grass. "you might as well," he concluded, in a voice which implied that her choice was of no consequence to him. her black eyes danced, and she swung her hat thoughtfully round her finger. "it would be rather nice," she said. "but there is miss gerald, you know; she will wonder where i am." "never mind. i'll bring you home." and down the chain of water-meadows from one valley to another they wandered through the april afternoon, till the old mill-pool lay before them deep and shadowy beneath the green, wet walls. a long gleam of light lay athwart its surface, dying slowly as the sunset faded. "it is tea-time," said tommy. "poor miss gerald," murmured madge. "she's all right," replied tommy, cheerfully. "i expect she's jolly well enjoying herself." * * * * * as i passed the poet's gate i saw him pacing the lawn, and hailed him. "have you enjoyed the morning?" i asked. he looked at me a little suspiciously. "you haven't seen the vicar?" he queried. i shook my head. "yes," he observed. "thomas and i have been bathed, i may say, in nature." he waved his hand. "i saw tommy bathing," said i. again the poet looked at me sharply. "did you--did you have any converse with the boy?" he asked. "only a little. he seemed to be thoroughly happy." the poet smiled. "ah! the message of spring is hope, and happiness, and life," he said, "and tommy is even now in spring." i bowed. "i saw a dead rat floating down stream," i remarked, casually. the poet gave me a dark glance, but my expression was innocent and frank. "_in media vitae, sumus in morte_," he observed, sententiously, and walked back to the lawn. as i turned away, i met the doctor hurrying home. he greeted me pleasantly, but there was curiosity in his eyes. "what's the matter?" i asked, genially, for i felt i had scored one against the poet. "whatever has happened to your hair? it looks very clammy and streaky--and it's hanging over your ears." i crammed my hat on a little tighter. "nothing at all," i said, hurriedly. "it's--it's rather warm work, you know, walking in this weather." but i could see he didn't believe me. "seen tommy?" he asked. "yes." "been fooling up the stream, i suppose?" i coloured. "no, of course not--er, that is, yes----tommy has." the doctor smiled. "good day, mathews," he said. and we parted. miss gerald sat reading, on the bank. v in which april is mistress i have heard the song that the spring-time sings in my journey over the hills, the wild _reveille_ of life, that rings to the broad sky over the hills: for the banners of spring to the winds are spread, her hosts on the plain overrun, and the front is led, where the earth gleams red, and the furze-bush flares to the sun. i have seen the challenge of spring-time flung to the wide world over the hills; i have marched its resolute ranks among, in my journey over the hills. the strong young grass has carried the crest, and taken the vale by surprise, as it leapt from rest on the winter's breast to its conquest under the skies. i have heard the secret of spring-time told in a whisper over the hills, that life and love shall arise and hold dominion over the hills till the summer, at length, shall awake from sleep, warm-cheeked, on the wings of the day, where the still streams creep, and the lanes lie deep, and the green boughs shadow the way. "four o'clock!" sang the church bells down the valley, as the poet stooped to cull an early blue-bell. "daring little blossom--why, your comrades are still sleeping," he said. the blue-bell was silent, but all the tiny green leaves laughed, blowing cheekily in the sun. "poor, silly poet," they seemed to say, "why not wake up, like the blue-bell, from your land of dreams, and drink the real nectar--live for a day or two in a real, wild, glorious spring?" but the poet dreamed on, stringing his conceits heavily together, and with a knitted brow; for, somehow, the feet of the muse lagged tardily this april afternoon. then he stumbled over a parasol which lay across the path. he looked up. "i beg your pardon," he said, looking into a pair of blue eyes--or were they grey, or hazel? he was not quite sure, but they seemed, at any rate, hibernian. "it was quite my fault; i am so sorry." "nay, i was dreaming," said the poet. "and, sure, so was i, too." "i have not hurt it, i trust." "not at all, but it must be quite late." "it is four o'clock." "good gracious, where can the child have got to?" "you have lost some one?" "my pupil." the poet bowed. "a sorrow that befalls all leaders of disciples," he observed. miss gerald stared, and the poet continued, "the young will only learn when they have fledged their wings and found them weak." "and then?" "they come to us older ones for a remedy. knowledge is associated, madam, with broken wings." "but i cannot take philosophy home to her mother--she will most certainly require madge--and can you tell me where this path leads?" the poet waved his hand. "up-stream to the village--down-stream to the mill," he said. miss gerald thought a moment. "she will have gone down stream," she exclaimed. the poet meditated. "i, too, have lost a boy," he said. miss gerald looked surprised. "the son of a friend," explained the poet. "i must look for madge at once," cried miss gerald, gathering up her books. "may we search together--you know the proverb about the heads?" she laughed. "if you like," she said, and they followed the stream together. "you are the poet, are you not?" asked miss gerald presently. "a mere amateur." "lady chantrey has a copy of your works. i have read some of them." "i trust they gave you pleasure--at any rate amusement." "a little of both," said miss gerald. "you are very frank." "some of them puzzled me a little--and--and i think you belie your writings." "for instance?" "you sing of action, and spring, and achievement--and love. but you live in dreams, and books, and solitude." "i believe what i write, nevertheless." miss gerald was silent, and in a minute the poet spoke again. "you think my writings lack the ring of conviction?" he asked. she laughed. "they would be stronger if they bore the ring of experience," she said. "_experientia docet_, you know, and the poets are supposed to teach us ordinary beings." "i don't pretend to teach." "then you ought to. is it not the duty of 'us older ones,' as you said just now?--the old leaves living over again in the new, you know," and she smiled. "that's quite poetical, isn't it, even if it is a bit of a platitude?" "and be laughed at for our pains, even as those hopeful young debutantes are laughing at the dowdy old leaves, on that dead tree yonder." "i knew you were no true singer of spring." * * * * * two children wandered back along the path. "i say, you're not a bad sort," said tommy. madge laughed. "hullo, tommy," cried the poet. "my dear madge, where _have_ you been?" cried miss gerald. the poet smiled. "it is april, miss gerald," he said. "we must not be too severe on the young people. as you know, this is proverbially an irresponsible, changeable, witch of a month." "we must hurry home, madge," said miss gerald, holding out a graceful, though strong, hand to the poet. he clasped it a moment. "that was an interesting chat we had, miss gerald. i shall remember it. come, tommy, it is time that we also returned." they walked slowly home together, tommy chattering away freely of the day's adventures. the poet seemed more than usually abstracted. in a pause of tommy's babbling, the name on the fly leaf of a book came back to him. he had seen it, in the sunshine, by the stream. "mollie gerald," he murmured. "i beg your pardon," said tommy, politely. "nothing," snapped the poet. * * * * * "which i says to berrill, 'berrill,' i says, 'jest look 'ee 'ere now, if the pote ain't a-walkin' along o' miss gerald from the 'all, as close an' hinterested as never was, an' 'im, fer all the world, a 'missusogynist,' i says, meanin' a wimming-'ater. "an' berrill 'e said 'imself as 'e'd 'ardly a believed it if 'e 'adn't seed it wi' 'is own heyes, so to speak. "'it do be a masterpiece,' 'e said, 'a reg'lar masterpiece it be.'" they were sitting in mrs. chundle's kitchen, and mrs. berrill seemed excited. mrs. chundle wiped a moist forehead with her apron, and shook her head. "what with mister thomas, an' catapults--i could believe hanythink, mrs. berrill," she said. "the pote's changin' 'is ways, mrs. chundle." "'e is that, mrs. berrill, which as me haunt jane chundle, as is related to me blood-relations, the cholmondeleys, 'eard mrs. cholmondeley o' barnardley say to the rector's wife, an' arterwards told me private, 'yer never do know oo's oo nowadays'--be they poits or hanybody else." "it bees just what the parson wer a sayin' a fortnight sunday, wars an' rumours o' wars, an' bloody moons, an' disasters an' catapults, in the last days, 'e says--they be hall signs o' the times, mrs. chundle." mrs. chundle sipped her tea, and looked round her immaculate kitchen. then she lowered her voice, "i'm 'opin', mrs. berrill, i'm 'opin' hearnest as 'ow when mister thomas goes back, the master will come to 'imself, like the prodigale." mrs. berrill looked doubtful. "when once the worm hentereth eden, mrs. chundle," she began, enigmatically--and they both shook their heads. "the worm bein' mister thomas," remarked mrs. chundle. "an' 'im that vilent an' himpetuous i never does know what 'e's agoin' hafter next." "you should be firm, mrs. chundle." "which i ham, mrs. berrill, by nature hand intention, an' if i 'ad me own way i'd spank 'im 'earty twice a week, mrs. berrill, wednesdays an' saturdays." "why wednesdays an' saturdays, mrs. chundle?" "wednesdays ter teach 'im the hemptiness o' riches, mrs. berrill, which 'e gets 'is pocket-money on wednesdays--an' saturdays to give 'im a chastened spirit fer the sabbath--an' ter keep 'im from a sittin' sleepy in church, mrs. berrill." here the door opened suddenly and tommy came in, very muddy, with a peaceful face, and a large rent in his coat. "i say, mrs. chundle, do sew this up for me--hullo, mrs. berrill, that was a ripping tea you gave us last week--you are an absolute gem, mrs. chundle," and tommy sat himself down on the kitchen bench, while mrs. chundle ruefully examined the coat. in mrs. berrill's eye was a challenge, as who should say, "now, mrs. chundle, arise and assert your authority, put down a firm foot and say, this shall not be.'" that lady doubtless saw it, for she pursed her lips and gazed at tommy with some dignity. "mister thomas," she began--but tommy interrupted her. "i say, i didn't know you an' mrs. berrill were pals. mrs. berrill gave me a huge tea the other day, mrs. chundle--awful good cake she makes, don't you, mrs. berrill? an', i say, mrs. berrill, has old--has mrs. chundle told you all about the cholmondeleys, an' how they married, an' came to england--how long ago was it?" mrs. chundle blushed modestly. "with william the norming," she said gently. "an' how she was derived from them, you know, an' all that?" mrs. berrill nodded. "we hall know as 'ow mrs. chundle is a--a very superior person," she said. mrs. chundle stitched away in silent graciousness. "tommy," cried a distant voice--it was the poet's--"tommy, come here, i've just hit the bottle three times running." tommy grinned. "i must go," he said. "i'm jolly glad you and mrs. berrill are pals," and he disappeared in the direction of the poet. "which i 'ope 'e won't turn out no worse than 'is dear father. god bless 'im," said mrs. berrill, as they discussed the tattered jacket. and so the days tripped by, sunny and showery--true april days. up in the downs was a new shrill bleating of lambs, and down in the valley rose the young wheat, green and strong and hopeful. the water-meadows grew each day more velvety and luscious, as the young grass thickened, and between the stems, in the copse, came a shimmer of blue and gold, of blue-bell and primrose. the stream sang buoyantly down to the mill, and tommy wandered over the country-side, happy in it all--and indeed almost part of it. moreover, madge and her governess would often come upon him, all unexpectedly, too, in some byway of their daily travel, and he would show them flowers and bird's-nests, and explain for their benefit the position of each farmhand and labourer in the commonwealth of camslove, and thus the days went by so happily that they seemed to have vanished almost as they came, and on a morning tommy woke up to the fact that the holidays had ended. a grim showery day it was, too--a day of driving wind and cold rain--and tommy loitered dismally from arbour to house, and house to arbour. the poet was busy on a new work, and mrs. chundle, too intent on marking and packing his clothes to be good company. madge would be indoors, as it was raining, and it was too cold and uninviting for a bathe. he spent the afternoon trudging about the muddy lanes with the doctor, but the evening found him desolate. ah, these sad days that form our characters, as men tell us--characters that, at times, we feel we could willingly dispense with, so that the days might be always sunny, and the horizons clear. even the longest of dreary days ends at last, however, and tommy fell sorrowfully asleep in the summer house, a rain-drop rolling dismally down his freckled nose, and his mind held captive by troubled visions of school. a day or two after tommy's departure, the poet stooped, in a side path of his garden, to pick up a stray sheet of paper. on it he saw two words in his own handwriting. "mollie--folly--" he sighed. "i remember," he said. then he looked again, for in a round, sprawling hand was written yet another word--"jolly." the poet wiped his glasses and folded up the paper. then he coughed. "i had not thought of that," he observed, meditatively. vi in which four men meet a train a hot august noon blazed over becklington common, as i lay thinking and thinking, staring up into the blue sky, and for all the richness of the day, sad enough in heart. in the valley below me the stream still splashed happily down to the mill, and away on the far hills the white flocks were grazing peacefully as ever. and above my head poised and quivering sang a lark. the spring had rounded into maturity, and summer, lavish and wonderful and queenly, rested on her throne. why should there be war anywhere in the world? i asked. and yet along a far frontier it flickered even now, sinister and relentless. a little war and, to me, a silent one--yet there it rose and fell and smouldered, and grew fierce, and in the grip of it two brave grey eyes had closed forever. i heard the quiet, well-known voice. "tommy is not an ordinary boy," it said. how we had smiled at the simple honest pride that this soldier had taken in his son. i turned over and groaned, as i thought of it all--our parting in the old study--our promise--the half-comedy, half-responsibility of the situation. and we had borne it so lightly, tossed for the boy, taken him more as an obstreperous plaything than a serious charge. and now--well it matters not upon which of us the mantle of his legal guardian had fallen, nor upon whom lay the administration of his affairs--for we all had silently renewed our vows to one who was dead, and felt that there was something sacred in this mission, which lay upon the shoulders of each one of us. poor tommy--none of us knew how the blow had taken him, for to none of us had he written since the news reached england, save indeed when, in a brief line to me, he had announced his return next week. we had all written to him, as our separate natures and feelings had dictated, but no reply had reached us--and how should we know that of all the letters he had received, only one was deemed worthy of preservation--and that written in a round childish hand? "dear tommy--i am so sorry. your loving madge." a damp sorry little note it was, but it remained in tommy's pocket long after our more stately compositions had been torn up and forgotten. to us, leading our quiet commonplace peaceful life in this little midland village, the shock had come with double force. perhaps we had been apt to dwell so little on the eternal verities of chance and change and life and death as to have become almost oblivious of their existence, at any rate in our own sphere. those of the villagers who, year by year, in twos and threes, were gathered to their fathers, were old and wrinkled and ready for death, resting quietly under the good red earth, well content with sleep. and these we had missed, but scarcely mourned, feeling that, in the fitness of things, it was well that they should cease from toil. but here was our friend, straight and strong and vigorous, cut down by some robber bullet in an indian pass--and to us all, i fancy, the shock came with something of terror, and something of awakening in its tragedy. outwardly we had shown little enough. the poet, when the first stun of the blow had passed, had written his grief in the best lines i had ever seen from his pen. the vicar had preached a quiet scholarly sermon in our friend's memory. and now all reference to the dead had ceased among us, for the time. to-morrow, tommy was to come back from school, and all of us, i fancy, dreaded the first meeting. we had arranged that each of our houses was to be open to him, and that in each a bed should be prepared, so that, as the mood took him, he might sleep where he thought best. but the meeting, at the station, was a matter of considerable trepidation to us. i strolled down the hill to the poet's house. "good morning," i said, "i--i am rather keen on running up to town, to-morrow, to see those pictures, you know." the poet smiled. "i did not know you were a patron of art," he observed. "i am gratified at this development." "ah--could you meet tommy at 2.15?" the poet's face fell. "i--i am very busy," he said, deprecatingly. "'lucien and angelica' ought to be concluded by to-morrow evening." we were silent, both looking into the trembling haze, up the valley. "the doctor," suggested the poet. "i will try." but the doctor was also very much engaged. "two cases up at bonnor, in the downs," he explained. i called on the vicar. "i--i want to go up to town to see that china exhibit," i observed. he looked interested. "i didn't know you were a connoisseur," he remarked. "not at all, not at all--the merest tyro." "i am glad. you will find the show well worth your attention." i bent my head to the vicar's roses. "these richardsons are very lovely," i said. the vicar smiled. "i think they have repaid a little trouble," he said modestly. "ah--could you possibly meet the 2.15 to-morrow?" "you are expecting a parcel?" "no--not exactly. tommy, you know." the vicar took a turn on the lawn. then he came to a standstill in front of me. "i had planned a visit to becklington," he said. i bowed. "i am sorry," said i, and turned to go. at the gate he touched my shoulder. "mathews!" i paused. "i am a coward, mathews--but i will go." we looked into each other's eyes, and i repented. "no, old friend. i ought to go and i will go. by jove, i will." "so be it," said the vicar. i had played with my luncheon, to the concern of my man, who regarded me anxiously. "are you not well, sir?" he asked. "quite well," i replied, icily, with a remark about bad cooking, and careless service, and strode towards the station. i paced the platform moodily twenty minutes before the advertised arrival of the train. i was very early, but somebody, apparently, was before me. i caught a glimpse of a strangely characteristic hat in the corner of the little waiting-room. its shapelessness was familiar. i looked in, and the poet seemed a little confused. "lucien and angel--?" i began, enquiringly. he waved his hand, with some superiority. "inspiration cannot be commanded," he observed. "they shall wait until saturday." we sat down in the shade, and conversation flagged. presently steps approached, pacing slowly along the wooden platform. it was the vicar. he looked a little conscious, and no doubt read the enquiry in my eyes. "it is too hot," he said, "to drive to becklington before tea," and the three of us sat silently down together. at last a porter came, and looked up and down the line. apparently he saw no obstruction, for he proceeded to lower the signal. we rose and paced to and fro, with valorously concealed agitation. a trap dashed along the white road, and some one ran, breathlessly, up the stairs. he seemed a little surprised at the trio which awaited him. "i thought you had two cases in bonnor," i observed, with a piercing glance. the doctor looked away, but did not reply, and i forbore to press the point. far down the line shone a cloudlet of white smoke and the gleam of brass through the dust. "becklington, harrowley, borcombe and hoxford train," roared the porter, apparently as a reminder to the station-master, for there were no passengers. we stood, a nervous group, in the shadow of the waiting-room. "poor boy--poor little chap," said the vicar at last. "we must cheer him up--god bless him." youth is not careless of grief, but god has made it the master of sorrow, and tommy's eyes were bright, as he jumped onto the platform. he smiled complacently into our anxious faces--so genuine a smile that our poor carved ones relaxed into reality. "i've got a ripping chameleon," he observed cheerfully. vii in which madge whistles in a wood through the still boughs the sunlight fell, as it seemed to me, in little molten streams, and i pushed back my chair still deeper into the shadow of the elm. even there it was not cool, but at any rate the contrast to the glaring close-cropped lawn was welcome. i stared up through the listless, delicate leaves into a sky of mediterranean blue. surely, it was the hottest day of summer--of memory. the flowers with which my little garden is so profusely peopled hung languorously above the borders, and the hum of a binder in the neighbouring wheat field seemed an invitation to siesta. down sunny paths, i dropped into oblivion. a touch awoke me, but my eyes were held tight beneath a pair of cool hands. "good gracious," i gasped. "bless my----" tommy laughed and sauntered into view. "you were making a beastly row," he observed, frankly. "i thought it was a thunderstorm." i looked at him with envious eyes. his sole attire consisted of a striped blazer and a pair of knickerbockers. he was crowned in a battered wide-awake hat, and from this to the tips of his brown toes he looked buoyant and cool despite the tan on his chest and legs. he deposited the rest of his garments and a towel upon the grass, and sprawled contentedly beside them. "it was so jolly hot that i didn't bother about dressing," he observed, lazily. then he sat up quickly. "i say; you don't mind, do you? it's awful slack of me to come round here like this." "not a bit," said i, as my thoughts fled back to the days when i also was lean and springy, and blissfully contemptuous of changes in the weather. ah, well-a-day--well-a-day! linger the dreams of the golden days- they were bright, though they fled so soon, rosy they gleamed in the early rays of the sun, that dispelled them at noon. the joys of reminiscence are mellow, but at times they may become a little soporific--i awoke with a start. "whoo--ee." it was a whistle, low and penetrating, and would seem to have risen from the wood beyond the stream. i noticed that tommy was alert and listening. "whoo--ee." again it rose, with something of caution in its tone, but a spice of daring in the higher note of its conclusion. i watched tommy, idly, with half-closed eyes. he was performing a rapid toilet. presently he looked up at me from his shoe-laces. "i taught her that whistle," he observed, complacently. "whom?" i asked. "why, madge--madge chantrey," he said. "you seem to have found an apt pupil." "rather." "but i hope," i spoke severely, "i trust, tommy, that you haven't taught her to play truant." he looked at me, cheekily; then he vanished through the gate. "happy dreams," he said, "and, i say, don't snore _quite_ so loudly, you know." and i heard him singing as he ran through the wood. said madge, from the first stile, on the right: "i managed it beautifully; she was reading some of those stupid rhymes by the poet--only i oughtn't to call them names, because he's a friend of yours--and i watched her getting sleepier and sleepier, and then i came through the little gate behind the greenhouse and simply ran all the way, and, i expect, she's fast asleep, and i wonder why grown-up people always go to sleep in the very best part of all the day." "i think it's their indigestions, you know," said tommy thoughtfully. "but they never eat anything all day--only huge big feeds at night." "i think everybody's a _little_ sleepy after lunch." "i'm not." "not after two helps of jam roll?" "how do you know i had two helps?" "never mind," said tommy, then. "see that spadger," he cried suddenly. "got him, no--missed him, by jove." the sparrow was twittering, mockingly, behind the hedge, and a bright-eyed rabbit scuttled into safety. "let's go through the park," cried tommy. "i'll show you a ripping little path, right by the house, where there's a cave i made before--no one knows it but father and i, an' you can go right by it, an' never see it. come on." they scrambled over the iron railings that bound the neat, though modest, domain surrounding camslove grange. through the tall tree trunks they could see the old house with its rough battlements and extended wings. in front of it the trim lawns sloped down to the stream, while behind, the italian garden was cut out of a wild tangle of shrubs and brushwood. into this tommy plunged, with the unerring steps of long acquaintance, holding back the branches, as madge followed close upon his heels. once he turned, and looked back eagerly into her eyes. "we're just by the path now--isn't it grand?" "rather," she said. presently, with much labour, they reached a microscopical track through the underwood. "there," observed tommy, with the proud air of a proprietor, "didn't i tell you?" "no one could possibly find it, i should think," said madge. "rather not. let's go to the cave." followed some further scrambling, and tommy drew back the bushes triumphantly. "see--" he began, but the words died upon his lips, for there, standing all unabashed upon this sacred ground, was a boy about his own age. tommy stammered and grew silent, looking amazedly at the stranger. he was a pale boy with dark eyes, and a jewish nose. "you are trespassing," he said coolly. tommy gasped. "who--who are you?" he asked at last. "i tell you you are trespassing." tommy flushed. "i'm not," he said. "i--i belong here." the other boy gave a shout. "father," he cried, "here's some trespassers." tommy stood his ground, surveying the intruder with some contempt, while madge wide-eyed held his arm. there were footsteps through the bushes, and a tall stout man in a panama hat came into view. "hullo," he said, "this is private property, you know." tommy looked at him gravely. "i don't understand--i--i belong here, you know." the big man smiled. "you're a native, are you?" he said cheerfully. "well, you're a pretty healthy looking specimen--but this place here is mine--for the time, at any rate." "it was my father's," said tommy, with a strange huskiness in his throat. "don't know anything about that--got it from the agents for six years--like to see the deed, heh?" and he chuckled, a little ponderously. tommy looked downcast and hesitant, and the big man turned to his son. "well, well," he said, "i guess they'll know better next time. take 'em down the drive, ernie, and show 'em out decently." the three walked silently down the old avenue. at the gate, the pale boy turned to tommy. "back my father's got more money than yours," he said. tommy's eyes swept him with a look of profound contempt, but a lump in his throat forbade retort, and he turned away silent. madge, dear little woman, saw the sorrow in his eyes, and held her peace, picking flowers from the bank as they walked slowly down the path. on a green spray a little way ahead a bird was singing full-throated and joyous, but to tommy its music was mockery. he took a long aim and brought the little songster, warm and quivering, on to the pathway in front of them. as they came to it he kicked it aside, but madge, stooping, lifted it from the long grass and hid it, quite dead, in her frock. the tears had risen to her eyes, and she was on the point of challenging this seemingly wanton cruelty. but there was something in tommy's face that her eyes were quick to notice, and she was silent. thus is tact so largely a matter of instinct. and, in a minute, tommy turned to her. "i--i should jolly well like to--to kill that chap," he said. madge said nothing, fondling the warm little body that she held beneath her pinafore. as they turned the corner of the hedge, they came into the full flood of the sunlight over the meadows, and tommy smiled. "i say, i'm awfully sorry we should have got turned out like that, madge, but i--i didn't know there was somebody else in there--an' that i wasn't to go there, an' that." "never mind," said madge, "let's come up home, and i'll show you my cave--i've got one, too. it's not so good as yours, of course, because you're a boy, but i think it's very pretty all the same, and it's _almost_ as hard to get at." viii in which two adjectives are applied to tommy my lady's lawn is splashed with shade all intertwined with sun, and strayingly beneath the boughs their tapestry is spun, for the angel hands of summer-time have woven them in one. my lady's lawn is wrapped with peace, its life throbs sweet and strong. caressingly across its breast the laughing breezes throng, and the angel wings of summer-time have touched it into song. "thank you," said lady chantrey. "i feel so honoured, you know, to have my little garden immortalised in verse." the poet wrapped up his papers and restored them to his pocket, with a smile. "not immortalised, lady chantrey," he replied modestly, "not even described--only, if i may say so, appreciated." from her invalid chair, in the shade, lady chantrey looked out over the lawn, sunny and fragrant, a sweet foreground to the wide hills beyond. she turned to the poet with something like a sigh. "i wonder why it is that we fortunate ones are so few," she said. "why we few should be allowed to drown ourselves in all this beauty, that so many can only dream about. it would almost seem a waste of earth's good things." the poet was silent. "after all, they can dream--the others, i mean," he said, presently. "but never attain." "it is good that they know it is all here--somewhere." lady chantrey lay back in her chair. "i wish i could give it to them," she said, opening her hands. "i wish i could give it to them, but i am so stupid, and weak, and poor;--you can." "i?" stammered the poet. she looked at him, with bright eyes. "you have the gift," she said. "you can at any rate minister to their dreams." "but nobody reads poetry, and i--i do not write for the crowd." she shook her head. "i think everybody reads poetry," she said, "and i think, in every house, if one could but find it, there is some line or thought or dream, if you will, cut out, long since, and guarded secretly--and more, read--read often, as a memory, perhaps only as a dream, but, for all that, a very present help--i would like to be the writer of such a poem." "it would certainly be gratifying," assented the poet. "it would be worth living for." the poet looked at her gravely--at the sweet-lined face, and the white hair, and tired grey eyes. "do you know, lady chantrey," he said, "you always give me fresh inspiration. i--i wonder--" but what the poet wondered was only the wonder, i suppose, of all writers of all ages, and, in any case, it was not put into words, for across the lawn came a rustle of silk and muslin, heralding visitors, and the poet became busy about tea-cups and cream. though physical weakness, and want of means, prevented lady chantrey from entertaining to any large extent, yet i doubt if any woman in the county was more really popular than this gentle hostess of becklington hall; for lady chantrey was of those who had gained the three choicest gifts of suffering--sweetness and forbearance and sympathy. such as lady chantrey never want for friends, for indeed they give, i fancy, more than they receive. on this sunny afternoon several groups were dotted about the cool lawns of becklington, when tommy and madge came tea-wards from the cave. lady chantrey beckoned them to her side. "i am so glad to see you again, tommy," she said. "you never come to see me now. i suppose old women are poor company." "i wish they were all like you," said tommy, squatting upon the grass at her feet. then he remembered a question he had meant to ask her, "i say, lady chantrey, who's living at the grange?" she shook her head. "i don't know, tommy. i heard that your guardian had let it--it was your father's wish, you know--but i did not know the tenants had arrived." "oh, lady chantrey, there's a boy there, an' he's such an awful cad." "cad?" echoed lady chantrey, questioningly. "he--he isn't one little atom of a gentleman." "and therefore a cad?" tommy coloured. "he's an awful bounder, lady chantrey." everybody was busy in conversation, and lady chantrey laid a frail hand on tommy's shoulder--then, "tommy," she said in a low voice, "a gentleman never calls anyone a cad--for that reason. it implies a comparison, you see." tommy blushed furiously, and looked away. "i--i'm awful sorry. lady chantrey," he mumbled. "tell me about your holidays," she said. a servant stepped across the lawn to lady chantrey's chair followed by a stout lady, in red silk. "mrs. cholmondeley," she announced. "and how do you do, my dear lady chantrey? feeling a little stronger, i hope. ah, that's very delightful. isn't it too hot for anything? i have just been calling at the dear earl's--lady florence is looking so well--" mrs. cholmondeley swept the little circle gathered about the tea-table with a quick glance. it is good to have the earl on one's visiting list. her eyes rested on mollie gerald, pouring out tea, and she turned to lady chantrey: "is that the young person who has been so successful with your daughter's music, lady chantrey?" mollie's cheeks were scarlet, as she bent over the tea-pot, for mrs. cholmondeley's lower tones were as incisive as her ordinary voice was strident. "yes, that is my friend, miss gerald," said lady chantrey, smiling at mollie. mrs. cholmondeley continued a diatribe upon governesses. "you never know, _dear_ lady chantrey, who they may be. so many of them are so exceedingly--" she shrugged her shoulders. "i have been very fortunate," said lady chantrey. tommy wandered up with some cake, which he offered to mrs. cholmondeley, who smiled graciously. "and who is this?" she asked. lady chantrey explained. "not the poor colonel's heir?" lady chantrey nodded. "really; how interesting--how are you, my dear?" "all right," said tommy, in obvious good health. "this is mrs. cholmondeley, of barnardley." tommy looked interested. "i've heard about you from mrs. chundle," he said. "she's a sort of relation of yours, derived from the same lot, you know." mrs. cholmondeley looked a little bewildered, and the poet patently nervous. "really i--" "she's an awful good sort--mrs. chundle. she's the poet's housekeeper--so i expect she has to work for her living, you know." the poet gasped. "it's--it's all a mistake," he stammered, but not before mrs. cholmondeley had turned a violent purple, and a smile had travelled round the little ring of visitors. all at once tommy became aware that somehow things had gone wrong and retreated hastily from the lawn, seeking the refuge of the cave among the laurels, and in a minute or two, the poet, with a murmured pretext about a view, also vanished. tommy wandered disconsolately down the flagged path between the bushes, ruminating upon the strange contrariness of affairs on this chequered afternoon. near the arbour in the laurels miss gerald met him. her eyes were dancing. "o, tommy, you celestial boy," she cried. tommy was doubtful of the adjective, but the tone was certainly one of approbation, and he looked modestly at the path. "you're a perfect young angel," proceeded miss gerald, enthusiastically, "and i'd kiss you only i suppose you wouldn't like it." tommy looked at her, dubiously. "i shouldn't very much," he observed, but chivalry stepped manfully to the fore, and he turned a brown cheek towards her. "you can if you like, you know," he added, looking resignedly across the valley. she stooped and dropped a kiss upon his cheek. "you're the very broth of a boy," she said, as she ran back to the house. presently the laurels rustled, and the poet stole out into the pathway. tommy was disappearing into a sidewalk, and the poet looked after him with a curious expression. "o you incomprehensible person," said he. ix in which tommy climbs a stile "you daren't climb into the hay-loft." "daren't i?" said tommy, scornfully. "you see if i don't." and he shinned easily up the ladder. the hay-loft was cool and fragrant--a welcome contrast to the glaring yard. "come up too," said tommy. madge's black eyes flashed. "i will," she said, clambering up the steps. tommy stooped down and gave her a hand. "good girl," he said, approvingly. then he laid his hand on her lips, and they crouched back into the shade. for into the barn stepped one of the farm labourers. "we mustn't get found out, for the man here is an awful beast of a chap," said tommy, in a low whisper. the labourer had not perceived them and was soon bent over a machine chopping up fodder for the cattle. his back was towards them, and he breathed heavily, for the work was hard. his red neck formed a tempting target, and tommy was an accurate shot. moreover, his pockets were full of peas. he took a careful aim and let fly, and there was a hoarse exclamation from the man at the wheel. tommy drew back into shelter, where madge was curled up in the new hay. "got him rippingly," said tommy, "plumb in the back of the neck." madge looked a little reproachful. "o tommy, it must have hurt him dreadfully." tommy chuckled. "'spect it did tickle him a bit," he said, looking cautiously round the corner. the man had resumed work and the hum of the wheel filled the barn. tommy selected another portion of the man's anatomy and let fly a little harder. there was a shout and a sound of muttered exclamation in the barn below them, as tommy backed into the hay with quiet enjoyment. as they listened they could hear the man stumping round the barn, swearing softly, and presently he was joined by some one else, for a loud voice broke into his grumbling. "what the dickens are you doing, jake?" "darned if i know," said the man. "on'y there bees summat as hits i unnever i goes at the wheel, master." "that's the farmer himself just come in," said tommy burrowing deeper into the hay. they could hear him speaking. "get on wi' your work, jake, an' don't get talkin' your nonsense to me, man." the man grumbled. "darned if it are nonsense, master," he said. "just you wait till you be hit yoursen--right in the bark o' your neck, too." "o tommy, do hit him--the farmer i mean." tommy shook his head. "it wouldn't do," he said. madge looked at him with a challenge in her eyes. "you daren't," she whispered. tommy flushed. "we should be caught." "oh--then you daren't?" tommy was silent, and the farmer's foot was heavy in the barn below. "you daren't," repeated madge. tommy looked at her, with bright eyes. "all right," he said. "if you want to see, look round the corner, only don't let him cob you." then he drew back a little from the opening and took a flying shot, finding a target in one of the farmer's rather conspicuous ears. he gave a sudden yell, and his pale eyes seemed to stand out from his head, as he looked amazedly round the building. the man at the wheel spat into his hands, with a quiet grin. "darned if they ain't hit you, master," he said, grinding with some zest. "my word, they shall pay for it," shouted the farmer, conning the situation with frowning brows. then he stepped to the ladder. "see as they don't get out, jake, if i send anyone down," he said loudly, and jake grunted an assent. madge was trembling. "o tommy, i'm so sorry. it's all my fault. tell him it's all my fault." "it's all right," said tommy cheerfully, "he--he won't dare to touch me." a pair of red cheeks appeared above the floor of the loft, and the pale eyes looked threateningly into the gloom. in a minute they encountered tommy's brown ones, bright and defiant. the farmer grunted. "bees you there, eh?" he asked. tommy grinned. "all right, you needn't get shirty," he said. "shirty, eh? i wunt get shirty. don't you make no mistake. jake!" "ah!" "my stick down there?" "ah." "will you 'ave it up 'ere or down yon, young man?" tommy flushed hotly, and madge held his arm. "you daren't hit me," he said. the farmer laughed. "you've bin trespassin' more'n once, young man, wi' your catapult an' your sharp tongue, an' now i'm goin' to 'ave my bit. up 'ere or down yon?" tommy temporized. "let us come down," he said, eyeing the door warily. "young miss, you get down first," said the farmer. madge obeyed with pale cheeks, and stood, half in sunlight, at the door. "jake!" "ah!" "see the young rip don't get out." "ah!" tommy clambered down, standing between the two men. then he made a bolt for freedom, dodging jake's half-hearted attempt at resistance. but the farmer held him as he recoiled from jake and jerked him over a truss of hay. and for the next few minutes tommy was very uncomfortable. "oh, you cad, you cad, you beastly, putrid cad." tommy spoke between his teeth at each stroke of the farmer's stick. the man released him in a minute or two, and tommy rushed at him with both fists. the farmer laughed. "guess you won't come knockin' about this barn again in a hurry," he said as he pushed him easily into the yard and closed the great door with a thud. for a moment tommy stood, white with anger. then he thought of madge, who had been a spectator of the tragedy. but she was nowhere to be seen, and he walked gloomily down the lane. now madge, with a beating heart and a stricken conscience, had fled for help, running blindly down the lane, with the idea of securing the first ally who should appear. and she almost ran into the arms of the pale boy from the grange. "hullo, what's the matter?" he asked, looking at madge curiously. madge blurted out the story, with eager eyes. 'could he help her? was there anybody near who could save tommy from a probable and violent death?' the pale boy looked at her admiringly, as he considered the question. then, "my father knows the man--he owes my father some money, i think. i'll see if i can do anything." they ran down the lane together, and doing so encountered tommy, flushed and ruffled. "o, tommy"--madge began, but stopped suddenly, at the look on tommy's face. for to tommy this seemed the lowest depth of his degradation, that the pale boy should be a witness of his discomfiture. he looked at them angrily, and then, turning on his heel, struck out across the fields, the iron entering deeply into his soul. youth is imitative, and tommy had often heard the phrase. "i--i don't care a damn," he said. for a moment he felt half-frightened, but the birds were still singing in the hedge, and, in the next field, the reapers still chattered gaily at their work. moreover, the phrase seemed both consolatory and emphatic. "i don't care a damn," he repeated, slowly, climbing the stile, into the next field. said a voice from behind the hedge: "girl in it?" tommy looked round, and encountered a tall young man in tweeds. he was looking at him, with amused eyes. "i--i don't know what you mean," said tommy. the young man laughed. "they're the devil, girls are," he observed. tommy was puzzled and eyed the stranger cautiously, thinking him the handsomest man he had seen. nor, in a way, was he at fault, for the young man was straight, and tall, and comely. but there was something in the eyes--a lack of honest lustre--and in the lips--too sensuous for true manliness, that would have warned tommy, had he been older, or even in a different frame of mind. just now, however, a friend was welcome, and tommy told his tale, as they strolled through the fields together. presently, "you belong to camslove grange, don't you?" asked the stranger. "i did." "and will again, i suppose, eh?" tommy looked doubtful, and the young man laughed. "sorry--i ought to have put it the other way round, for it will belong to you." tommy shook his head. "i don't think so," he said. "some other johnny's got it, you see." the young man looked at his watch. "my name's morris--i live at borcombe house--you'd better come and feed with me." "thanks, i'd like to, awfully." "that's right--the old man will be glad to see you, and we'll have a game of billiards." "i can't play." "never mind. i'll teach you--good game, pills." squire morris was cordial from the grip of his hand to the moisture in his baggy eyes. "the heir of camslove," he said. "well, well, i am so glad to see you, dear boy, so very glad to see you. you must come often." for a moment a misgiving arose in tommy's heart. "did you know my father?" he asked, as the old man held his hand. "yes, yes; not as well as i would have liked to know him, by no means as well as i would have liked to know him--but i knew him, oh yes. i knew him well enough." tommy felt reassured, and the three entered the old hall, hung with trophies of gun and rod and chase. "a bachelor's abode," laughed the young man. "we're wedded to sport--no use for girls here, eh dad?" the squire laughed wheezily. "the dog," he chuckled, "the young dog." presently the squire led them to the dining room, where a bountiful meal was spread--so bountiful that tommy, already predisposed for friendship, rapidly thawed into intimacy. both the squire and his son seemed intent on amusing him, and tommy took the evident effort for the unaccomplished deed--for, in truth, the stories that they told were almost unintelligible to him, though, to the others, they appeared humorous enough. presently the squire grew even more affectionate. he had always loved boys, he said, and tommy was not to forget it. he was a stern enemy, but a good friend, and tommy was not to forget it. he would always be proud to shake hands with tommy, wherever he met him, and tommy was to keep this in remembrance. presently he retired to the sofa, with a cigar, which he was continually dropping. the young man winked, genially, at tommy. "he always gets sleepy about this time," he explained. "sleepy?" interrupted his father, "not a bit of it. see here," and he filled the three glasses once more from the decanter. "to the master of camslove grange," he cried, lifting his glass. and they drank the health, standing. as tommy walked home over the starlit fields, the scene came back to him. the old man, wheezy but gracious, his son flushed and handsome, the panelled walls and their trophies, and the sparkling glasses--a brave picture. true--he was still sore, but the episode of the farmer and his stick seemed infinitely remote, and madge and the pale boy, ghosts of an era past: for had he not drunk of the good red wine, and kept company with gentlemen? x in which i receive two warnings, and neglect one i suppose that, by this time, i had grown fond of tommy, in a very real way, for, as the weeks passed by, i was quick to notice the change in the boy. there was a suggestion of swagger and an assumption of manliness in his manner, that troubled me. i noticed, too, that he avoided many of his old haunts. often he would strike out across the downs and be away from early morning until starlight, and concerning his adventures he would be strangely reticent. but i do not profess to have fathomed the ways and moods of boys, and i merely shrugged my shoulders, perhaps a little sorrowfully. "i suppose he is growing up," thought i. and yet, for all that, i could not keep myself from wondering what influence was at work upon the boy's development. even the doctor, who, of us all, saw the least of him, noticed the change, for he asked me suddenly, one late september day, "what's the matter with tommy?" i looked at him with feigned surprise. "i--he's all right, isn't he?" the doctor shook his head. "he has altered very much this summer, and i am afraid the alteration has not been good." i cut at a nettle with my walking-stick. "he is growing, of course." the doctor raised his eyebrows. "then you have noticed nothing else--nothing in his demeanour or conversation--or friends?" i abandoned my defences. "yes, i have noticed it, and i cannot understand it--and i am sorry for it." "when does he return to school?" "to-morrow." the doctor appeared to be thinking. in a minute he looked into my face. "it is a good thing, on the whole," he said, adding slowly. "don't drive the boy; let him forget." he drove away, and i looked after him in some wonderment, for his words seemed enigmatical. as i walked back to my garden i could hear tommy whistling in his bedroom. there was a light in the room, and i could see him, half undressed, fondling one of his white rats. i remembered how he had insisted on their company and smiled. "sir." from the shadow of the hedge a voice addressed me. "sir." "hullo," i said. then, as i peered through the gloom, i saw a young woman standing before me, and, even in the dusk, i could read the eagerness in her eyes. her face was familiar. "surely i know you?" i asked. "i'm liza berrill." she spoke rapidly; yet, over her message she seemed hesitant. then: "oh, sir, don't let him be friends wi' that gentleman." i stared. "what do you mean?" she pointed to the window! tommy was in his night-shirt, with the white rat running over his shoulders. "well?" "master tommy, sir. there's a-many 'ave noticed it; don't let 'im get friends wi'----" "with whom?" even in the dusk i could see the dull crimson creep into her cheeks. "squire morris's son," she muttered. we stood silent and face to face for a minute. "you understand, sir?" i remembered, and held out my hand. "yes, liza; i understand. thank you." "good night, sir." "good night." she ran, with light footsteps, down the lane, and i stood alone beneath the poplars. far up into the deepening sky they reached, like still black sentinels, and between them glimmered a few early stars. in his bedroom i could see tommy, holding the white rat in one hand and kneeling a moment at his very transient prayers. i remembered a day whereon the colonel's riding-whip had been laid about squire morris's shoulders. my heart beat high at the thought, for the squire had insulted one whose sweet face had long lain still. i thought of the son. "poor liza," i murmured, and lifted the garden latch. and as i looked up at tommy's darkened window: "god forbid," i said. * * * * * next morning i called tommy aside. "do you know young morris, of borcombe?" he nodded. "tommy, i--i wish you would endeavour to avoid him in the future. he is no fit companion for you." "why?" "i--you would not understand yet, tommy; you must take my word for it." tommy looked a little sullen. "he's a jolly good sort," he said. "i know him well; he's a jolly good sort." "i am asking you, tommy,"--i hesitated then. "for your father's sake," i added. tommy looked straight into my eyes. "he was a friend of father's," he said, quietly. "your father thrashed the squire with his own hand; i saw him do it." tommy stood very still. "why?" "i--i cannot explain it exactly; you must take my word." tommy turned on his heels. "he's a jolly good sort," he muttered. "but you must not make him a friend." tommy was silent, kicking at the carpet. "i shall if i like," he said, presently; and that was the last word. and it was only when i came back, rather sadly, from the station that i remembered the doctor's words and found a meaning for them. "oh, what a fool i am!" i said. xi in which tommy is in peril tommy spent his christmas in town, with a distant relative, for i had been called abroad upon a matter of business, and his easter holidays, since i was still away, were passed in camslove vicarage. it was, therefore, a year before i saw tommy again, and on an august morning i met him at the little station. i think we were both glad to see each other, and i found tommy a little longer, perhaps a little leaner, but as brown and ruddy as ever. "i say, it is ripping to get back here again, an' i've got into the third eleven, an' that bat you sent me is an absolute clinker, an' how's the poet, an' did you have a good time in italy, an', i say, you are shoving on weight, you know, an' there's old berrill, an' i say, berrill, that's a ripping young jackdaw you sent, an' he's an' awful thief--that is, he was, you know, but young jones's dog eat him, or most of him, an' i punched young jones's head for letting 'em be together, an' i say--how ripping the downs are looking, aren't they?" tommy's spirits were infectious, and on the way home it would be hard to say which of us talked the most nonsense. our journey through the village was slow, for tommy's friends were numerous, and spread out over the whole social scale, from the hand-to-mouth daysman to the unctuous chemist and stationer. they included the vicar, leaning over his garden gate, in his shirt-sleeves, surrounded by implements of horticulture, and also, i regret to say, the pot-boy of the flaming lion--a graceless young scamp, with poacher written in every lineament of his being. i was not unprepared for his royal progress, since, during the summer, i had been frequently accosted by his friends, of varying rank and respectability, enquiring of "master thomas, sir." "that young 'awk, sir, as i sent him last week?" "made many runs this year, sir, d'ye know?" "master thomas in pretty good 'ealth, sir. bad livin' in they big schools, sir, ben't it?" and so on. far down the road i saw a horseman, but tommy could not, by any means, be hurried, and a meeting i did not wish became inevitable. as young morris rode up he looked at me a little insolently--maybe it was only my fancy, for prejudice is a poor interpreter of expression--and nodded good day. i saw that tommy looked a little uncomfortable and his flow of chatter ceased suddenly. morris bent from the saddle and called him, and as i turned to the shop window i could hear them greeting one another. i did not hear their further conversation, and it was only brief, but the tommy who walked home with me thenceforward was not the same who had met me so buoyantly at the station. ah, these clouds, that are no greater than a man's hand and by reason of their very slenderness are so difficult to dispel! the early days of august sped away happily enough, and their adventures were merely those of field, and stream, and valley, engrossing enough of the time and fraught no doubt with lessons of experience, but too trivial, i suppose, for record. and yet i would rather write of them than of the day--the 8th of august--when the borcombe eleven beat camslove by many runs. and yet again, i am not sure, for a peril realised early, even through a fall, may be the presage of ultimate victory. i had been in town all day myself, and therefore had not been amongst the enthusiastic little crowd gathered in the field behind the church to watch this annual encounter, and a typical english country crowd it was, brimful of sport--see the eager movements of those gnarled hands and the light in the clear open-air eyes and wrinkled faces. camslove, too, had more than justified the prediction of their adherents and had made a hundred and fifty runs, a very creditable score. "an' if they can stand berrill's fast 'uns they bees good 'uns," chuckled they of camslove, as they settled down to watch the borcombe innings. tommy was hanging about the little tin-roofed pavilion, divided between a natural patriotism and a desire to see his hero perform wonders, for squire morris's son had consented to represent borcombe. young morris had never played for his village before, but his reputation as a cricketer was considerable, and the country-side awaited his display with some curiosity. nor were they disappointed, for in every way he played admirable cricket, and even berrill's fast ones merely appeared to offer him opportunities of making boundary hits. his fellow cricketers spent more or less brief periods in his company, and disconsolately sought the shade of the pavilion and the trees, but morris flogged away so mercilessly that the camslove score was easily surpassed, with three wickets yet to fall, and in the end borcombe obtained a very solid victory. young morris was not held in high esteem in the country-side, and there were many who cordially disliked him--it was even whispered that one or two had sworn, deeply, a condign revenge for certain deeds of his--but he had played the innings of a master, and, as such, he received great applause on his return to the pavilion. tommy was in the highest spirits, and, full of a reflected glory, strode manfully, on his hero's arm, down the village street. in the bar-room of the flaming lion many healths were drunk to the victors, to the defeated, to berrill's fast 'uns, to the young squire's long success, to tommy wideawake. tommy, flushed and exultant, stood among the little group, with glowing cheeks. presently a grimy hand pulled his sleeve. it was the pot-boy. "don't 'ee 'ave no more, sir--not now," he whispered. but tommy looked at him hotly. "can't a gentleman drink when he likes--damn you?" he asked. the pot-boy slunk away, and a loud laugh rang round the little audience. "good on you, tommy," cried morris. "gentlemen, the girls--bless 'em." he filled their glasses, at his expense, and coupled a nameless wish with his toast. tommy, unconscious of its meaning, drank with the others. then he walked unsteadily to the door. there was a strange buzzing in his head, and a dawning feeling of nausea in him, which he strove to fight down. and as he stood at the porch, flushed and bright-eyed, madge chantrey and the pale boy passed along the road. they were going to meet miss gerald, but tommy staggered out and faced them. "hullo, madge, old girl," he said, but she drew back, staring at him, with wide eyes. the pale boy laughed. "why, he's drunk--dead drunk," he said. tommy lurched forward and struck him in the face, and in a moment the pale boy had sent him rolling heavily in the road. i picked him up, for i was passing on my way home from the station, and noticed the flush on his cheeks, and saw that they were streaked with blood and dust. they tell me that i, too, lost my temper, and even now i cannot remember all i said to morris and his satellites and the little crowd in the flaming lion. i remember taking tommy home, and helping my man to undress and wash him and put him to bed, and i shall never forget the evening that i spent downstairs in my study, staring dumbly over the misty valley to the far downs, and seeing only two grave grey eyes looking rebukingly into mine. late in the evening the vicar joined me, and we sat silently together in the little study. my man lit the lamp, and brought us our coffee, and came again to fetch it away, untasted. perhaps you smile as you read this. "you ridiculous old men," i can hear you say. "to magnify so trivial an incident into a veritable calamity." and, again, i can only plead that, in our quiet life, maybe, we attached undue importance to such a slight occurrence. yet, nevertheless, to us it was very real, almost overwhelmingly real, and the tragedy of it lay, nearly two years back, in the panelled study of camslove grange. presently the vicar looked at me, and his face, in the red lamplight, seemed almost haggard. "'i could never repay the man who taught my boy to love god,'" he repeated, "and he said those words to me--to me." i bowed my head. "and i--i accepted the responsibility, and it has come to this." i was silent, and, indeed, what was there to say? i suppose we both tried to think out the best course for the future, but for myself my brain refused to do aught but call up, and recall, and recall again, that last meeting in camslove grange: "i want the old place to have a good master. "i want my son to be a gentleman. "god bless you, old comrades." back they came, those old ghosts of the past, until the gentle, well-bred voice seemed even now appealing to me, and the well-loved form apparent before my eyes. and i writhed in my chair. a little later the poet came in. he looked almost frightened, and spoke in a hushed voice. "is--is he better?" he asked. "he is asleep," i answered, moodily. the poet sighed. "ah! that's good, that's good." for a little while we talked, the aimless, useless talk of unnerved men, and at last the poet suggested we should go upstairs. as i held the candle over tommy's bed we could see that the flush had faded from his cheeks, and as he lay there he might well have been a healthy cherub on some earthly holiday. i think the sight cheered us all, and in some measure restored our hope. the vicar turned to us, gravely. "there is one thing we can all do," he said; "we ought to have thought of it first, and it is surely the best." as we parted, the poet turned to me. "i will take him over the downs with me to-morrow; they always appeal to tommy, and one is never saner, or nearer to god, or more ready for repentance, than out there upon the ranges." there was a sound of wheels down the lane, and in a minute the doctor drove by. "hullo," he called out, cheerily, "i have just got myself a new bat." xii in which tommy makes a resolve it is one of the privileges of youth that alimentary indulgence is but rarely penalized, and if either of us next morning was pale and disinclined for breakfast it was certainly not tommy. on the contrary, he seemed cool, and fit, and hungry, and although he looked at me occasionally in a shy, questioning way, yet he chattered away much as usual, and made no reference to yesterday's adventures. only when the poet called for him and at the window i laid a hand upon his shoulder to bid him a happy day, he turned to me, impulsively: "you are a ripper," he said. there is no sweeter or more genuine praise than a boy's. i watched them down the lane, and my eyes sought the downs, clear, and wide, and sunny. i thought of the tawdry inn, and its associations, and prayed that tommy might learn a lesson from the contrast. says jasper the gipsy: "life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?" hark back to your well-thumbed lavengro and you will find, if you do not remember, his reasons. nor are they weightier than these: "night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon and stars, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath." deep in the heart of every boy lies something of the gipsy, and even if, in after life, it grows sick and stifled by reason of much traffic among crowded streets, yet i doubt if it ever so far vanishes that to it the wind on the heath shall appeal in vain. nor was the poet wrong in his prognosis, for to tommy, at any rate, it was full of unspoken messages on this august morning. wind on the heath--yes, it is always there, clean, and strong, and happy, lingering with soft wings over furze and bracken, full of whispered melodies from the harp of god. are you in trouble? go up and face this wind on the heath. bare your head to it, open your lungs to it. let it steal about your heart, with its messages of greatness, and futurity, and hope. are you listless and discouraged? go up and breathe this wind on the heath, and it will sting to life the ambition and resolve in you, and in it you will hear, if you listen aright, the saga of victory. "in sickness, jasper?" "there's the sun and stars, brother." "in blindness, jasper?" "there's the wind on the heath, brother: if i could only feel that, i would gladly live forever. dosta, we'll now go to the tents and put on the gloves, and i'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother." tommy and the poet were bound for some ruins which lay across becklington common and beyond the downs. harvest ruled the world, and the fields in the valley and on the hillside were dotted with stooks and stacks. it was a day on which it was good to be alive, and, if a little subdued, yet they were both in good spirits. the poet's latest volume, ahead of the autumn rush of poetry and fiction, had been favourably criticised. it was stronger, happier, more real, said the critics, than any other from his pen. if not great, said they, it was at any rate graceful, and even, in some places, vigorous. therefore was the poet happy. and tommy--well, there was the sun and the wind, good red blood in his arteries, and no care in his heart--and though he could not have told you so, these, no doubt, were strong enough reasons for the buoyancy of his spirit. as they climbed the green side of the downs they met a shepherd singing, a happy, irresponsible fellow, with his coat over his head, and his sleek flock browsing round him. and as they passed him with a welcome, the poet remembered some lines which he repeated to tommy: wouldst a song o' shepherding, out upon the down, splendid days o' summer-time, an' roaring days o' spring? i could sing it fine, if e'er a word were mine, but there's no words could tell it you--the song that i would sing. wide horizons beckoning, far beyond the hill, little lazy villages, sleeping in the vale, greatness overhead the flock's contented tread an' trample o' the morning wind adown the open trail. bitter storms o' winter-time ringing down the range, angel nights above the hill, beautiful with rest, i would sing o' life, o' enterprise, and strife, o' love along the upland road, an' god beyond the crest. an' this should be my matin song--magic o' the down, mystery, an' majesty, an' wistfulness, an' hope, i would sing the lay o' destiny an' day, as morning mounts the hill with me, an' summer storms the slope. but this would be my vesper song--best at last is peace whispered where the valleys lie, all deep in dying gold, stealing through the gloam to speed the shepherd home with one last dreamy echo o' the music in the fold. wouldst a song o' shepherding, out upon the down, splendid days o' summer-time, an' roaring days o' spring? i could sing it fine, if e'er a word were mine, but there's no words could tell it you--the song that i would sing. "jolly good," said tommy, easiest of critics, and the poet smiled. "ah, tommy," he said, "i wish you were a publisher." over the crest of the downs rose a thin wisp of blue smoke; and as they descended on the other side, some dark-eyed children looked out of a little brown tent. they reminded the poet of jasper and his company of pharaoh's children, and he repeated to tommy the conversation i have touched upon. tommy's eyes sparkled. "that's good," he said, approvingly. "just what a fellow feels, you know." they walked on across the green springy turf, and for a time both were silent. there was something, too, in the day and its purity that was speaking to tommy. presently he spoke, hesitatingly. "i--i was drunk last night, wasn't i?" he asked anxiously. the poet affected not to have heard the question, but tommy persisted. "yes." tommy sighed. "i say," he said, after a pause, "i--i'd have licked that fellow hollow if my head hadn't been so jolly queer." the poet looked at him, curiously. "i expect you would," he said. tommy took a deep breath, and looked straight at the poet. "i'll never touch it again--never," he said slowly. they shook hands there on the hillside. thus it was, and for this reason, that tommy took upon himself a vow that he has to my best belief never broken. "ah, but the motive?" you ask. well, maybe the shrug of your shoulder is justified, but, after all, the result was brought about by nature, who seldom errs, and to the poet, who, in spite of all, was really a simple soul--the result was abundantly gratifying. as they walked home in the evening, tommy turned to the poet. "i say, what was it that gipsy fellow said--at the end, you know?" "dosta, we'll now go to the tent and put on the gloves, and i'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother." tommy looked grimly into the twilight. "it would be a jolly good thing to teach that fellow at the grange," he said, "only i'm blowed if i'll take any gloves." xiii in which the poet plucks a foxglove madge sat by the window, swinging disconsolate legs and struggling, with a nauseated heart, to master those latin prepositions which govern the ablative case. a more degraded army she had never encountered, and though some misguided sage had committed them to rhyme, this device merely added a flavour of hypocrisy to their obvious malevolence. moreover, the whole universe appeared to be so disgustingly cheerful that the contrast was well nigh unbearable. beyond the open window the day was young and bright, and the honey bees sang briskly over the lawn. even the gardener, most dismal of men, was humming: "a few more years shall roll," a sure sign of unwonted buoyancy of spirit. miss gerald was writing some letters for lady chantrey in another room, and madge was alone in the study. thus, every factor combined to make temptation almost irresistible. and, naturally enough, it came, and in the guise of a well-known, long-agreed-on whistle. from the laurels it rose, low and clear, and madge's heart jumped quickly as she heard, for the whistle was tommy's, and she could not remember how long ago it was since she had heard it. then she remembered that it must not be answered--for was not tommy in disgrace--at any rate, as far as she was concerned? and had they not quarrelled so deeply that repair was almost an impossibility? it was very presumptuous of him to think that she should answer it. she would remain where she was, in icy stillness, mastering the prepositions with an iron hand. a pleasing sense of virtue stole into her being, mixed with visions of a downcast, brown face somewhere in the shrubbery, and for five long minutes silence reigned. then the whistle rang out again, a little louder, and surely it sounded almost penitent. a picture of a broken-hearted tommy, whistling in dry-eyed sorrow, rose to her eyes. it was true that his offences had been great, but then, was not forgiveness divine? madge felt sure that this was so. was it not written in fair characters in her last copy-book? she closed her book and stood by the glass doors. it is but rarely that we rise to the divine. yet here was an opportunity, and down the steps she ran, light-footed, over the thin strip of lawn and into the deep laurels. and it was not tommy after all, but only the pale boy who, with commendable perspicacity, had borrowed tommy's whistle. for a moment madge flushed angrily, for she did not greatly like the pale boy, and this was a deception. but the morning was sweet, and the pale boy was surely better than a preposition. "i say: let's go through the wood," he said. "i've hidden some sandwiches in a tree up there and we'll have a picnic, and you can be back in time for lunch." "all right," said madge, "come along." and in the wood they met tommy, with the light of resolve in his eye and battle written in his face. madge was not quite sure whether she was glad or sorry to meet him, nor could she tell, as they looked straight into one another's eyes, the nature of tommy's feelings on the subject. he looked a little grave, and spoke as one who had rehearsed against a probable encounter. "i want to apologise to you for our meeting the other day," he said stiffly. madge stared, and tommy turned to the pale boy. "and to you," he said. the pale boy looked a little puzzled, but grinned. "that's all right," he said. "i could see--" "excuse me, i haven't quite finished"--and the pale boy stopped, with his mouth open. "i think you had better go home, madge." "why--tommy?" tommy looked down. "you had better--really," he repeated. the pale boy interposed. "she is out with me," he said. "so i see--she had better go home." "why--who says so?" "if she doesn't she will see you get a licking. p'raps--p'raps she wouldn't like that." tommy still looked at the path. "i--i'm not going to fight anyone to-day." "you are--you're jolly well going to fight me, now." the pale boy smiled, a little uncertainly. "you--i shouldn't have thought you'd want a second dose," he said. "rather," said tommy, cheerfully. madge looked from one to the other. "don't fight," she said. "please--please don't fight--why should you?" "you'd much better run home," said tommy again. "i shan't--i shall stay here." tommy sighed. "all right," he said, taking off his coat. "then, of course, you must, you know." "i tell you i'm not going to fight," repeated the pale boy. "rot," said tommy. five minutes later tommy contentedly resumed his coat, his face flushed with victory. the pale boy was leaning against a tree, with a handkerchief to his nose and one eye awry, whimpering vindictive epithets at his opponent--but madge was nowhere to be seen. tommy looked up and down the leafy vistas a little disappointedly. then, "never mind," he said, philosophically. "by jove, it's a jolly sweet thing is life--ripping, simply ripping. good bye, old chap. sniff upwards and it'll soon stop. so long." * * * * * in a brake where the wood falls back a little from the inroad of the common the poet paused, for the gleam of a straw hat against a dark background caught his eye. "why surely--no--yes, it is--how singular--so it is," he murmured, wiping his glasses. he left the path and struck out over the springy turf into the shade of the wood, keeping his eyes nevertheless upon the ground, and walking guilelessly, as one who contemplates. and by chance his meditations were broken, and before him, among some tall foxgloves, stood mollie gerald. the poet looked surprised. "how--how quietly you must walk, miss gerald," he said. she laughed. "how deeply you must think," she said. "it--it is good to wake from thought to--to this, you know," he answered, with a bow. miss gerald looked comprehensively into the wood. "it is pretty, isn't it?" she said. "i was not referring to the wood," said the poet, hardily. miss gerald bent over a foxglove rising gracefully over the bracken: "aren't they lovely?" she asked, showing the poet a handful of the purple flowers. "you came out to gather flowers?" "why, no. i came to look for my pupil." "surely not again a truant?" "i am afraid so." "it is hard to believe." "and i stopped in my search to gather some of these. after all, it isn't much good looking for a child in a wood, is it?" "quite useless, i should think." "if they want to be found they'll come home, and if they don't, they know the woods far better than we, and they'll hide." "they always come back at meal-times--at least, tommy does." "i think meal-times are among the happiest hours of an average childhood." "before the higher faculties have gained their powers of appreciation--it depends on the child." "madge is not an imaginative child." "nor tommy, i think, and yet i don't know. it is hard to appraise the impressions that children receive and cannot record." "and the experiment--how does it progress?" "alas, it is an experiment no longer; it is a very real responsibility, and i am inadequate. individually, i fancy we are all inadequate, and, collectively, we do not seem quite to have found the way." miss gerald nodded emphatically. "good," she said. "eh?" "to feel inadequate is the beginning of wisdom; is it not so? there, i have gathered my bunch." "may i beg one foxglove for my coat?" she laughed. "there are plenty all round you. why, you are standing in the middle of a plant at this moment." the poet stooped a little disconsolately, and plucked a stalk, and when he looked up miss gerald was already threading her way through the slender trunks. "good-bye," she cried, gaily, over her shoulder, and the poet raised his hat. as he sauntered back to the path the doctor rode by on his pony. "hullo," he said; "been picking flowers?" the poet looked up. "a pretty flower, the foxglove," he murmured. "digitalis purpurea--a drug, too, is it not?" the doctor nodded. "it has an action on the heart," he said. "steadies and slows it, you know." but the poet shook his head. "i fancy you are mistaken," he observed. xiv in which tommy converses with the pale boy a sky of stolid grey had communicated a certain spirit of melancholy to the country-side--a spirit not wholly out of keeping with tommy's mood. the holidays were nearly over. the doctor was busy, the poet had a cold, madge had been sent away to school, and tommy, for the nonce, felt a little at a loss to know how to occupy these last mournful days of freedom. as he tramped, a trifle moodily, down the lane, a point of light against a dark corner of the hedge caught his eye, and further examination revealed the pale boy, smoking a cigarette. tommy had not yet aspired to tobacco, and for a moment felt a little resentful. but the memory of last week's battle restored his equanimity, and, indeed, brought with it a little complacent contempt for the pale boy and his ways. "hullo," said tommy, pulling up in front of his reposing foe, and not sorry to have some one to talk to. the pale boy looked at him coldly. "well," he observed, cheerlessly. tommy sat down on the grass. "i say, let's forget about all that," he said. the pale boy puffed away in silence. "let's forget; you--you'd probably have whopped me, you know, if you'd done some boxing at our place. you've a much longer reach than me, an'--an' you got me an awful nasty hit in the chest, you know." the pale boy looked at him gloomily. "i don't profess to know much about fighting," he said, with some dignity. "i think it's jolly low." for a few minutes they sat in silence, then, "where do you go to school?" asked tommy. "i don't go anywhere; i've got a tutor." "oh!" "you see, i'm not at all strong." "bad luck. you--ought you to smoke, if you're--if your constitution's rocky, you know?" the pale boy knocked the ashes off his cigarette. "i find it very soothing," he said. "besides, it's all right, if you smoke good stuff. i wouldn't advise fellows who didn't know their way about a bit to take it up." the pale boy spoke with an air of superiority that awed tommy a little. "how--how did you come to know all about it?" he asked. "oh--just knocking about town, you know," replied the other, carelessly. tommy sighed. "i hardly know anything about london," he said. the pale boy looked at him, pityingly. "i've lived there all my life," he said, "dormanter gardens, in bayswater--one of the best neighbourhoods, you know." tommy racked his memory. "i was in london, at christmas, with a sort of aunt-in-law," he said. "she lives in eaton square, i think it is--somewhere near maskelyne & cook's." "i haven't heard of it," said the pale boy. "but london's so jolly big that it's impossible to know all of it, and i've spent most of my time in the west end." tommy was silent, but the pale boy seemed at home with his subject. "i suppose you don't know the cherry house," he continued. "it's an awful good place to feed in--near the savoy, you know. reggie, he's my cousin, takes me there sometimes. he always goes. he says there are such damned fine girls there. i don't care a bit about 'em, though." the pale boy smoked contemplatively. "i think it's awful rot, thinking such a beastly lot about girls, and all that sort of thing, you know, don't you?" said tommy. the pale boy nodded. "rather," he said. "i agree with dad. he says there's only one thing worth bothering about down here." "what's that?" "money," snapped the pale boy, looking at tommy, between narrowed eyelids. "i'm going to be a financier when i'm old enough to help dad." tommy stretched himself lazily. "i'd rather be strong," he said. the pale boy looked at him, curiously. "what a rum chap you are. what's that got to do with it?" tommy lay back on the grass, and stared up at the passing clouds. "i'm not a bit keen on making money, somehow," he said. "i'd just like to knock around, and have a dog, and--a jolly good time, you know." "what--always?" tommy sat up. "yes--why not?" the pale boy shrugged his shoulders, and laughed. "oh, i don't know," he said. "but it seems funny, and don't you think you'd find it rather slow?" tommy stared at him, with open eyes. "rather not," he said. "why, think how ripping it would be to go just where you liked, and come back when you liked, an' not to have any beastly meal-times to worry about, an' no terms, an' a horse or two to ride, an' wear the oldest clothes you had; by jove, it would be like--something like heaven, i should think." the pale boy laughed as he rose to his feet. "it's beginning to rain," he said. "never mind," said tommy, "i like the rain. it doesn't hurt, either, and i like talking to you; you make me think of things." the pale boy turned up his collar, and shivered a little. "let's find a shelter, somewhere," he said, looking round anxiously. "we'd better walk home over the common," said tommy. "besides, it's ripping walking in the rain, don't you think, an' it makes you feel so good, an' fit, when you're having grub afterwards, in front of the fire." but the pale boy shook his head. "i hate it," he said, "and i'm going up to the farm there, till it stops." tommy cast an accustomed eye round the horizon. "it won't stop for a jolly long while," he said. "however, do as you like. we don't seem to agree about things much, do we? so long." "good-bye. it's all the way a fellow's brought up, you know." and as tommy shouldered sturdily through the rain, the pale boy lit another cigarette and turned back towards the farm door. xv in which some people meet in a wheat-field never was such a harvest--such crops--such long splendid days--such great yellow moons. even now the folk tell of it when harvest-time comes round. "ah," say they, and shake their heads, "that were a harvest an' no mistake, an' long, an' long will it be afore us sees another such a one." through the great white fields of wheat the binders sang from dew-dry to dew-fall, and over the hills rang the call of the reapers. all hands were called to the gathering, the gipsies from the hedge and the shepherd from his early fold, and the stooks were built over the stubble and drawn away into stacks, and still the skies shone cloudless and the great moons rose over the dusk. never was such a harvest. and little we at home saw of tommy in these days, save when, late at night, he would wander back from one and another field, lean and sunburnt and glad of sleep. one day the poet tracked him to the harvesting on the down-side fields, and found him in his shirt-sleeves, stooking with the best. for a little while the poet, under considerable pressure from tommy, assisted also, but the unaccustomed toil soon became distasteful, and he retired to the shade of a stook for purposes of rest and meditation. and here, as he sat, he was joined by the same genial shepherd whom they had met on the day they trod the downs to the roman ruins. "deserted the flocks, then?" asked the poet. the shepherd grinned. "'ess, sir. folded 'em early, do 'ee see, sir, an' come down to make some money at the harvest, sir." he paused to fill his mouth with bread, taking at the same time a long pull of cold tea. "hungry work, sir, it be, this harvest work." "it must undoubtedly stimulate the appetite, as you say." "'ess, sir, that it do. but it's good work fer the likes o' i, sir, it be, means more money, doan't 'ee see, sir; not as i bees in want o' money, sir, but it's always welcome, sir. no, sir, i needn't do no work fer a year an' more, sir, an' live like a gen'lman arl the time, too, sir." "you have saved, then?" "'ess, that i have, an' there's a many as knows it, sir, an' asked i to marry 'em, sir, too, they 'as, but not i, sir. i sticks to what i makes, sir. an' look 'ee 'ere, sir, money's easy spent along o' they gals, sir, ben't it, onst they gets their 'ands on it?" the poet looked at him reflectively. "they ask you then, do they?" "'ess, sir, fower or five on 'em, sir. but i wants none on 'em, sir, an' i tells 'em straight, sir." the poet sighed. "it must save a lot of trouble to--when the suggestion comes from the fairer side." the shepherd wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "fower or five on 'em," he observed, meditatively. "dear, dear, what a--what a conqueror of hearts you must be!" the shepherd looked at him a little dubiously. "fower or five on 'em," he repeated. "an' one on 'em earnin' eighteen shillin' a week an' forty pound laid by. an' i walked out wi' 'er a bit, i did, sir, but i warn't 'avin' none on 'er when she asked i to marry 'er, an' i told 'er, an' my parents, they was main angry, too, wi' me, they was, sir. "but there y'are, sir. i didn't want none o' 'er forty pounds, sir, an' you bees got to stick to 'em wen you marries 'em, ben't 'ee, sir?" the shepherd shook his head. "no, sir, i don't believe in marryin' no one as you doesn't kind o' like, do 'ee see, sir." the poet nodded. "an excellent sentiment," he said. "money ben't everything sir, bee 't, as i told 'em, sir, all on 'em. money ben't everythin'." "but isn't it--isn't it a little embarrassing to be sought in matrimony by four or five ladies?" the shepherd paused, between two bites, and looked at the poet, in some bewilderment. "if 'ee means worrittin', sir--it bees a deal more worrittin' to ask 'em, yourself, sir--fower or five on 'em." he rose and lurched off to join his comrades, and the poet looked after him, with something of envy in his eyes. "o you fortunate man," he murmured, as he lay back, watching the busy scene, with half-closed eyes. presently he half started to his feet, for at the far end of the field he could see tommy talking to two newcomers, a tall, slender figure, with a carriage and poise possessed by one alone, and a little girl in a smock frock. he rose and wandered slowly down the field. "four or five," he murmured, "and they asked him--o the lucky, lucky man--they asked him. dear me, dear me." "a lovely evening, miss gerald." mollie looked up, with a smile, from the sheaf she was binding. "isn't it jolly--it must be a glad life these open-air folk lead, don't you think?" "the best of lives--but they don't know it." mollie rose, and tossed back a wisp or two of hair from her forehead. "i am sure i should love it, if it were my lot--the white stems on my arms and the warm sun on my face, and the songs in the wagon, at dusk. listen to that man singing there--i'm sure he is just glad of life." "a strange man," said the poet, following her gaze. "a most curious, fortunate person." "you know him?" "a little--he is quite a napoleon of hearts." mollie laughed. "he doesn't look even a little bit romantic." "oh, he isn't. i fancy the romance, if there is any, must be usually on the other side. he has had four or five offers of marriage." "what a perfectly horrid idea." the poet stroked his chin. "yet think of the confusion and questioning of heart, and of the hours of agony that it would save a diffident man." "he doesn't look diffident." "he may not be. i merely make a supposition." "i think it's an appalling idea." "oh, i know, i know, and yet i can imagine it a bridge to paradise." "i don't understand." "then, suppose a man so stormed by love that by it all life has been renewed and made beautiful for him; and suppose this man so utterly and in every way unsuited to its realisation, that though all there is in him urges him to speak of it, yet he dare not lest he should lose even the cold solace of friendship. do you not see how it might----?" mollie's grey eyes looked him straight in the face. "no," she said. "it would be better for him never to speak, than to lose his ideal, as he assuredly would." "you--you would bid him never speak?" mollie laughed. "it depends on so many things--on how and why he was unsuitable, and by whose standard he gauged his shortcoming." "his own." "he might be wrong." "who could know better?" "the girl he asked." "you would bid him ask?" she was silent; then, "if--if he were quite sure the girl were worthy," she said, in a low voice. the poet held out his hands. "mollie--my dear, my dear," he said. * * * * * "and she's quite young, too," observed tommy, as they walked home in the starlight. the poet waved his hand. "love laughs at age--takes no account of it," he said. "hurrah," cried tommy. xvi in which tommy crosses the ploughing the early days of january were shadowed by lady chantrey's illness. i fancy that over all hung the presentiment that it would bear her away from our midst, and there was no home in camslove or becklington, nor a heart in any of the far-scattered farms around them, but would be the sadder for the loss. and on a january afternoon she kissed madge for the last time. to madge it seemed that heaven and earth alike had become black and desolate, for ever, as she sobbed upon the bed-clothes, and besought her mother to come back. the household was too overwhelmed, and itself too sorrow-stricken to take much notice at first of the child, and for an hour or more she lay with her arms about her mother's neck. then, at last, she slipped from the bed and stole out into the dusk. a thin rain was falling over the country-side, but she hardly noticed it as she crossed the barren fields and stumbled through the naked hedges. at the ploughing she stopped. something in the long, relentless furrows seemed to speak to her of the finality of it all, and it was only when she flung herself down upon the upturned earth that, as to all in sorrow, the great mother put forth her words of cheer to her, as who should say: "see, now, the plough is set, the furrow drawn, and the old life hidden away; and who can make it any more the same? but spring, little girl, is surely coming, and even, after long months, harvest." down the path, across the fields, came tommy, dangling a contented catapult, and ruminating on the day's successes. as he passed the ploughing he stopped, and gave a low whistle of surprise--then guessed quickly enough what had happened. madge lay stretched out, face downwards, upon the black loam, and for a moment tommy stood perplexed. then he called, in a low voice, almost as he would have spoken in a church: "madge, madge." but she did not move. he knelt beside her, and some strange instinct bade him doff his cap. then he touched her shoulder and her black hair, with shy fingers. "madge," he called, again. the child jumped to her feet, and tossing back her hair, looked at him with half-frightened eyes. he noticed that her cheeks were stained with the soft earth, and he saw tears upon them. tommy had never willingly kissed anyone in his life--he had not known a mother--but now, without thought or hesitation--almost without consciousness, for he was still very much a child--he laid his arms about her neck and kissed her cheek--once, twice. but what he said to her only the great night, and the old plough, know. xvii in which tommy takes the upland road if i have not, so far, touched upon tommy's religious life it is chiefly for the reason that, to me, at this time, it was practically as a sealed book. nor had i ever talked with him on these matters. and this for two reasons--one of them being, no doubt, the natural hesitation of the average englishman to lay his hands upon the veil of his neighbour's sanctuary, and one, a dawning doubt in my mind as to the capacity of my own creed to meet the requirements of tommy's nature. for, to me, at this time, the idea of god was of one in some distant olympus watching his long-formulated laws work out their appointed end--a being infinitely beneficent, and revealed in all nature and beauty, but, spiritually, entirely remote. and my religion had been that of a reverent habit and a peaceable moderation, and to live contented with my fellows. but here was a boy put into my hands, with a future to be brought about, and already at the outset i had seen a glimpse of the dangers besetting his path, and the glimpse had, as i have already confessed, frightened me not a little. nor had my musings so far comforted me, but rather shown me the lamentable weakness of my position. true, i could lay down rules, and advise and warn, but the whole of tommy's every word and action showed me the powerlessness of such procedure. and i dared not let things drift. the matter i felt sure should be approached on religious grounds, and it was this conviction that revealed to me my absolute impotence. so far as i remembered, no great temptations had assailed me, no violent passions had held me in thrall. my life had been a smooth one, and of moral struggle and defeat i seemed to know nothing. but that such would be tommy's lot i felt doubtful, and the doubt (it was almost a certainty) filled me with many apprehensions. so full was i of my musings that i had not noticed how in my walk i had reached the doctor's garden. the click of a cricket bat struck into my thoughts and brought me into the warm afternoon again, with all its sweetness of scent and sound. i could hear tommy laughing, and as i drew back the bushes, i caught a glimpse of the doctor coaching him in the right manipulation of the bat. "i say, i never knew you played cricket, you know," said tommy. "i thought you were an awful ass at games, and all that sort of thing." the doctor laughed. "i'm jolly rusty at 'em, anyway," he said. "but i used to play a bit in the old days." tommy continued to bat, and i lounged, unnoticed, upon the rails, watching the practice. presently the doctor took a turn, and i, too, was surprised at his evident mastery of the art, for i had long since disregarded him as a sportsman. tommy's lobs were easy enough, and once the doctor drove a hot return straight at his legs. tommy jumped out of the way, but the doctor called to him sharply: "field up," he said, and tommy coloured. another return came straight and hard, but tommy stooped and held it, and the doctor dropped his bat. "good," i heard him say. "stand up to 'em like a man--hurts a bit at the time--but it saves heaps of trouble in the end, and--and the other fellow doesn't score." they were looking straight into each other's eyes, as man to man, and after a pause the doctor spoke again, in a low voice. i could not hear what he said, but tommy's face was grave as he listened. i sauntered on down the lane, and a few minutes later felt a hand on my arm. "well, and what did you think of it?" "of what?" "the boy's batting. i saw you watching." "i am not an expert, but he'll do, won't he?" "yes--he'll do." "i didn't know that you had kept up your cricket." "i haven't. but i mean to revive it if i can. we--we must beat borcombe next time, you know." we walked on in silence for a little, then. "tommy's main desire appears to be a cricketer just now," observed the doctor. "as it was to be a poacher, yesterday." "or a steam-roller driver, in the years gone by." "and what, i wonder, to-morrow?" the doctor was looking thoughtfully over the wide fields, red with sunset. "to-morrow? ah, who knows?" he pointed to a pile of cumulus clouds, marching magnificently in the southern sky, bright as heaven, and changeable as circumstance. "a boy's dreams," he said. "a little while here and a little while there, always changing but always tinged with a certain fleeting magnificence." "and never realised?" "oh, i don't know. i don't know. we most of us march and march to our cloud mountain-tops, and, maybe, some of us at the day's end find a little low-browed hill somewhere where our everlasting alps had seemed to stand." "surely you are a pessimist." "not at all. if we had not marched for the clouds, maybe we should never have achieved the little hill." "you would have tommy march, then, for the clouds?" the doctor laughed. "he is an average boy. he will do that anyway. but i would have the true light on the clouds, to which he lifts his eyes." "ah--if his face were set upon them now," i said half to myself. on the road to the downs was a small figure. "see," said my companion, "he is on the upland road. let us take it as an omen." and we turned homeward. late into the night we talked, and i unfolded my fears for tommy with a fulness that was foreign to me. and our talk drifted, as such conversation will, into many and intimate matters, such as men rarely discuss between each other. and in the end, as i rose to depart, the doctor held my hand. "see, old friend," he said, "we are nearer to-night than ever for all our seeming fundamental differences, and you will not mind what i have to say. "to you the idea of god is so great, so infinitely high, that the notion of personal friendship with such an one would seem to be an almost criminal impertinence, and the idea of his interference in our trivial hum-drum lives a gross profanity. "to me, a plain man, and not greatly read, this personal god, this friend christ, is more than all else has to offer me. "it is life's motive, and weapon, and solace, and joy. it is its light and colour and its very _raison d'etre_. and i believe that for the great majority of men this idea of the divine, and this only, is powerful enough to assure them real victory and moral strength. "i grant you all the beauty, and majesty, and truth, of your ideal, but i would no more dare to lay it before an average healthy, passionate man alone than i would to send an army into battle--with a position to take--unarmed and leaderless." the doctor paused. then: "forgive me," he said, "i don't often talk like this, but, believe me, it is the knowledge of his god, as a strong, sympathetic, personal friend, that tommy needs--that most of us need--to ensure life's truest success." we shook hands again and parted. "i am glad you have spoken," said i, "and thank you for your words." * * * * * "a tramp--merely a tramp," said the stranger, puffing contentedly at his pipe, on the winding road that led over the dim downs. tommy looked at him doubtfully. he was very tall and broad, and clean, and his norfolk suit was well made and of stout tweed. "you don't look much like one," he said. the stranger laughed. "for the matter of that no more do you," he observed. "i'm not one," said tommy. the stranger smoked in silence for a little, and tommy sat down beside him on the grass. "i'm not one," he repeated. "shakespeare says we are all players in a great drama, of which the world is the stage, you know. i don't quite know if that's altogether true, but i'm pretty sure that we're all of us tramps, going it with more or less zest, it is true, and in different costumes--but tramps at the last, every one of us." tommy looked at him with puzzled eyes. "what a rum way of talking you have--something like the poet, only different somehow." "the poet?" "down there at camslove." "ah, i remember. i read some of his things; pretty little rhymes, too, if i remember rightly." "they're jolly good," said tommy, warmly. "a friend of yours, eh?" tommy nodded. "he wrote one just here, where we're sitting." "did he, by jove--which was it?" tommy pondered. "i forget most of it, but it was jolly good. he told it me one day on the downs, just as we met a shepherd singing, and it was about life and enterprise, and all that sort of thing, and love on the upland road and--and god beyond the crest." "sounds good, and partly true." "how do you mean; why isn't it altogether true?" the stranger smoked a minute or two in silence, then: "where is the crest?" he asked. tommy pointed up into the twilight. "it's a long way to the crest," he said. "ah--and the fellows who never get there?" "i don't understand." "if god be only beyond the crest, how shall they fare?" tommy was silent, looking away down the dusky valley. he saw a light or two glimmering among the trees. "it's time i went back," he muttered, but sat where he was. "you see what i mean?" continued the stranger. "there is only one crest worth striving for, and that is always beyond our reach, and god is beyond it and above it, all right. but there's many a poor fellow who would have his back to it now if he were not sure that god was also on the upland road, among the tramps." tommy was silent, plucking uncomfortably at the grass. "you haven't thought much about these things?" "no." "ah, but you must, though. you see, until a fellow knows the road he is on, he cannot achieve, nor even begin to surmount." "how did you know the road you're on, then?" "i had a friend." "and he knew?" "yes, been over it all before, knew every turn, and all the steep places. he has come with me. he is with me now." tommy peered up the darkening road. "i can't see him," he said. "ah, but you will. i'm sure you will." "what is his name?" the stranger rose to his feet, and held out his hand. "christ," he said, as tommy looked into his eyes. then, "good-bye, old chap--meet again somewhere, perhaps--and, i say, about the road, shall it be the upland road for both of us?" tommy was silent, then, as they shook hands. "yes," he said. * * * * * "hullo, tommy," said i, on my return that night, from the doctor's study, "enjoyed the evening?" "had some awful good practice with the doctor's bat." "we saw you on the downs afterwards." tommy looked at me, with bright eyes, as if about to tell me something, but he changed his mind. "yes," he said, "i met a stranger there." xviii and last and so these brief sketches plucked here and there from the boyhood of tommy wideawake, and patched unskilfully together, must be gathered up and docketed as closed, even as the boyhood from which they have been drawn. yet the story of tommy wideawake is still being written, where all may read who have eyes for the strength, and godliness of a country squire's life, and a hand for his stalwart grip. on the occasion of tommy's twenty-first birthday, there were, of course, great rejoicings in camslove, and a general gathering of the country-side to the old grange. tommy, in the course of a successful, if not eloquent speech, made some extravagant remarks as to the debt he owed to his four friends, and guardians--the poet, the vicar, the doctor, and myself. modesty forbids their repetition, and doubtless youthful enthusiasm accounted for their absurdity. one other he mentioned in his speech--a stranger whom, long ago, he had met on the upland road. thus tommy in his maiden speech. three years later he brought a bride to camslove, and her name was madge, and the rest of us live on in much the old way, excepting of course the poet, who, as a married man, affects a fine pity for us less fortunate ones. and yet we are not altogether the same men, i fancy, as in those days. the vicar's house has become a perfect playground for the poet's children, and my own is occasionally sadly mauled by certain sacrilegious nephews, much to the annoyance of my man. the doctor is president, and indeed the shining light of the village cricket team, and we, at camslove, flatter ourselves that we can put up a very decent game. so i lay aside my pen awhile and read what i have written, and as i read i am glad that i am led from garden to valley, and stream, and mill, and over the common, and up the windy down. for if a boy's will be indeed the wind's will, let it be that of the wind on the heath, which the gipsies breathe. and if the thoughts of a boy be long, long thoughts, let them be born of earth, and air, and sun. and his sins, since sin and sunlight are incompatible, must needs be easy of correction. and his faith, when of a sudden he shall find that there is god in all these things, shall be so deep that not all the criticism of all the schools shall be able to root it out of his heart. and the moral, if you must needs hammer one out, would be this, that soundness is more to be desired than scholarship, and that the heart of boyhood is, by nature, nearer to god than that of later life. but let him who would draw the veil aside, do so with tender hands. to the editor of "the outlook" for permission to reprint sundry verses the authors thanks are due two books very like tommy wideawake are kenneth grahame's the golden age and dream days mr. richard legallienne: "i can think of no truer praise of mr. kenneth grahame's 'golden age' than that it is worthy of being called 'a child's garden--of prose.'" mr. israel zangwill: "no more enjoyable interpretation of the child's mind has been accorded us since stevenson's 'child's garden of verses.'" mr. swinburne: "the art of writing adequately and acceptably about children is among the rarest and most precious of arts.... 'the golden age' is one of the few books which are well-nigh too praiseworthy for praise.... the fit reader--and the 'fit' readers should be far from 'few'--finds himself a child again while reading it. immortality should be the reward.... praise would be as superfluous as analysis would be impertinent." the new york times saturday review: "in this province, the reconstruction of child life, kenneth grahame is masterly. in fact we know of no one his equal." the international studio an illustrated magazine of arts and crafts subscription, 35 cents per month, $3.50 per year [illustration] three months' trial subscription, $1.00 it is the aim of "the international studio" to treat of every art and craft--architecture, sculpture, painting, ceramics, metal, glass, furniture, decoration, design, bookbinding, needlework, gardening, etc. color supplements and every species of black-and-white reproduction appear in each number. in fact this magazine authoritatively presents to the reader the progress of the arts and crafts. * * * * * john lane, _the bodley head_ 67 fifth avenue, new york * * * * * a devotee an episode in the life of a butterfly by mary cholmondeley author of 'diana tempest,' 'sir charles danvers,' and 'the danvers jewels' _second edition_ edward arnold london new york 37 bedford street 70 fifth avenue 1897 _all rights reserved_ to florie, upon whose kind strong hand i have so often leant. 'that day is sure, though not perhaps this week, nor month, nor year, when your great love shall clean forgotten be, and my poor tenderness shall yet endure.' wilfrid s. blunt. a devotee. chapter i. 'yet to be loved makes not to love again; not at my years, however it hold in youth.' tennyson. the cathedral was crammed. the tall slender arches seemed to spring out of a vast sea of human heads. the orchestra and chorus had gradually merged into one person: one shout of praise, one voice of prayer, one wail of terror. the _elijah_ was in mid-career, sailing like a man-of-war upon the rushing waves of music. and presently there was a hush, and out of the hush a winged voice arose, as a lark rises out of a meadow, singing as it rises: 'o rest in the lord, wait patiently for him, and he shall give thee thy heart's desire.' the lark dropped into its nest again. the music swept thundering upon its way, and a large tear fell unnoticed from a young girl's eyes on to the bare slim hand which held her score. the score quivered; the slender willowy figure quivered in its setting of palest violet and white draperies threaded with silver. only a frenchwoman could have dared to translate a child's posy of pale blue and white violets, tied with a silver string, into a gown; but sibyl carruthers' dressmaker was an artist in her way, and took an artist's license, and the half-mourning which she had designed for the great heiress was in colouring what a bereaved butterfly might have worn. miss carruthers was called beautiful. perhaps she was beautiful for an heiress, but she was certainly not, in reality, any prettier than many hundreds of dowerless girls who had never been considered more than good-looking. her delicate features were too irregular, in spite of their obvious high breeding; her figure was too slight; her complexion was too faintly tinted for regular beauty. but she had something of the evanescent charm of a four-petalled dog-rose newly blown--exquisite, ethereal, but as if it might fall in a moment. this aspect of fragility was heightened by what women noticed about her first, namely, her gossamer gown with its silver gleam, and by what men noticed about her first--her gray eyes, pathetic, eager, shy by turns, always lovely, but hinting of a sword too sharp for its slender sheath, of an ardent spirit whose grasp on this world was too slight. and as the music passed over her young untried soul, she sat motionless, her hands clasping the score. she heard nothing of it, but it accompanied the sudden tempest of passion which was shaking her, as wind accompanies storm. the voice of the song had stirred an avalanche of emotion. 'and i will give thee thy heart's desire.' she knew nothing about waiting patiently, but her heart's desire--she must have it. she could not live without it. her whole soul went out in an agony of prayer to the god who gives and who withholds to accord her this one petition--to _be his wife_. she repeated it over and over again. to be near him, to see him day by day--nothing else, nothing else! this one thing, without which, poor child! she thought she could not live. it seemed to sibyl that she was falling at god's feet in the whirlwind, and refusing to let him go until he granted her prayer. but would he grant it? her heart sank. despair rushed in upon her like a flood at the bare thought of its refusal, and she caught yet again at the only hope left to her--a desperate appeal to the god who gives and who withholds. presently it was all over, and they were going out. 'we were to wait for the others here,' said peggy, the girl who had been sitting with sibyl, as they emerged into the sunshine with the crowd. 'mother and mr. doll were just behind us.' lady pierpoint, sibyl's aunt, presently joined them with mr. doll loftus, an irreproachable-looking, unapproachable-looking fair young man, who, it was whispered, was almost too smart to live, but who nevertheless bore himself with severe simplicity. he went up to sibyl with some diffidence. 'you are tired,' he said anxiously. doll's remarks were considered _banal_ in the extreme by some women, but others who admired fair hair and pathetic eyes found a thoughtful beauty in them. it would be difficult from her manner to infer which class of sentiments this particular remark awoke in sibyl. 'music always tires me,' she replied, without looking at him, dropping her white eyelids. 'are we all here?' said lady pierpoint. 'peggy, and sibyl--my dear, how tired you look!--and myself, and you, mr. doll; that is only four, and "we are seven." ah! here come mr. and mrs. cathcart. now we only want mr. loftus.' 'the dean caught him in the doorway,' said doll. 'he is coming now.' the tall thin figure of an elder man was slowly crossing the angular patch of sunshine where the cathedral had not cast its great shadow. the nobility of his bearing seemed to appeal to the crowd. they made way for him instinctively, as if he were some distinguished personage. he was accompanied by a robust clerical figure with broad calves. 'mr. loftus makes everyone else look common,' said peggy plaintively. 'it is the only unkind thing i know about him. i thought the dean quite dignified-looking while we were at luncheon at the deanery, but now he looks like a pork-butcher. i'm not going to walk within ten yards of mr. loftus, mummy, or i shall be taken for a parlourmaid having her day out. i think, sibyl, you are the only one who can afford to go with him.' but doll thought differently, and it was he and sibyl who walked the short distance to the station together through the flag-decked streets in the brilliant september sunshine. people turned to glance at them as they passed. they made a striking-looking couple. mr. loftus, following slowly at a little distance with lady pierpoint, looked affectionately at the back of his young cousin, who was also his heir, and said to her, with a smile: 'i wish it could be. doll is a good fellow.' 'i wish indeed it could,' said lady pierpoint earnestly, with the slight slackening of reserve which is often observable in the atmosphere on the last afternoon of a visit with a purpose. lady pierpoint had not come to spend a whole week with a sunday in it with mr. loftus at wilderleigh for nothing. and she was aware that neither had she and her niece and daughter been invited for that long period without a cause. but the week ended with the following morning, and she sighed. she had daughters of her own coming on, as well as her dear snub-nosed peggy, who was already out, and it was natural to wish that the responsibility of this delicate, emotional creature, with her great wealth, might be taken from her and placed in safe hands. she thought doll was safe. perhaps the wish was father, or rather _aunt_, to the thought. but it was no doubt the truest epithet that could be applied to the young man. it was a matter of opinion whether he was exhaustingly dull in conversation or extraordinarily interesting, but he certainly was safe. he belonged to that class of our latter-day youth of whom it may be predicted, with some confidence, that they will never cause their belongings a moment's uneasiness; who may be trusted never to do anything very right or very wrong; who will get on tolerably well in any position, and with any woman, provided there are means to support it and--_her_; who have enough worldliness to marry money, and enough good feeling to make irreproachable husbands afterwards; in short, the kind of young men who are invented by providence on purpose to marry heiresses, and who, if they fall below their vocation, dwindle, when their youth is over, into the padded impecunious bores of society. there was a short journey by rail through the hop country. sibyl watched the rows of hops in silence. cowardice has its sticking-point as well as courage, and she was undergoing the miserable preliminary tremors by which that point is reached. mr. loftus, sitting opposite her, and observing her fixity of gaze, glanced at her rather wistfully from time to time. he saw something was working in her mind. he looked tired, and in the strong afternoon light his grave, lined face seemed more worn and world-weary than ever. he had the look of a man who had long outlived all personal feeling, and who to-day had been remembering his youth. the wilderleigh omnibus and doll's spider-wheeled dogcart were waiting at the little roadside station, which was so small that the train very nearly overlooked it, and had to be backed. doll was already holding the wheel to protect sibyl's gown as she got up, and looking towards her, and lady pierpoint was hurrying peggy, who had expressed a hankering after the dogcart, into the omnibus, when mr. loftus observed that he thought he would walk up. sibyl's face changed. 'may i walk up with you?' she asked instantly. mr. loftus looked disappointed; everybody looked disappointed. lady pierpoint put her head out, and said: 'my dear child, the drive in the open air will refresh you; you are looking tired.' 'may i go in the dogcart if sibyl doesn't want to?' put in peggy in an audible aside to her mother. 'i think you are tired,' said mr. loftus, looking at sibyl and shaking his head. 'and,' he added in a lower voice, 'doll will be much disappointed.' a faint colour covered her face, which quivered as she turned it towards him. 'let me walk up with you,' she said again, with a tremor in her voice. he met her appealing eyes with gentle scrutiny. 'it is not far,' he said aloud; 'not more than half a mile through the park. i will take care of her, lady pierpoint. we shall be at wilderleigh almost as soon as you are.' 'oh, mummy, may i go in the dogcart _now_?' implored peggy from the depths of the omnibus. and mr. loftus and sibyl set out together. they were in the park in a few minutes, and were walking down towards wilderleigh, on the opposite side of the river, an old house of weather-beaten gray stone, of twisted chimneys and uneven roofs and pointed gables, with quaint carved finials, standing above its terraces and its long stone balustrade. the sun was setting in a sky of daffodil behind the tall top-heavy elms of the rookery and the tower of the village church. little fleets of clouds lay motionless in high heaven, looking towards the west. the land in its long shadows dreamed of peace. the old house beyond the river was in shadow already. so was the river. 'sometimes,' said mr. loftus to himself, 'a young girl feels more able to confide in an old friend than a relation. she has often talked to me before. perhaps she is going to do so again.' and he felt comforted about doll and the dogcart. presently as he glanced at her, wondering at her continued silence, he saw that she was greatly agitated. 'something troubles you,' he said gently. she looked at him half in terror, as if deprecating his anger. they were walking down a narrow ride in the tall bracken. a trunk of a tree lay near the path among the yellowing fern. he led her to it and sat down by her, looking at her with painful anxiety and with a sense of growing fatigue. emotion of any kind exhausted him. if it had not been for doll, he would have dropped the subject, but for his sake he made an effort. 'tell me,' he said, and he took her thin young hand and held it in his thin older hand. it was the last afternoon; both were conscious of it. she trembled very much, but she did not speak. his heart sank. 'you wish to tell me something about doll, perhaps,' he said at last. 'do not be afraid of paining me by talking of it. you like him, perhaps, but not enough, and you are grieved because you see how much he loves you. is that it?' 'i don't like him,' gasped sibyl. 'i have never thought about it. that is only aunt marion.' mr. loftus sighed, and his gray cheek blanched a little. he had built much on the hope of this marriage. he had a tender regard for sibyl, whose emotional and impulsive nature appealed to him, and filled him with apprehension as for a butterfly in a manufactory, which may injure itself any moment. and he knew doll was genuinely in love with her. it would be grievous if she were married for her money. and wilderleigh was dying stone by stone and acre by acre for want of that money. as he looked mournfully at sibyl, an expression came into her wide eyes like that which he had seen in the eyes of some timid wild animal brought to bay. he recognised that, like a shy bird near its nest, she was defending in impotent despair of broken white wings something which was part of her life, which was going from her, which _he_ was taking away. 'it is you i love,' she said, and her small hand ceased trembling and became cold in his. for a moment both were stunned alike, and then some of the grayness of age and suffering crept suddenly from his face to hers as she felt his hand involuntarily slacken its clasp of hers. 'my child,' he said at last, with great difficulty and with greater tenderness, 'it is very many years since i gave up all thought of marriage. i am old enough to be your----' he might have said 'grandfather' with truth. he meant to say it, but as he approached the word he could not wound her with it. 'i know,' she interrupted hurriedly. 'i don't mind. that is nothing to me.' 'and my life,' he said, 'what little there is left of it, hangs by a thread.' 'i know,' she said again--'i have thought of that. i have thought of nothing but you since i first met you a year ago. but if i might only love and serve you and be with you! and i am so rich, too. if i might only take away those money troubles which you once spoke of long ago! if i might only give you everything i have! the money is the smallest part of it--oh, such a little, little part compared to----' and she looked imploringly at him. he was deeply moved. 'my child,' he said again, and the ominous repetition of the word shook her fragile edifice of hopes to its brittle foundation, 'you have always looked upon me as a friend, have you not?' she shook her head. 'well, then,' he added, correcting himself, 'as one who cared for and understood you, and whose earnest wish was to see you happy?' she did not answer. he had known difficult hours, but none more difficult than this. he felt as if he were trying with awkward hands to hold a butterfly without injuring it, in order to release it from the pane of glass against which it was beating its butterfly heart out. 'to see you happy,' he went on, with authority as well as tenderness in his level voice. 'i should never see that; i should have no real'--he hesitated--'affection for you at all if i allowed you to make such a woeful mistake in your early youth before you know what love and life are. they are terrible things, sibyl; i have known them. this beautiful generous feeling which you have for me is not love, and i should be base indeed to allow you to wreck your life upon it, your youth upon the rock of my age. you offer you know not what; you would sacrifice you know not what.' he smiled gravely at her, endeavouring to soothe her growing agitation. 'it would be like taking the koh-i-noor out of the hand of a child. i could not do it.' her mind was in too great a tumult wholly to understand him, but one thing was clear to her, namely, that he was refusing to marry her. she snatched her hands out of his, and, starting wildly to her feet with an inarticulate cry, ran a short distance and flung herself down on her face among the bracken. he looked after her, but he did not follow her. he could do no more, and a sense of exhaustion and distress was upon him. he had been clumsy. he had hurt the poor butterfly, after all. he sat a long time on the tree-trunk, the low sunshine on his worn, patient face, on which the refinement of suffering and of thought had set their indelible stamp. and now the thin high features wore a new look of present distress over the old outlived troubles, a new look which anyone who really loved him would have been heart-stricken to have called into it. but when love ceases to wound its object, and bears its own cross, it has ceased to be young. as he sat motionless the sun sank. far in the amber west the heavens had opened in an agony of glory. the knotted arms of the great oaks, upraised like those of moses and his brethren, shone red as flame against the darkness of the forest. the first hint of chill after the great heat came into the still air. mr. loftus rose and went slowly towards the prostrate figure in its delicate gleaming gown. 'sibyl,' he said gently, but with authority, 'you must get up. i see doll and your cousin coming up the glade to meet us.' sibyl started violently and raised herself, turning a white, hopeless face towards him. her entire self-abandonment, which would have brought acute humiliation to another woman, brought none to her. her despair was too complete to admit of any other feeling. 'like a child's,' he thought, as he looked at her sorrowing. he helped her to smooth her gown, and he set her hat straight, and took some pieces of dried bracken out of her crumpled shining hair. she let him do it, neither helping nor hindering him. she evidently did not care what impression might be made on the minds of the two young people leisurely approaching them. she would have lain on the ground if it had been a bog instead of dry turf until the ice fit of despair had passed. his thoughtfulness for her, and the ashen tint of his face, were nothing to her, any more than the moonshine is to the child who has cried for the moon and has been denied it. at mr. loftus's bidding they went slowly to meet the others. 'doll,' said mr. loftus, lingering behind as peggy and sibyl walked on together, 'give me your arm. i feel ill.' 'won't she have me?' said doll, biting his lip. 'no, my poor boy, she won't.' chapter ii. 'but we are tired. at life's crude hands we ask no gift she understands; but kneel to him she hates to crave the absolution of the grave.' mathilde blind. the laws of attraction remain a mystery. their results we see. glimpses of their workings can occasionally be caught in their broken fragments. but the curve by which the circle may be drawn is nowhere to be found among those fragments. the first cause we cannot see. with sacrilegious hands we may rend the veil of its temple in the sacred name of truth, but we shall find nothing in its holy of holies save the bloodstains of generations of sacrifices on its empty altar, and the place where the ark has been. youth, beauty, wit--all these attract; but they are only the momentary disciples of a great master, and their power is from him. in his name they perform a few works, and cast out a few small devils. but now and again a nature appears in our midst in the presence of which youth sinks its voice, and beauty pales and hangs its head, and wit bends its knee in reverence. what talisman had mr. loftus brought into the world with him that disinterested love and devotion should with one exception have followed him all the days of his life? but whether it had been given to him at his birth, or he had found it alone upon the hillside, or sorrow, who has many treasures in her lap, but will never give them to those who turn from her, gave it to him when he kissed her hand--however this may have been, he had it. he had gone through his difficult life little realizing how much he owed to the impersonal love and respect which he inspired in men and women, as a beautiful woman seldom realizes how life has been coloured for her by the colour of her hair and eyes. his poetic exalted nature, with its tender affections, its deep passions, with its refinement and its delicacy of feeling, too sensitive to bear contact with this rough world, and yet not content to dwell apart from awkward fellow-creatures who wounded when they touched it, had leaned twice on the frail reed of personal love, and twice it had pierced his hand. after the second time he withdrew his scarred hand in silence, and journeyed on with it in his bosom. in the days of his youth he had been swept into the vortex of a deep passion which for the time engulfed his whole being. his early marriage and his romantic love, and his young wife's desertion of him, consumed like a rolling prairie-fire his early life. but he had emerged with the mark of fire upon him, and had taken up life again, and had made a career for himself in the world of politics. and he had reached middle age, he was a grave man with gray in his hair, before love came to him the second time. how he fared the second time no man knew; but afterwards the love of woman, deep-rooted though it was, died down in mr. loftus's heart. he went quietly on his way, but the way wearied him. he confided in no one, for he was burdened with many confidences, and those on whom others lean can seldom find a hand to lean on in their greater weakness and their deeper troubles. but his physical health wavered. at last his heart became affected, and after a few warnings he was obliged to give up public life. he ceased to be in authority, but he remained an authority, and so lived patiently on from year to year on the verge of the grave, aware that at any moment the next step might be across its brink. he had spoken the bare truth to sibyl when he told her that his life hung by a thread. that this is so with all human life is a truism to which we all agree, but which none of us believe. but in his case the sword of damocles was visible in the air above him. he never took for granted, if he went out for a walk, that he should return; and on this particular may afternoon, as he looked out from a friend's house in park lane across the street to the twinkle of green and the coloured bands of hyacinths beyond the railings, he locked his writing-table drawer from force of long habit, and burned the letters he had just read as carefully as if he were going on a long journey, instead of a short stroll across the park to lady pierpoint's house in kensington. it was a heavy trouble that he had just locked into the writing-table drawer--nothing less than the sale of wilderleigh, which he and doll, after much laying together of the gray head and the brown one, had both come to the conclusion could not be staved off any longer. for the newly-imposed death-duties and the increasing pressure of taxation on land, in the teeth of increasing agricultural depression, had been the death-blow of wilderleigh, as of so many other quiet country homes and their owners. the new aristocracy of the ironmaster and the cheesemonger and the brewer had come to the birth, and the old must give way before the power of their money. mr. loftus accepted the inevitable, and wilderleigh was to be sold. he did not know for certain where lady pierpoint was to be found, but he would try the little house in kensington. he had seen her driving alone the previous day, and he knew that she had quite recently returned with her daughter and niece from egypt, where they had spent the winter months. something in the glimpse of her passing face yesterday had awakened in him a vague suspicion that she was in trouble. she looked older and grayer, and why was she alone? he took up his hat and, entering the park, struck across the grass in the direction of the albert memorial, blinking in all its gilt in the afternoon sun. the blent green and gray of a may day in london had translated the prose of the park into poetry. here in the very heart of the vast machine, spring had ventured to alight for a moment, undisturbed by the distant roar of dusty struggling life all round her. the new leaves on the smoke-black branches of the trees were for a moment green as those unfolding in country lanes. smoke-black among the silvery grass men lay strewn in the sunshine, looking like cast-off rags flung down, outworn by humanity, whose great pulse was throbbing so near at hand. across the tender beauty of the young year fell the shadow of crime and exhaustion, and 'the every-day tragedy of the cheapness of man.' the shadow fell on mr. loftus's mind, and he had well-nigh reached lady pierpoint's door before his thoughts returned to her and to her niece, sibyl carruthers. 'pretty, delicate, impulsive creature, so generous, so ignorant, so full of the ephemeral enthusiasms of youth which have no staying power. the real enthusiasms of life are made of sterner stuff than she, poor child! guesses. what will become of her? what man in the future will take her ardent, fragile devotion, and hold it without breaking it, and bask in the green springtide of her love without desecrating it, like those poor outcasts in the park?' lady pierpoint was at home, and he was presently ushered into the drawing-room, where she was sitting in her walking things. the room was without flowers, without books, without any of the small landmarks of occupation. it had evidently been arranged only for the briefest stay, and had as little welcome in it as a narrow mind. lady pierpoint, pouring tea out of a metal teapot into an enormous teacup, looked also as if she were on the point of departure. she greeted him cordially, and sent for another cup. a further glance showed him that she looked worn and harassed. her cheerful motherly face was beginning to droop like a mastiff's at the corners of the mouth, in the manner in which anxiety cruelly writes itself on plump middle-aged faces. 'i am not really visible,' she said, smiling, as she handed him the large cup which matched her own. 'i cannot bring forth butter in a lordly dish, as you perceive, for everything is locked up. i am here only for two days, cook-hunting.' mr. loftus had intended to ask after sibyl, but he asked after peggy instead. 'she is quite well,' said lady pierpoint. 'she is always well, i am thankful to say. i have another peggy coming out this year--molly--perhaps you remember her; but how to bring her to london this season i don't know. i have hardly seen anything of her all last winter, poor child! as i was in egypt with sibyl. i have only just returned to england.' 'and miss carruthers?' he said, examining his metal teaspoon; 'will not she be in london with you this season, with your own daughters?' 'no,' said lady pierpoint, looking narrowly at him; 'sibyl is ill. i have been very anxious about her all the winter. i greatly fear that she will sink into a decline. you know, her sister died of consumption a year or two ago.' mr. loftus looked blankly at lady pierpoint. 'sibyl!' he said--'ill? oh, surely there is some mistake? what do the doctors say?' 'they all say the same thing,' said lady pierpoint, her lips quivering. 'she had a cough last winter, and she is naturally delicate, but there is no actual disease as yet. but if she continues in this morbid state of health--if she goes on as she is at present--they say it will end in that.' mr. loftus was silent. lady pierpoint looked at his unconscious, saddened, world-weary face, and clasped her hands tightly together. 'mr. loftus,' she said, 'i am going to put a great strain on our friendship, and if i lose it, i must lose it. i have been thinking of writing to you, but i could not. i had thought of asking you to come and see me while i was alone here, but my courage failed me. but now that you have come by what is called chance, i dare not be a coward any longer. sibyl has told me of what passed last summer between you and her.' a faint colour came into mr. loftus's pale face. he kept his eyes on the floor. 'i think,' he said gently, but with a touch of reserve in his voice which did not escape his companion, 'we must both forget that as completely as she herself has probably already forgotten it.' 'she has not forgotten it,' said lady pierpoint, ignoring, though with a pang, his evident wish to dismiss the subject. 'it is that which is causing her ill-health. she can think of nothing else. some of us,' she said sadly, 'are so constituted that we can bear trouble and disappointment--others can't. this poor child, who has cried for the moon, is not mentally and physically strong enough to bear the disappointment of being denied it. and the doctors say that her life is dependent on her happiness.' mr. loftus rose, and paced up and down the room. she dared not look at him. presently he stopped, and, with his face turned away, said with emotion: 'but the moon is a dreary place if it is seen as it is, with its extinct volcanoes and its ice-fields. nothing lives there. the fire in it is burnt out, and there is snow over the ashes. it is only in the eyes of a child that the moon is bright. we elders know that it is dark and desolate.' lady pierpoint was awed. she had known mr. loftus for twenty years. he had been kind to her in the early years of her widowhood, and in the later ones had helped on her boys by his influence in high quarters. she had often told him of her difficulties, but she had never till now heard him speak of himself. her great admiration for him, which was of a humbler kind than sibyl's, led her to say: 'it is not only in the child's eyes that the moon is bright.' she might have added with truth that in her own middle-aged eyes it was bright, too. 'i greatly honoured you when sibyl told me about it,' she continued, after a long pause. 'it is because i have entire trust in you that i have told you the truth about this poor child, who is as dear to me as my own, though i hope my own will face life more bravely. should you, after reflection, feel able to do her this--this--great kindness, i hope you will come and stay with us at abergower for whitsuntide. but--i shall not expect you, and i shall not mention to anyone that i have asked you.' she rose and held out her hand. she looked tired. he held it a moment, and she endeavoured to read the grave, inscrutable glance that met hers, but she could not. 'thank you,' he said, and went away. 'how dare she think of him?' said lady pierpoint to herself. chapter iii. 'l'amour est une source naã¯ve, partie de son lit de cresson, de fleurs, de gravier, qui, riviã¨re, qui, fleuve, change de nature et d'aspect ã  chaque flot.'--de balzac. in england spring is a poem. in the highlands of scotland she has the intensity of a passion. the crags and steeps are possessed by her; they stand transfigured like a stern man in the eyes of his bride. and here in these solemn depths and lonely heights, as nowhere else, shy spring abandons herself, secure in the fastnesses where her every freak is loved. she sets the broom ablaze among the gray rocks, yellow along the river's edge, yet hardly yellower than the leaves on the young oak just above. the larches hear her voice, and hundred by hundred peep over each other's heads upon the hillside, all a-tremble with fairy green. the shoots of the dwarf cherry, scattered wide upon the uplands, are pink among the grass. the primroses are everywhere, though it is whitsuntide--behind the stones, among the broom, beside the little tumbling streams, in every crevice, and on every foothold. the mountain-ash holds its white blossoms aloft in its careful spreading fingers. even the silver birch forgets its sadness while spring reigns in scotland. there are those to whom she speaks of love, but there are many more to whom she whispers, 'be comforted.' when hope leaves us, it is well to go out into the woods and listen to what spring has to say. though life is gray, the primroses are coming up all the same, and the young shafts of the bluebell pierce the soft earth in spite of our heartache. a hedge-sparrow has built him a house in the nearest tangle of white hawthorn. there will be children's voices in it presently. be comforted. hope is gone, but not lost. you shall meet her again in the faces of the children, god's other primroses. she is not lost. she has only taken her hand out of yours. be comforted. but sibyl refused to be comforted. her love for mr. loftus, if small things may be called by large names, was the first violent emotion of a feeble and impulsive mind in a feeble body, both swayed by veering influences, both shaken by the changing currents of early womanhood, as a silver birch is shaken with its leaves. a woman with a deeper heart, and with a slight perception of mr. loftus's character, would have reverently folded her devotion in her heart and have gone on her way ennobled by it. but with sibyl, to admire anything was to wish to possess it; to tire of anything was to cast it away. mr. loftus was in her eyes without an equal in the world. therefore--the reasoning from her point of view was conclusive--she must marry him. she had no knowledge, she had not even a glimpse, of the gulf of feeling, far wider than the gulf of years, which separated him from her. she imagined no one appreciated him, or entered into the dark places of his mind, as she did. she mistook his patient comprehension of her trivial aspirations, and his unfailing kindness to all young and crude ideas, for the perfect sympathy of two kindred souls, and was wont to speak mysteriously to peggy of how minds that were really related drew each other out and enriched each other. it is always a dangerous experiment to awaken a sleeping soul to the pageant of life. mr. loftus had endeavoured to do this for sibyl, consciously, gently, with great care, out of the mixed admiration and pity with which she inspired him, in the hope that, in later years, when her feet would be swept from under her, she might find something to cling to, amid the wreck of happiness which his dispassionate gaze foresaw that she would one day achieve out of her life. he had run the risk which all who would fain help others must be content to run--the risk that their work will be thrown away. he saw that the little rock-pool which reflected his own face was shallow, but he had not gauged the measure of its shallowness. his deep enthusiasms, tried and tempered before she was born, weary now with his own weariness, aroused hers as the atlantic wave, sweeping up the rocks, just reaches and arouses the rock-pool, and sends a flight of ripples over it, which, if you look very close, break in mimic waves against the further edge. and before the thunder of the wave is silent the pool is glass once more. on natures like these the only influence which can make any impression is a personal one. it is overwhelming while it lasts; but it is the teacher who is everything--the teaching is nothing. and when he is removed, they passively drift under another personal influence, as under another wave, and the work of the first, the foundation patiently and lovingly built in its pretty yellow sand, is swept away, or remains in futile fragments, as a mark of the folly of one who built on sand. certain strong, abiding principles mr. loftus had sought to instil into sibyl's mind. she had perceived their truth and beauty; but she cared nothing for them in reality, and had fallen at the feet of the man who had awakened those exquisite feelings in her. and now either she would not, or could not, get up. she clung to her imaginary passion with all the obstinacy which is inherent in weak natures. the disappointment had undermined her delicately-poised health. as she walked down towards the spey alone on this particular june afternoon, she looked more fragile and ethereal than ever. the faint colour had gone from her cheek, and with it half her evanescent prettiness had departed. her slight, willowy figure seemed to have no substance beneath the many folds of white material in which her despairing dressmaker had draped her. with the suicidal recklessness of youth, she made no attempt to turn her mind to other thoughts, but pondered instead upon her trouble, with the unreasoning rebellion against it with which, in early life, we all meet these friends in disguise. she picked her way down the steep hillside, through the wakened broom and sleeping heather, and along the edge of the little oasis of oatfield, where so many thousands of round, river-worn stones had been gleaned into heaps, and where so many thousands still remained among the springing corn. the long labour and the patience and the partial failure which that little field meant, reclaimed from the heather, but not wholly reclaimed from the stones, had often touched lady pierpoint, who knew what labour was; but it did not appeal to sibyl. she sat down with a sigh on the river-bank, a forlorn white blot against the crowded world of green, with crack, her little scotch terrier, beside her, and looked listlessly across the sliding water, which ran deep and brown as crack's brown eyes, and loitered shallow and yellow as a yellow sapphire among its clean gray stones and gleaming rocks. a pair of oyster-catchers sped upstream, low over the water, swift as eye could follow, with glad cries, like disembodied spirits that have found wings at last and feel the first rapture of proving them. 'happy birds!' said sibyl to herself. 'they do not know what trouble means.' crack, who had heard this sentiment, or something very like it, before, stretched himself methodically, both front-legs together first, and then the hind-legs one by one, and walked slowly down to the edge of the water and sniffed sadly, as one who knows that search is vain among the stones for a rat which is not there. crack had a fixed melancholy which nothing could dispel. his early life had been passed in the activity of a camp, and his spirit seemed to have been permanently embittered by the close contemplation of military character. he had been round the world. he knew the principal smells of our eastern empire, but no reminiscences of his many travels served to brighten the gloomy tenor of his thoughts. he was sad, disillusioned, still apt to hurry and shorten himself through doors, and to retreat under sofas to brood over imaginary wrongs. all games distressed him. he went indoors at once when the red ball was produced which transformed peter from an elegant poodle into a bounding demon. but in spite of his melancholy he was liked. he went out but little, but where he went he was welcomed. he was a gentleman and a man of the world. no dog ever quarrelled with him. he met bristling overtures with a mournful tact which turned growls into waggings of tails. he himself was seldom seen to wag his tail, except in his sleep. he returned from the water's edge and sat down on an outlying fold of sibyl's gown. in the sunny stillness a wild-duck, with cautious, advanced neck, and a little fleet of water-babies, paddled past, bobbing on the amber shallows. crack raised his ears and watched them. his feelings were so entirely under control that he could scratch himself while observing an object of interest; and he did so now. but he did not move from his seat on sibyl's gown. he was disillusioned about wild-ducks, who did not play fair and stick to one element, but would take to their wings when hard pressed in the water, like a woman who changes her ground when cornered in argument. presently the afternoon sun shifted, and all the larches on the steep hillside opposite and all the broom along the bank stooped to gaze at a flickering fairyland of broom and larches in the wide water. the deep valley of the river was drowned in light. only the bank on which sibyl was sitting under the mountain-ash had fallen suddenly into shadow. 'like my life,' she thought, and rose to go. who was this coming slowly towards her along the little path by the water's edge? she stood still, trembling, her hands pressed against her breast. it was he. it was mr. loftus. he was looking for her. he was coming to her. joy and terror seized her. he saw her standing motionless in her white gown under the white blossom-laden tree. and as he drew near and took her nerveless hands in silence, and looked into her face, he saw again in her deep eyes the shy, imploring glance which had met him once before--the mute entreaty of love to be suffered to live. 'sibyl,' he said, and in his voice there was reverence as well as tenderness--reverence for her untarnished youth, and tenderness for the white flower of love which it had put forth, 'will you be my wife?' chapter iv. 'j'ai vu sous le soleil tomber bien d'autres choses que les feuilles des bois et l'ã©cume des eaux, bien d'autres s'en aller que le parfum des roses et le chant des oiseaux.' alfred de musset. 'mummy,' said peggy, a few days later, coming into her mother's sitting-room and pressing her round, cool cheek against lady pierpoint's, 'why does sibyl want to marry mr. loftus?' 'because she thinks she loves him, peggy, as many other women have done before her.' 'i think i love him, too, in a way,' said peggy. 'he is better than anybody. when i am with him, i feel--i don't know what i feel, only i know it's good, and i want to do something for him, or make him something really pretty for his handkerchiefs; but--i don't want to marry him.' 'that is as well, my treasure, as he is going to marry sibyl.' 'i never thought he would marry anybody. i can't believe it. it seems as if it could not happen.' 'it will happen,' said lady pierpoint, 'if he lives.' 'sibyl says,' continued peggy, 'that he enters into her feelings as no one else does, and that she understands him, and that hardly anyone else does except her, because he is so superior.' 'indeed!' 'and she says she can speak to him of aspirations and things that she can't even mention to molly and me. she says it isn't our fault--it is only because we are different to her.' 'you are certainly very different,' said lady pierpoint, compressing her lips. 'and to think that she might have married mr. doll,' continued peggy, as if sibyl's actions were indeed inscrutable. 'mr. doll will be twenty-eight next august. he was twenty-seven when we were at wilderleigh last year. if i had been sibyl, i would have married him, and then i'll tell you, mummy, what i would have done. i would have asked mr. loftus to let us live with him at wilderleigh, and i would have taken such care of him--oh! such care--and i would have spent whole bags of money on the farms and fences and things, and he would have been happy, and mr. doll would have been happy, too.' 'peggy,' said lady pierpoint, 'shall i tell you a secret? i think that is exactly what mr. loftus hoped sibyl would do.' * * * * * mr. loftus returned to london a day or two later, and had an interview with doll the day before the announcement of the engagement appeared in the _morning post_. mr. loftus was attached to his nephew--people always looked upon doll as his nephew, though he was in reality his first cousin--and to him and to him alone he told the circumstances which had led to his engagement. what passed between the elder man and the young one during that interview will never be known. but when at last mr. loftus left him, doll sat for a long time looking over the geraniums into the park. the somewhat dull, unimaginative soul that dwelt behind his handsome expressionless face was vaguely stirred. 'it's a mistake,' he said at last, half aloud. 'but uncle george is on the square; he always is.' and when he was ruthlessly twitted next day by his brother officers on being cut out by his uncle, he replied simply enough: 'he is a better man than me, as all you fellows know. she would not have looked at one of you any more than she would at me. i suppose she had a fancy for marrying a man who could spell, which none of us can.' 'spelling or none,' said the youngest sub--'which is an indecent subject which should never be mentioned between gentlemen--anyhow, i mean to borrow a thousand or a fiver off him. mr. loftus always tipped me at school.' one of mr. loftus's first actions was to stop the preliminary proceedings regarding the sale of wilderleigh, which he had been arranging a month ago, on the afternoon when he had called on lady pierpoint. it was like awakening from a nightmare to realize that wilderleigh would not be sold, after all. he almost wished that he might live long enough to set the place in order for doll. the engagement was a nine days' wonder, and those nine days were purposely spent by mr. loftus in london. he was aware that many cruel things would be said at his expense, and that the bare fact that a man of his years and in his state of health should marry a young heiress, and so great an heiress as sibyl carruthers, must call forth unfavourable comments. people who did not know him said it was perfectly shameful, and that it was just the sort of thing which those people who posed as being so extra good always did. how shocked mr. loftus had pretended to be when old lord bugbear, after his infamous life, married a girl of seventeen! and now he, mr. loftus, was doing exactly the same himself. of course he had a very fascinating manner--just the kind of manner to impose on a young girl who, like miss carruthers, knew nothing of the world, and had been nowhere. and everyone knew he was desperately poor. wilderleigh could hardly pay its way. a rumour had long been afloat that it would shortly be for sale. if he had not been so hard up for money it would have been different; but it was a most disgraceful thing, and lady pierpoint ought to be ashamed of having exposed the poor motherless girl left in her charge to his designs upon her. they wondered how much lady pierpoint, whose means were narrow, had been bought over for. the sums varied according to the sordidness of the different speculators, who of course named their own price. others who knew mr. loftus were puzzled and were silent. to know him at all was to believe him to be incapable of an ignoble action; yet this marriage had the appearance of being ignoble--not, perhaps, for another man, but certainly for him. his intimate friends were distressed, and greeted him with grave cordiality and affection, and hoped for an explanation. he gave none. and they remembered that never in his public or in his private life had he been known to give an explanation of his conduct, and came to the conclusion that they must trust him. mr. loftus had recognised early in life that explanations explain nothing. if those who had had opportunities of knowing him well misjudged him after those opportunities, they were at liberty to do so as far as he was concerned. the weight of an enormous acquaintance oppressed him, and, though he had never been known to wound anyone by withdrawing from an unequal friendship, which he had not been the one to begin, and which was an effort to him to continue, still, he took advantage of being misunderstood to lay aside many such friendships. it was not pride which prompted this line of action on mr. loftus's part, though many put it down to pride, especially those who had held aloof from him at a certain doubtful moment, and in whose regard subsequent events had entirely reinstated him, and who complained that he expected to be considered infallible. it was, in reality, the natural inclination of a world-weary man of the world to lay aside, as far as he could courteously do so, the claims of the artificial side of life, its vain forms, its empty hospitalities. he realized that for the purpose of winnowing its friendships the various events of life may be relied on to furnish the fitting occasions. those who do not wish to offend others by leaving them need make no effort, for they will certainly be presently deserted by those who have never grasped the meaning of the character which has been the object of their transient admiration. 'if he is unequal he will presently pass away.' mr. loftus neither hurried the unequal, self-constituted friend, nor sought to detain him. but when he departed, shaking the dust from off his feet, the door was noiselessly closed behind him, and his knock, however loud, was not heard when he returned again. a small batch of uneasy admirers left him on the occasion of his engagement. they said openly that they were much disappointed in him, and that he had shaken their belief in human nature. 'will sibyl also pass away?' mr. loftus wondered, as he sat on the terrace at wilderleigh on his return from london. 'yes, she, too, will presently pass away; but i shall not give her time to do so. she will be absorbed by her first love for a few years, and i shall only remain a few years at longest. by the time it wanes i shall be gone, and my departure will pain her but very slightly.' his face softened as he thought of sibyl. his nature, which, in its far-away youth, had been imaginative and romantic, had remained sympathetic. he gauged, as few others could have done had they been the object of it, the measure of her romantic attachment to himself. it was perhaps safer in his hands than in those of a younger man. for youth perpetrates many murders and mutilations in the name of love, as the schoolboy's love of a butterfly finds expression in a pin and a cork. but it would have cut sibyl to the heart if she had even guessed that his tranquil mind took for granted that her adoration would not last until the stars fell from heaven and the earth fell into the sun. for 'les esprits faibles ne sont jamais sincã¨res.' that is a hard saying, but alas! and alas! that it is only the weak who believe that it is not true. the strong know better, but if they are merciful they are silent. 'and so my second wife is also to be an _esprit faible_,' said mr. loftus to himself, looking at the past through half-closed eyes. 'but in the meanwhile i have learnt a lesson in natural history. i shall not expect my butterfly to hew wood and draw water. and this time i shall not break my heart because pretty wings are made to flutter with.' and the remembrance slid through his mind of millais's picture of the dying cavalier, and the butterfly perched upon the drawn sword in the ardent sunshine. and he thought of the drawn sword of damocles hanging over his own life, and sibyl's love preening itself for one brief second upon it. and at the thought he smiled. chapter v. 'je suis l'amante, dit-elle. cueillez la branche de houx.' victor hugo. 'when all the world like some vast tidal wave withdraws.'--buchanan. many persons prophesied that the marriage between mr. loftus and sibyl would not take place, but it did. on a burning day late in july they were married in london, for sibyl's country place, where mr. loftus had hoped the wedding might have taken place, was shut up. lady pierpoint did all in her power to make the wedding a quiet one, for his sake. very few invitations were sent out, and there was no reception afterwards. but, nevertheless, though the season was at its last gasp, when the day came the unfashionable london church was crammed with that 'smart' world, half of which had condemned mr. loftus, while it showered invitations upon him. many hundreds of eyes were fixed upon his stately feeble figure as he moved slowly forward to place himself beside the young girl, whose emotion was plainly visible, and whose bouquet shook in her hand. the contrast between the two, as they stood together, was of that glaring description which appeals to the vulgar and conventional mind, on which shades of difference are lost. mr. loftus went through the ceremony with equanimity. his grave face betrayed nothing except fatigue and the fact that he was suffering from a severe headache. lady pierpoint and doll watched him with anxiety, while peggy, standing close behind the bride, wept silently, she knew not why. 'oh, mummy,' she said afterwards when it was all over, and sibyl, anxious, preoccupied, had left lady pierpoint and peggy and molly, who had been mother and sisters to her, without a tear, without a regret, without a backward look, absorbed in the one fact that mr. loftus was ill--'oh, mummy, you say sibyl loves him so much. is that why she did not mind going away from all of us a bit? i know he had a headache, but she never used to mind when you had a headache, and when she was ill, do you remember how she always sent for you, even when i told her you were resting? and yet she used to be a little fond of us. but since he came she does not seem to care for us any more. if one loves anybody, does one forget the others?' 'some women do,' said lady pierpoint, taking peggy's red, tear-stained face in her hands and kissing it. she could not bear to own, even to peggy, how wounded her warm maternal heart had been because sibyl, whose delicacy had given her so many anxious hours, had shown no feeling at parting with her. mr. loftus had shown much more, when he had come to speak to her alone for a few minutes in her sitting-room, when the carriage was at the door. 'some women,' said lady pierpoint, looking wistfully at her daughter, 'forget everyone else when they marry, and are very proud of it. they think it shows how devoted they are. a little cup is soon full, peggy, and a shallow heart, if it takes in a new love, has no room left for the old ones. the new love is like the cuckoo in the nest--it elbows out everything else.' 'i will not be like that,' said peggy, crushing her mother and her mother's bonnet in an impulsive embrace. 'i will have a deep, deep heart, mummy, and no one shall ever go out that once comes in--and--oh, mummy, you shall have the best bedroom in my heart always!' 'i have a very foolish girl for a daughter,' said lady pierpoint, somewhat comforted, smiling through her tears, 'and one who has no respect for my best bonnet.' * * * * * at sibyl's wish she and mr. loftus went straight to wilderleigh. they reached it after several hours' journey on the evening of their wedding-day. and gradually the nervous exhaustion and acute headache from which he had been suffering, and which had become almost unbearable in the train, relaxed their hold upon him. they were sitting in the cool, scented twilight on the terrace. through the half-darkness came the low voice of the river talking to itself. noise and light and other voices, and this dreadful day, were gone at last. he gave a sigh of relief and smiled deprecatingly at her. they had hardly spoken since they were married. she was sitting near him, a slender figure in her pale gown, that shimmered in the feeble light. but there was light enough for her to see him smile, and she smiled back at him with her whole heart in her lovely eyes. no thought of self lurked in those clear depths, and mr. loftus, looking into them, and remembering how, on this her wedding day, her whole mind had been absorbed, to the entire oblivion of a bride's divided feelings, in the one fact that he was suffering, was touched, but not with elation. the long listless hand lying palm upwards on his knee made a slight movement, and in instant response to it her hand was placed in his. his closed over it. perhaps nothing could have endeared her more to him than the mute response that had waited on his mute appeal, and had not forestalled it. his hand clasping hers, he drew her slightly, and, obeying its pressure, she leaned towards him. 'my sibyl!' he said, and she involuntarily drew closer to him, for something in his voice and manner, in spite of their exceeding gentleness and tenderness, seemed to remove him from her. 'fate has been hard upon you that i should have been ill on your wedding-day.' 'no,' she said, timidly pushing off from shore into the new world upon her little raft. 'fate was kind, because to-day has been the first day when i could be with you and take care of you.' 'you take too much care of me.' 'i care for nothing else,' she said, her voice faltering, adoration in her eyes. one white star peered low in the western heaven through the violet dusk. 'once long ago, before you were born,' said mr. loftus, 'i loved someone, and she said she loved me, and we were married. but after a time she brought trouble upon me, sibyl.' the great current had caught the little raft, and was hurrying it out to sea. 'i will never bring trouble upon you,' said the young girl, her lips trembling as she stooped to kiss his hand. 'when you are tired you shall lean on my arm. when your eyes are tired i will read to you. i will take care of you, and keep all trouble from you.' 'till i die,' he said below his breath, more to himself than to her. 'till you die,' she answered. and so, but this time very lightly, mr. loftus leaned once again, or made as if he leaned, on the fragile reed of human love. chapter vi. 'he has nae mair sense o' humour than an owl, and a' aye haud that a man withoot humour sudna be allowed intae a poopit.' --ian maclaren. the arrival of sibyl at wilderleigh was the occasion of many anxious surmises at the little vicarage on the part of the young vicar and his young and adoring wife. it had long been a great grief to them that mr. loftus only came to church once on sunday. it was vaguely understood that he had yielded himself to doubts on religious subjects, which alone could account for this 'laxity'--doubts which the young vicar felt could not have shaken himself or mrs. gresley, and which he was convinced he could dispel. but he could never obtain an opportunity to wage war against these ghostly enemies, for though he had preached during lent a course of sermons calculated to pulverize the infidel tendencies of the age, which his wife had pronounced to be all-conclusive and to place the whole affair in a nutshell--it certainly did that--unfortunately the person for whose spiritual needs they were concocted did not hear them. mr. gresley had several times called upon mr. loftus with a view to giving the conversation a deeper turn, but when he was actually in his presence, and mr. loftus's steel-gray attentive eye was upon him, the younger man found it difficult, not to say impossible, to force conversation on subjects which mr. loftus had no intention to discuss. 'if he would only meet me in fair argument!' mr. gresley said on his return from a futile attempt to approach mr. loftus on the subject of public worship; 'but when i had thoroughly explained my own views on the importance of regular attendance at both services on sunday, he only said that those being my opinions, he considered that i was fully justified in having daily services as well. if he would only meet me fairly and hear reason,' said the young clergyman; 'but he won't. the other day when i pressed him on the subject of the devil--i know he is lax on the devil--i said: "but, mr. loftus, do you not believe in him?" if he had only owned what i am sure was the case--namely, that he did not believe in him--i could have confuted him in a moment. i was quite ready. but he slipped out of it by saying, "believe in him! i would not trust him for a moment." there is no arguing with a man who scoffs or is silent.' 'my dear,' said mrs. gresley, 'infidels are all like that, and their only refuge is to be silent or profane. don't you remember when that professor from oxford, whom we met at dr. pearson's, said something about history and the bible--i forget what, but it was perfectly unorthodox--and dr. pearson was so interested, and you spoke up at once, and he made no reply whatever, and then asked me the name of our virginia creeper, and talked about flowers. i often think of that, and how he had to turn the subject.' 'but he was not convinced,' said mr. gresley, frowning; 'that is the odd part of it. he brought out a book on the bible with things in it much worse than what he said in my presence, and which i positively refuted. and it went through six editions, and the bishop actually read it.' 'you see,' said mrs. gresley, with the acumen which pervades the atmosphere of so many country vicarages, 'a man like the professor does not _want_ to be convinced, or his books would not be read, any more than mr. loftus wants to be convinced he ought to come to church regularly, because then he would have no excuse for staying away. but perhaps his wife may be a christian, james. they say she is quite a young girl, and that her aunt has brought her up well.' and when sibyl's sweet face and black velvet hat, and a wonderful flowing gown of white and lilac, appeared in the carved wilderleigh pew beside mr. loftus's familiar profile, the gresleys hoped many things; though mrs. gresley expressed herself, after service, as much shocked at the bride's style of dress, which she pronounced to be too showy. mrs. gresley's views on dress were exclusively formed at the two garden-parties and the one private ball to which she went in the course of the year. the gresleys thought it wrong to go to public balls, and--which was quite another matter--they thought it wrong for other clergymen and their wives to go also. it was fortunate that mr. loftus admired his wife's style of dress, as he had always admired sibyl herself, from her graceful, fringeless head to her slender, low-heeled shoes. she pleased his fastidious taste as perhaps no other woman could have done. she was one of the few englishwomen who can wear french gowns as if they are part of them, and not put on for the occasion. after a becoming interval mr. and mrs. gresley called, and this time mrs. gresley was somewhat mollified by what she called the very 'suitable' costume of brown holland in which sibyl received them. mr. loftus did not appear, and in the course of conversation the young couple were further pleasantly impressed with the perfect orthodoxy and sound church teaching of the bride, whose natural gift of platitude was enhanced by the subject under discussion. they also made the discovery that mr. loftus was, in his wife's opinion, infallible. and mrs. gresley looked with some astonishment at a bride who actually entertained towards a 'layman' the unique sentiments which she did for her apostolic james. 'she is a nice young creature,' said mrs. gresley, half an hour later, as, with her hands full of orchids, she accompanied her lord back to the vicarage, 'and her views, james, are beautiful--just what i think myself. she agreed with everything we said. she must have been very well brought up. but i can't understand her infatuation for mr. loftus. really, from the way she spoke of him, and how he knew best, one might have supposed he was priest as well as squire here. it almost made one smile.' mr. loftus and crack had, in the meanwhile, remained in the gardens, he leaning back in a long deck-chair, looking dreamily up into the perspective of moving green above him, while crack, who had only just arrived from scotland, snapped mournfully at the english flies, which tasted very much the same as those of strathspey, so few new things are there under the sun. sibyl had wished to bring peter, the poodle, also to wilderleigh, but nothing would induce mr. loftus to invite him. he told sibyl that he himself hoped to replace peter in her affections, and he had certainly succeeded. she returned to him now, and sat down on a low stool at his feet. in these early days she was much addicted to footstools and the lowest of seats, provided they were properly placed. they were in harmony with her sentiments, and facilitated an upward gaze. 'they were so pleasant. i wish you had come in,' she said. 'i find the clergy as fatiguing as anderson's beetle found cleanliness,' said mr. loftus, his eyes dwelling on her. 'but that is not their fault. it is because i happen to be a beetle.' 'i was a little tired, too,' said sibyl hastily. 'they stayed rather long.' 'and did you like them?' 'yes; i thought them very nice. and i am glad they are high church. i think it is so much nicer, don't you?' 'do you mean to tell me, now that we are married and it is too late to go back, that you are high church?' 'oh, not very high!' said sibyl anxiously, yet reassured by his look of amusement. 'which are you?' 'i am the same as mr. gresley,' said mr. loftus slowly, 'with a difference.' 'i thought you were different,' said sibyl, gratified at her own powers of observation. 'i know,' continued mr. loftus, 'that he thinks i have no principles at all, because he believes they are not the same as his; but in reality they are very much the same as his, only they are carried further afield, and he loses sight of them, while he has a neat little ring-fence round his own. i like mr. gresley very much. he is an exemplary young man. but some people become very narrow by walking in the narrow path, and i fear he is one of them. remember this, my sibyl, that there is no barrier in your own character against which someone, sooner or later, will not stumble to his hurt. no boundary in ourselves will serve to shut god in, as this good young man thinks, but every boundary will at last shut out some fellow-creature from us, and be to one, whom perhaps we might have helped, an occasion of stumbling. and now let us show crack the brook. i am afraid he will think but little of it after the spey, but he will be too polite to say so. as he only arrived yesterday, it is premature to put it into words, but i have an intuition that crack and i shall become friends. if i had any influence over him, i would encourage him to bathe in the brook, for he brought into the house with him this morning an odour that convinced me that we were on the eve of some great chemical discovery.' so they wandered down by the brook, across the lengthening shadows. a cock pheasant was clearing his throat in the wood near the gardens. the low sun had become entangled in the rookery. a pair of sandpipers were balancing their slender selves on a tiny beach of sand. a little black and white water-ousel darted upstream with rapid, bee-like flight. crack followed, gravely investigating the bank point by point, as if on the look-out for some fallacy in it. and sibyl registered the conclusion in her own mind that one must be 'wide,' like mr. loftus, not narrow, like mr. gresley. after this conversation she always spoke of her religious convictions as 'wide.' chapter vii. 'we form not our affections. it is they that do form us; and form us in despite of our poor protests.' lytton. summer slid into autumn, and autumn into winter. the first few months of married life had been difficult to mr. loftus, but he had brought his whole attention and an infinite patience to bear on them, and gradually his reward came to him. sibyl could learn because she loved. she learned slowly, but still she did learn, to read, not her husband's thoughts--those were far from her--but his wishes. she discovered, with a pang which cost her many secret tears--but still she did discover--that he often wished to be alone, and that she must not go into his study unless she were asked to do so. she learned gradually when to join him when he paced in the rose-garden, and when it vexed and wearied him to have her by him. and she learned, too, after the first horrible experience, which neither could remember without anguish, when, with blue lips, he had begged her not to touch him; that when he had an attack of the heart she must not betray her agony of mind, if she was to be allowed to remain in the room, and she must not ignorantly try to apply the remedies, but must leave it to mr. loftus's valet, whose imperturbable calm and promptitude had often ministered to his master before. sibyl's terror of death and violent emotion at its approach were peculiarly trying to mr. loftus, who had long since ceased to regard death with horror, and only wished to be allowed to meet it quietly, without a scene. all intimacy was difficult to his solitary nature. it was alien while it was courteously welcomed. it was the natural instinct of hers. she had to learn to suppress her tenderness--or, at any rate, its expression--a hard lesson for an over-demonstrative nature, not long out of its teens. but sibyl learned even that for his sake. and there her knowledge stopped. it never reached beyond his wishes to his mind. she was merged entirely in her love of her husband, but if he had been unworthy of the exalted pedestal on which she had placed him, she would not have discovered it. 'it might just as well have been doll.' mr. loftus thought occasionally, half amused, when he had the barbarity to try a platitude of the first water upon her--one of doll's best, such as the young man, after diving into the recesses of his being, could produce, and found she received it with as much interest as the thoughts for which he had dug deep. for hero-worship was necessary to sibyl, but not a hero--only that she should consider him one. the sham was to her the same as the real. she saw no difference. like many another woman, she would have adored an ass's ears, wondering at the blindness of the rest of mankind. but if the truth about those ears had been forced upon her, rubbed into her, tattooed upon her, her entire belief in human nature would have fallen with the fall of one fellow-creature. the heights and depths of human nature had never awed her, nor its great forces moved her to reverence or compassion. she was of the stuff out of which the female cynic, as well as the female devotee, is made. mr. loftus did not marvel at an adoration which has been the birthright of his fortunate sex since the world began, but his perennial wonder at the enigma of feminine human nature had a new element added to it--that of amusement. she played with his tools, as a robin perches on a spade, thinking it is stuck in the earth for that purpose, and for the turning up of worms. the struggles, the despair, the hope and the aspiration, through which his youth had climbed, and out of which it had forged its tools, were not a part of sibyl's youth. she liked the tools now that they were made, and desired them for her own small uses. she was naturally drawn to those of deeper convictions and larger faiths. she liked the luxury of being moved by them, stirred by them, lifted beyond herself by a power outside of herself. she loved to nibble the edge of their hard-earned bread and feel that she, too, was of them, and make believe that she had helped to grind the flour; and to make believe with sibyl was the same thing as to believe. her insolvent nature clung to the rich one, ostensibly because it was sympathetic, but really because it was rich. this unconscious audacity was a novel source of entertainment to mr. loftus, a bubbling wayside spring which he had hardly hoped to meet with on the dry highroad of married life. it is greatly to be feared that his conscience, usually a tender one, was hardly as watchful as it should have been on this subject. it certainly had lapses when sibyl conversed with him seriously, especially when she coupled his feelings with her own on the greatest subjects, never doubting that they were identical. but after a short time he dared not speak to her of anything really dear to him. she had a gift for making sacred things common by touching them, and age had not tarnished reverence in mr. loftus's soul, though it had tarnished many things which youth holds in reverence. he talked to her, instead, on subjects which he had not much at heart, and that did quite as well. and she, on her side, would bring to him the inferior religious books, and superficial unorthodox works which she believed to be deep because they were unorthodox, which were the natural food of her little soul, and he received them and her remarks upon them, as he received a flower when she gave him one, with courtesy and gratitude. so absorbed was she in her devotion to her husband, and in the interchange of beautiful sentiments, that her other duties, increased by her position at wilderleigh, were not even perceived. unobservant persons are sometimes surprised at the real devotion--and sibyl's was real--of which a shallow and cold-hearted nature shows itself capable. but those who look closer perceive at what heavy expense to others that one link is held, which is in reality only a new and more subtle form of selfishness. she dropped the other links without even knowing that she had dropped them. she had no tender, watchful gratitude for lady pierpoint, no interest in peggy's new gowns and lovers, or as to whether molly had enjoyed her first season. if this had been pointed out to her, she would have glibly ascribed the result to marriage, which, according to some women, is the death-bed of all sympathy and impersonal love. it is like ascribing sin to temptation. the gresleys were much disappointed in her, and they had reason to be so, for sibyl had changed over after her discovery of mr. loftus's convictions, or, rather, her interpretation of them, and, instead of being rather high church, had now decided to be 'wide,' which state, it soon appeared, was not compatible with being an efficient helper to the earnest hard-working young couple at her gate. mr. loftus, who now had command of money, was far more considerate than his wife. 'she,' mrs. gresley complained, 'did not seem to care to do anything with her life, for she would neither sing in the choir nor teach in the sunday-school.' she did consent to give prizes for needlework in the schools, but when the day came it was discovered that she had forgotten all about it, and, as she had a cold, mr. loftus drove into the nearest town and brought a mind weighted with political matter to bear upon the requisite number of prizes suited to girls of from seven to fourteen years, and hurried back just in time to prevent disappointment by distributing them himself. 'have you written lately to lady pierpoint?' he sometimes asked, and sibyl generally had to confess, 'not lately,' and then she would write and then forget again. 'i suppose lady pierpoint is less well off now that you are married?' he asked one day tentatively. 'no doubt your guardians made her an allowance while you lived with her.' 'yes,' said sibyl, who was sitting on the hearthrug, trying to make crack do his trick of sitting up. it was his only trick, and he could not do that unless he happened to be sitting down when called upon to perform it. if he were on all fours at the moment, he could not remember how it began. 'aunt marion often said it was a very handsome allowance.' 'and have you continued it, or part of it?' asked mr. loftus gravely. sibyl owned that she had never thought of doing so. 'everything i have is yours now,' she said, looking up at him. 'and i am spending it,' he said, 'freely. thousands of yours are being put into the estate, in repairs, and new farms and buildings. i am like the man in scripture who pulled down his barns to build greater--at least, who intended to do so if he had had time.' mr. loftus stopped. for the first time for many years a faint wish crossed his mind that his soul might not be required of him till all those expensive improvements were paid for, which would make doll's position as landlord easier than his own had been. 'even in these bad times,' he went on, 'wilderleigh will come round. you have taken a great weight off my mind, sibyl.' 'that is what i wish,' she said, turning her face, as he put back a little ring of hair behind her ear, so that her lips met his hand. 'but lady pierpoint? i am afraid, sibyl, her husband left her very badly off.' 'i will write now,' said sibyl, springing to her feet. crack rose too, and jumped on mr. loftus's knees, quietly pushing his hands off them with his strong nose, and accommodating his long, thin body by a few jerks into the groove which a masculine lap presents. mr. loftus did not want him, and it tired him to keep his knees together; but he knew there was a draught on the floor, and he allowed him to remain. 'how much shall i say? a thousand a year or fifteen hundred for her life?' asked sibyl, dipping her pen in the ink. it was all one to her. she always gave freely of what cost her nothing--namely, money. 'it must not be too much, or she won't feel able to take it,' said mr. loftus, considering. 'and if it is an annuity, it does not help the children.' and he wondered how far he dared go. and when, a few days later, lady pierpoint received a note from sibyl, very delicately and affectionately expressed, and offering, in such a manner as to make refusal almost impossible, a sum of money more than sufficient to provide for both her daughters, she guessed immediately whose tact had dictated the letter. 'sibyl would never have thought of it,' she said to herself, as she wrote a note of acceptance. 'it never crossed her mind when she left us, or even to offer to pay for peggy's and molly's bridesmaids' gowns, although she chose such expensive ones. and if it had occurred to her since, she would not have put it like that.' chapter viii. 'le monde est plein de gens qui ne sont pas plus sages.'--la fontaine. with the winter came many invitations, but they were nearly all refused, for mr. loftus had long since dispensed himself from attending county festivities, and sibyl, though she had recovered her health, was always delicate. lady pierpoint had had doubts as to whether she ought to winter in england, but not only was sibyl herself determined so to do, but when lady pierpoint saw her in london before christmas with a vivid colour and an elasticity of bearing which made a marked contrast to the drooping, listless demeanour of the previous winter, her doubts were at once set at rest. presently, however, an invitation came for a masked ball in the immediate neighbourhood, which mr. loftus decided could not be refused. 'but why should we go?' said sibyl, 'if we don't care about it. and i hate balls, and i hate society. i was saying so to the gresleys only yesterday. i love my own fireside and a book.' sibyl had no idea how much these occasional mild flourishes, which found great favour at the vicarage, annoyed mr. loftus. she put them forth, poor thing! with a view to showing him how much she had in common with him. 'it is a mistake to say you hate society,' said mr. loftus, 'because you are not in a position to hate what you have never seen. personally, i can see nothing peculiarly obnoxious in my fellow-creatures when they have their diamonds and white ties on. i do not even discover that they are more worldly in ball-gowns than on other occasions.' 'but it is all so empty and vain,' said sibyl; 'and though i dare say i have not seen much, still, the small-talk is so wearying, and i suppose that is the same everywhere. i should not mind society if there was any real conversation, anything _deep_.' sibyl loved the word 'deep.' she used it on the occasions when others use the word 'trite,' she meaning the same as they did, but looking at the trite from a different angle. from her point of vantage, eccentricity was originality, and a wholesale contradiction of established facts a new view. mr. loftus was so close on the verge of annoyance that he was obliged to be amused instead. 'i have heard many people say they hated society,' he said, smiling, and sibyl smiled back at him, delighted at having won his approbation by the nobility and originality of her sentiments. 'i have generally found that they are persons to whom, probably for some excellent reason, society has shown the cold shoulder, or those, like the gresleys, who have never seen anything of it, and who call garden-parties, and flower-shows, and bazaars, and all those dismal local functions, society.' 'she is not going to this masked ball,' said sibyl. 'i asked her, and she said, "of course not. her husband being a clergyman made it quite impossible." i wonder why she always says things are quite impossible for the clergy that most of the other clergy do. she said the same about the hunt ball.' 'that was because of the pink coats of the men and the new gowns of the women, and also partly because they were not asked. it happened to be a good ball, consequently it was dangerous. dowdiness has from a very early date of this world's history been regarded as a sacrifice acceptable to the deity, so naturally pretty gowns and electric light are considered to be the perquisites of the evil one.' 'but are we really going to this ball?' 'we are. it would be unneighbourly not to do so. i met lady pontesbury yesterday in d----, and she begged us to support her, and to bring even numbers. people cannot give balls in the country, sibyl, if none of the neighbours will take the trouble to fill their houses. i have seen very cruel things of that kind done. ours is the largest house in the neighbourhood, and, as it now has a mistress, we must fill it.' the idea of society having any claim on her was a new light to sibyl. she had always considered herself superior to its blandishments. but now that she discovered that mr. loftus actually regarded certain social acts as a duty, and this masked ball as one in particular, she immediately changed her opinion, and forthwith looked upon it as a duty also. it was a duty which, as its fulfilment drew near, became less and less unpleasant to anticipate. she had until now lent a sympathetic ear to the gresleys when they talked of society as a snare, and had echoed mr. gresley's remarks on the same. 'balls are not wrong in themselves,' mr. gresley would say in his chest voice, keeping his hand in before sibyl and his admiring wife. 'it is only the abuse of them that is blameworthy. use the world as not abusing it. a carpet dance among young people i should be the last to blame. we cannot keep the bow always at full stretch. but when it comes to ball after ball, party after party, and pleasure is made a business, instead of a recreation, by which i mean that which restores elasticity to the exhausted faculties, recreates us in fact, and renews our energy for our work, then indeed----' and mr. gresley would express himself at that length which is apparently the one great compensation of the teacher who has no pupils. sibyl enjoyed his conversation very much. she thought mr. gresley a very sensible person, and his opinions were in harmony with her own. mrs. gresley had also declared, after a brief visit to kensington in july during the 'sales,' that she had neither the means nor the inclination to throw herself into the social whirlpool which she and mr. gresley had dispassionately viewed from two green chairs in the row, and which mr. gresley had estimated 'at its true worth.' if she had possessed both the means and the inclination, she would perhaps have discovered that she was no nearer to that vortex than the many thousands who annually make a pilgrimage to london only to be tossed on the outermost ripple of the whirlpool, and who revolve for ever on the rim of society like saturn's rings, without approaching the central luminary. but that it is difficult to be loved of society and ensnared by her the gresleys and sibyl did not know, any more than that certain crimes require great qualities in order to commit them. mr. loftus might have been able to relieve their ignorance, but, as sibyl told the gresleys, he did not care much for conversation. a habit of silence was certainly growing upon him since his marriage. chapter ix. 'et chacun croit fort aisã©ment, ce qu'il craint.' la fontaine. the night of the masked ball had arrived. a large party had assembled at wilderleigh, including lady pierpoint and her daughters, and doll. it was doll's first visit to wilderleigh since mr. loftus's marriage, and as he looked down the dinner-table at sibyl he wondered at his own folly in coming. he thought he had 'got over it,' but to-night he found that he had made a sufficiently grave mistake in supposing so. unimaginative persons never know when they have got over anything, because they have no fore-knowledge in absence of the stab which a certain presence can inflict. so doll walked stolidly in--where mr. loftus in a remote but not forgotten passage of his own life had feared to tread--and then writhed and bit his lip at the hurt he had inflicted upon himself. in the days when he had hoped to marry sibyl, he had often pictured her to himself--his imagination could reach as far as tangible objects, such as furniture and food and raiment--sitting at the head of his table, talking to his guests, wearing the wilderleigh diamonds, and looking as she looked now; for to-night sibyl was beautiful. and it had all come about, except one thing--that she was married to mr. loftus instead of to him. he turned to look fixedly at mr. loftus talking to lady pierpoint, and saw as in some new and arid light his thin stooping figure in the carved high-backed chair, the refined profile with the high thin nose and scant brushed-back gray hair, and the bloodless vandyke hand holding his wine-glass. mr. loftus had a very beautiful hand. doll had not seen mr. loftus and sibyl together except at the altar-rails. and as he looked rage took him. it was a monstrous marriage. the blood rushed to his face, and beat in his temples. and a sudden bitter hatred surged up within him against mr. loftus as man against man. he looked at him again in his gray hair and his feebleness, and loathed him. and mr. loftus's indifferent kindly glance met his, and he smiled quietly at him. and the cold fit came after the hot one, and poor doll cursed himself, and told himself for the first time of many times--of how many times!--that the greatest evil that could befall him in life would be to become estranged from 'uncle george.' 'what are you thinking of?' said peggy's voice at his elbow. peggy was often at doll's elbow at other times besides dinner, a fact which did not escape lady pierpoint's maternal eye, but for which she did not reprimand peggy, any more than for her slightly upturned nose and little upper lip, which turned up in sympathy too. but peggy vaguely felt that on this occasion her dear 'mummy' was rather in the way, especially when the whole party assembled in the hall in their masks and dominoes, and peggy could not sufficiently admire doll's flame-coloured garment with a black devil outlined on the back and a hood with pointed ears. she had no eyes for captain charrington, the tallest man in the guards, magnificent in crimson silk from head to foot, with crimson mask as well, or for another of doll's companions in arms in a chessboard domino of black and white with an appalling white mask. 'look, peggy,' said lady pierpoint, 'at mrs. devereux. i think i have never seen any domino as pretty as her white one with little silver bees all over it.' mrs. devereux protested, in a muffled manner, through the lace edge of her mask that miss pierpoint's and mrs. loftus's duplicate primrose ones edged with gold quite put her bees into the shade. 'into a hive you mean,' said her husband, a dull young man in dove colour. 'but how are we to know mrs. loftus and miss pierpoint apart?' 'you won't know us,' said sibyl; 'that is just the point.' * * * * * 'there is one thing i ought to have asked you before,' said sibyl solemnly in her married-woman voice, as the brougham in which she and mr. loftus had driven together drew up in the _queue_. 'would you like me to dance or not?' 'are you fond of dancing?' 'very--at least, i mean i don't mind.' 'then, dance by all means.' 'you are quite sure it is what you wish. i thought perhaps as a married woman----' 'married goose,' said mr. loftus, laughing, perfectly aware that she would have liked him to be jealous. * * * * * 'i'm going to dance,' whispered sibyl to peggy, as they followed mr. loftus and lady pierpoint, the only unmasked ones of the party, towards the ballroom. 'he says he wishes me to. he is always so unselfish.' but peggy's open eyes and mouth and whole attention were turned to the ballroom which they were entering. lord and lady pontesbury were standing near the entrance solemnly shaking hands with the masked hooded figures who came silently towards them. no introductions were possible. lord pontesbury almost embraced mr. loftus, so relieved was he to see a human face. lady pontesbury beamed on lady pierpoint. 'your girls here?' she whispered. no one seemed able to speak above a whisper. 'yes,' said lady pierpoint below her breath, looking helplessly round at the twenty muffled figures in her wake. and captain charrington came forward at once, and said he was the eldest, and produced doll as his youngest sister, while peggy and molly wondered how anyone could be so funny and live. the long ballroom, with its cedar-panelled walls outlined in gilding, was brilliantly lighted. the floor of pale polished oak shone like the pale walls. banks of orchids rose in the bay-windows. in the brilliant light a vast crowd of spectral figures stalked about in silence, clad in every variety and incongruous mixture of colour. 'like devils out on a holiday,' said a voice from the depths of a fool's cap and bells. mr. loftus was at once surrounded by masked figures who shook hands with him warmly. a bishop was the centre of another group, ruefully responding to he knew not whom, half the young men in the room telling him that they had met him last at the palace when they were ordained. one mischievous couple were making the circuit of the room, conversing with the chaperons one after the other, who smiled helplessly at them and answered but little, for middle-aged ladies with daughters out have other things to think of besides repartee. captain charrington sustained his character of a wit by walking about growling at intervals in a mysterious and interesting manner. the band took its courage in both hands, and broke the silence. a tremor passed through the crowd. there was a momentary pause, a momentary uncertainty as to the sex of the hooded figures, and then forty, fifty, seventy couples of demons were solemnly polkaing. mr. loftus smiled. sibyl, standing by him, laughed till he gently urged her to take it more quietly. lord and lady pontesbury turned for a moment from the fresh arrivals, and their mournful faces relaxed. the bishop, who seldom saw anything more enlivening than a confirmation or a diocesan gathering, shed tears. the trombone collapsed, the wind instruments wavered, and left the violins for a moment to make desperate music by themselves. then the band pulled itself together, and the music and the flying feet rushed headlong on. * * * * * doll, who had hardly spoken to sibyl that day, came up to claim his dance. 'i can't dance any more,' she said plaintively. 'my domino weighs me down. let us sit out.' 'shall we go into the gallery,' said doll, 'and watch the unmasking from there? it is a quarter to twelve now, and every one unmasks at twelve.' he did not know whether to be glad or sorry that she would not dance with him. 'better not,' he said to himself. but he had thought of the possibility of that dance many times before he reached the ballroom, and had decided that it was his duty to ask her. they left the ballroom, and, passing numerous ghostly figures sitting in nooks and on the wide staircase, they made their way to the arched gallery which overhung the ballroom. every white arch had been lit by a pendent pink-shaded lamp, and the arches and sibyl's primrose domino all took the same rosy hue. in nearly every arch a couple were already sitting, watching the crowd below. doll secured one of the few vacant places, and sibyl drew her chair forward and leaned her slender bare arms on the white stone balustrade. the couple in the adjoining archway were chattering volubly, but doll and sibyl did not talk. she did not notice the omission, for her eyes were following the quaint pageant with the delight of a child. doll racked his brains for something to say, and found nothing. why had she married uncle george? why had she married uncle george? so, as he could not ask her that, and tell her that he cared for her a hundred times more than her husband did, he said nothing. the _pas de quatre_ was in full swing. the men, annoyed by their long dominoes, and having one hand disengaged, raised their voluminous skirts and danced with long black legs, regardless of propriety. captain charrington's endless crimson domino had come open in front and displayed his high action to great advantage. a very elegant pink domino, which had been introduced by the eldest son of the house as an heiress to all the men whom he did not recognise, and which had danced only with masculine dominoes, was now seen to emulate its partner, and to have black trousers rolled up above its white-stockinged ankles, and rather large white satin shoes. 'look!' said the girl in the next archway; 'that pink domino must be mr. lumley. he often acts as a woman.' 'hang him for an impostor! i've danced with him as such,' said the man, with ill-concealed vexation. 'he knew me, and called me by name. i took him for----' he did not finish his sentence. 'by jove! that black domino with a death's-head and cross-bones is a good idea,' he went on. 'is it half-mourning, do you suppose?' 'how foolish you are! that is lord lutwyche. i have just been dancing with him.' 'lord lutwyche is not here. he sprained his ankle at hockey yesterday.' the female domino appeared to be a prey to uneasy reflections. 'the primrose domino is the prettiest in the room,' she said presently. 'and how well she dances! i wonder who she is.' 'i happen to know that is mrs. loftus.' sibyl, with her back to the arch, could hear every word on the other side of it. doll was not near enough. this was indeed delightful! how lucky that she and peggy had come dressed alike! 'which is mr. loftus?' said the woman's voice eagerly. 'i have heard so much about him.' 'that tall, thin, fine-looking old chap with his hands behind his back, standing by the bishop. the union jack domino is speaking to him.' 'so that is he. i have always wished to see him. he looks tired to death.' 'he always looks like that. quite a character, though, isn't he?' 'he has an interesting face. but it was a disgraceful thing, his marrying a pretty young girl, and an heiress, at his age.' sibyl made a sudden movement, and the other couple glanced round. they saw her, but her primrose domino had taken the pink of her surroundings, and they suspected nothing. 'i'm not so sure. his nephew stands up for him, though his uncle cut him out, and his nephew ought to know. i fancy there was more in that marriage than outsiders suspect. i've heard it said more than once that she fell head-over-ears in love with him, and he married her out of pity.' the last words fell distinctly on sibyl's ears, and at that second the music ceased with a crash, and a gong boomed out, engulfing all other sounds. it was twelve o'clock. a bell somewhere just above them was counting out twelve slow strokes, just too late--just ten seconds too late. she leaned back sick and shivering. she did not realize that the crash and the tolling bell were part of the evening's programme. they seemed to her the natural result of the words she had just heard. if she had been crossed in love at lisbon before the earthquake, she would have regarded that upheaval as the immediate consequence of her lacerated feelings. 'look, look!' said the woman; 'they are unmasking.' a confused sound of laughter and surprise and recognition, and a widespread hum of conversation, came up to them. everyone was streaming out of the gallery, and in the ballroom there was a vast turmoil, as of hiving bees, and a throng at every door. 'shall i take you to the cloak-room to leave your mask and domino?' said doll, turning to her at last, from watching without seeing it what was passing below. he took off his velvet mask as he spoke. the sullen wretchedness of his face fitted ill with the pointed rakish ears which still surmounted it. she did not answer. he saw that the outstretched hand still on the balustrade was tightly clenched. 'mrs. loftus,' he said. 'sibyl! what is it? are you ill?' she tore off her mask, and, as if she were suffocating, plucked with trembling hands at the gold ribbon that fastened her hood and domino. he was alarmed, and clumsily helped her to loosen them. her small face, released from the mask, looked shrunk and pinched like a squirrel's in its thrown-back hood. the pink glow upon it from the lamp was in horrible contrast with its agonized expression. 'what is it? what is it?' said doll, in distress nearly as great as her own, taking her little clenched hand, and holding it, still clenched, in his large grasp. 'are you ill?' she shook her head impatiently. 'would you like--shall i--fetch mr. loftus?' she winced as if she had been struck. 'no,' she gasped; 'i will not see him--i will not see him!' a change came over doll's face. involuntarily, his hand tightened its clasp on hers. * * * * * 'these entertainments,' said the bishop to mr. loftus, as they paused for a moment in the gallery, and looked down into the ballroom, which was now rapidly refilling with gaily-dressed women and pink and black coats, 'are, i believe, typical of english country life. they are--ahem!--the gallery seems conducive to conversation; it is, in fact, a--er--whispering-gallery.' here he turned, smiling, to mr. loftus. 'perhaps mr. doll has hardly reached the stage at which he will call upon me to officiate--just so; we will go down by the other staircase--but i trust, though i might be in the way at present, that my services may be required a little later on.' 'i should like to see doll married,' said mr. loftus, who had been not a little surprised at the eager manner in which the young man was bending towards the figure with her back towards them, whose fallen-back hood intercepted her features. he recognised the domino. 'i had no idea peggy had made such an impression,' he said to himself. as he re-entered the ballroom, he met lady pierpoint, also returning to it with her two plump little girls in tow, whom she had been tidying in the cloak-room. captain charrington and some of the other men from wilderleigh were waiting near the doorway, claiming first dances as their party came in. the orchestra, who had been refreshing themselves, were remounting to their places. 'then, where is sibyl?' said mr. loftus, looking at peggy. 'she went to the gallery a long time ago,' replied peggy promptly, 'with mr. doll, to see the people unmask at twelve o'clock.' mr. loftus smiled. 'it was a horrible sight as seen from below,' he said; 'half the men's faces were black, and the hair of every one of them stood up at the back.' the band struck up a swaying, languorous valse such as tears the hearts out of young persons in their teens. * * * * * 'i must go home,' sibyl kept repeating feverishly. 'doll, you must get the carriage. i must go home.' doll was engaged to peggy for this valse, but he had forgotten it. sibyl was engaged to captain charrington, but she had forgotten it. he was terrified, as only reticent persons can be, lest her loss of self-control should be observed. he helped her to her feet, and took her to the cloak-room, she clinging convulsively to him. her entire disregard of appearances filled him with apprehension. the cloak-room was empty, even of attendants, for it had been thronged till within the last ten minutes, and now the wave had surged back to the ballroom, and the maids, their duties finished, had slipped away to see the spectacle. sibyl cast herself down on a chair, shivering. her little grecian crown of diamonds fell crooked. 'let me fetch lady pierpoint,' said doll urgently. 'no, no,' she said imploringly; 'i want to go home. oh, doll, get the carriage, and take me home. is it so much to ask?' he looked at her in doubt. she was not fit to return to the ballroom. evidently she would make no attempt to conceal her despair, whatever its cause might be, from the first chance comer. 'i will take you,' he said; and he rushed out to the stables, found the wilderleigh coachman, and himself helped to put the horses into the brougham. 'it was ordered for one o'clock especially for mr. loftus,' said the coachman, hesitating, 'and the landau, and the fly, and the homnibus for half-past three.' 'you will be back in time for mr. loftus,' said doll. 'mrs. loftus is ill, and must go home immediately.' he had the brougham at the door in ten minutes, and returned to the cloak-room to find a maid standing by sibyl with a glass of water. sibyl was still shivering, holding on to the chair with both hands, her eyes half closed, her face ghastly. 'i am afraid the lady is ill,' said the servant. it was very evident that she was ill. 'the carriage is here,' said doll. 'can you manage to walk to it?' she rose unsteadily, and the maid wrapped her in her white cloak. it annoyed doll that the maid evidently looked upon them as an interesting young married couple. he gave sibyl his arm, and she staggered against him. he hesitated, and then compressed his lips, put his arm round her, and, half carrying, half leading her, helped her to the carriage. it was a white night with snow upon the ground. the band was playing one of chevalier's songs. out into the solemn night came the urgent appeal of ''enery 'awkins' to his eliza not to die an old maid, accompanied by the dull, threshing sound of many feet. as the carriage began to move, sibyl seemed to revive, and a moan broke from her. 'oh, doll,' she said suddenly, turning towards him and catching his hand and wringing it. 'it isn't true, is it? it is only a horrible lie.' 'what isn't true?' he said fiercely, almost hating her for the pain she was causing him, not his hand. 'it isn't true what that man said in the next arch, that--that mr. loftus married me out of pity?' and she swayed herself to and fro. she had asked the only person to whom mr. loftus had confided his real reasons for his marriage. it had been on the tip of doll's tongue all the evening to say: 'why did you marry him? _i_ would have married you for love.' but he mastered himself. 'it isn't true, is it?' gasped sibyl. doll set his teeth. 'no,' he said. 'it's a lie. he married you for love. he--_told me so_!' chapter x. 'pour connaã®tre il faut savoir ignorer.'--amiel. 'doll,' said mr. loftus, the morning after the ball, when all the guests had departed, except the pierpoints, 'i do not expect absolute perfection in my fellow-creatures, but it appeared to me that you fell rather below your usual near approach to it last night. what do _you_ think?' doll answered nothing. 'you see,' went on mr. loftus, 'after twelve o'clock, when everyone unmasked, was the time when i should naturally have introduced sibyl to many of our friends and neighbours, as this was her first public appearance since her marriage, and i could not do so on our arrival. the fact that she had left the house without me, and--without my knowledge--was unfortunate.' it had been more than unfortunate in reality. mr. loftus, whose marriage had made a great sensation in his own county, had been begged on all sides, as soon as the masks were off, to introduce his wife, and, though he had not shown any surprise at her non-appearance and doll's, he had at last been obliged to retire to the men's cloak-room and wait there till his carriage came, so as to obscure the fact that she had departed without him. he had been annoyed at what he took to be doll's heedlessness of appearances. 'she felt ill, and wished to go home,' said doll, reddening, and not perceiving that he was offering an explanation which did not cover the ground. he would have been perfectly satisfied with it himself. 'i greatly fear that she _is_ ill,' said mr. loftus; 'but she was quite well when she went to the ball last night. she is very delicate and excitable. is it possible that anything occurred to upset her?' mr. loftus fixed his keen steel-gray eyes on doll. he had seen, as he saw everything, doll's momentary jealousy of him the evening before. for the life of him doll could not think what to say. it seemed impossible to tell mr. loftus the truth, and he had but little of that inventive talent which envious persons with a small vocabulary call lying. that little had been used up the night before. yet, perhaps, if he had been aware that mr. loftus had seen him with sibyl in the gallery in an attitude which allowed of but few interpretations, his slow mind might have grasped the nettly fact that he must explain. mr. loftus waited. 'my boy,' he said at last, 'i am not only sibyl's husband'--he saw doll wince--'but i am also, i verily believe, her best friend.' there was no answer. a slight, almost imperceptible, change came over mr. loftus's face. he paused a moment, and then went on quietly: 'sibyl is most generous about money--too generous. i am almost afraid of taking an unfair advantage of it, though she presses me to do so. but i am pushing on the repairs everywhere; and i am rebuilding greenfields and springlands from the ground. they will get to work again directly the frost is over. i have the plans here, if you would like to look at them.' he drew a roll out of the writing-table drawer, and spread it on the table. doll perceived with intense relief that the subject was dropped, and he knew mr. loftus well enough to be certain that it would never under any circumstances be reopened. but as he looked at the plans, and mr. loftus pointed out the new well and the various advantages of the designs, it dawned upon doll's consciousness that he was losing something which he had always regarded as a secure possession, and which nothing could replace--mr. loftus's confidence. he had seen it withdrawn in this gentle fashion from other people, who did not find out for years afterwards that it was irrevocably gone. and he became aware that he could not bear to lose it. 'here,' said mr. loftus, putting on his silver-rimmed pince-nez, 'is, or ought to be, the new private road leading out on to the h---highroad. i decided to make it, doll, not only for the convenience of the farm, but also because i cannot let that row of cottages with any certainty until there is an easier means of access to them. my father always intended to make a road there. i only hope,' he said at last, letting the map fly back into a roll, 'that i shall live to pay for all i am doing, but i can't pay for unfinished contracts. if i don't, doll, you will have to raise a mortgage on the property to pay for the actual improvements on it. sibyl has left all her fortune to me, i believe; but as i am certain to go first, wilderleigh will not be the gainer.' and it passed through mr. loftus's mind for the first time that perhaps, after all, sibyl might still marry doll some day. how he had once wished for that marriage he remembered with a sigh. 'it may be. youth turns to youth,' said mr. loftus to himself, as he went up to his wife's room after doll had left. sibyl was ill. a chill, or a shock, or excitement--who shall say which?--had just touched the delicate balance of her health and overset it. it toppled over suddenly without warning, without any of the preliminary struggles by which a strong constitution or a strong will staves off the advance of illness. she gave way entirely and at once, and the night after the night of the ball it would have been difficult to recognise, in the sunk, colourless face and motionless figure, the brilliant, lovely young girl in her little diamond crown. sibyl's illness did not prove dangerous, but it was long. lady pierpoint, who had nursed her before, sent her daughters home, and took her place again by the bedside, with the infinite patience which she had learned in helping her husband down the valley towards the death which at last became the one goal of all their longing, and which had receded before them with every toiling step towards it, till they had both wept together because he could not, could not die. perhaps it was because her husband had gone through the slow mill of consumption that lady pierpoint's heart had so much tenderness for sibyl, for whom only a year ago she had dreaded the same fate. mr. loftus had the nervous horror of, and repugnance to, every form of illness which as often accompanies a refined and sympathetic nature as it does an obtuse and selfish one. and his lonely existence had not brought him into contact with that inevitable side of domestic life. he was extraordinarily ignorant about it, and his natural impulse was to avoid it. but he stood by his wife's bedside, adjusted his pince-nez, and accepted the situation. for many days sibyl would take nothing unless given it by himself, would rouse herself for no voice but his. lady pierpoint marvelled to see him come into sibyl's room at night in his long gray dressing-gown, to administer the food or medicine which the nurse put into his hand. his patience and his kindness did not flag, but it seemed to lady pierpoint as if at this eleventh hour they should not have been demanded of him; and it wounded her--why, it would be hard to say--to watch him do for sibyl with painstaking care the little things which in her own youth her young husband had done for her, the little things which in wedded life are the great things. mr. loftus sometimes made a mistake, and once he forgot that he was married, and was found pacing in the rose-garden oblivious of everything except a political crisis--but only once. he was faithful in that which is least. lady pierpoint felt with a twinge of conscience that when she had endeavoured to bring about this marriage she had been selfishly engrossed in sibyl's welfare. she had not thought enough of his. and gradually sibyl recovered, and went about the house again, wan and feeble, and lady pierpoint left wilderleigh. chapter xi. 'dark is the world to thee? thyself art the reason why.' tennyson. convalescence is often accompanied by a depression of spirits rarely experienced during the illness itself. a weak nature seeks for a cause for this depression in its surroundings, and when it finds one, as it invariably does, it hugs it. these causes, thanks to the assiduity of one whom we are given to understand has seen better days, are seldom far to seek; and it requires a very strong will to hold fast the conviction that these paroxysms of depression arise from physical weakness, and not from some secret woe. sibyl had not a very strong will. after the first novelty of convalescence was past, and she had been installed in her sitting-room in a cascade of lace and ribbons, which her dressmaker called a _saut du lit_, and after mr. loftus had gravitated back towards the library on the ground-floor and his article for the _millennium_, sibyl began to experience that vague weariness and distaste of life which all know who know ill health. it is at this stage that the unprincipled invalid becomes 'the terror of the household and its shame.' it is at this stage that lengths of felt are laid down in passages by tender and injudicious parents, because no sound can be borne by sensitive ears, that the children are 'hushed,' the blinds are drawn down, and doctors who encourage exercise and light are speedily discovered to have misunderstood the delicate constitution with which they have to deal. if sibyl had not had a cause for depression, she would most certainly have manufactured one. but unfortunately she had a real one. the incident of the masked ball rankled. doll had lied. he had done his poor best, but he had not lied well. his eyes had not quite looked her in the face when he told her that mr. loftus had married her for love. his voice had not that emphatic ring which the crude mind ever recognises as the ring of truth, and which in consequence the progressive one applies itself to acquire. her mind, dulled by illness and narcotics, had half forgotten that she had been momentarily distressed. but now the remembrance came back like a nightmare. the grain of sand, blown by chance into her eye, pricked, and she sedulously rubbed it into an inflammation. she remembered now that there had been an earlier incident in his courtship which had not been satisfactorily explained, _when he proposed to her the second time_. sibyl always regarded his offer under the mountain-ash as _the second time_. she had a vague feeling that he had proposed before. she had said as much to one or two friends in confidence. but now that she came to think of it, she remembered that it was she who had proposed _the first time_, and had been refused. this minor detail of an uncomfortable incident had until now almost slipped out of her memory, which, like that of many women whose buoyancy depends on the conviction of the admiration of others, seldom harboured anything likely to prove a worm in that bud. but now she applied to the whole subject that mental friction which morbid minds believe to be reflection, until it became, so to speak, inflamed. why had he sworn before the altar and the bishop to love her, if he did not love her? she became tearful, listless, apathetic. she sat for hours looking into the fire, unemployed, uninterested. the evil spirit which ever lurks in sofas and couches whispered in her ear, when it pressed the cushions, that she was indeed miserable, that her husband avoided her, that she was an unloved martyr, that no one felt for her or sympathized with her. it did not tell her that she had been married for her money, simply because no sane person could look at mr. loftus and believe that. but she changed in manner towards him. she was cold, formal. she turned away her head when he came into the room, and then when he had left it wept in secret because she had been married out of pity. and yet in her heart of hearts, if she had such a thing, had she not partly guessed that fact long ago, and wilfully shut her eyes to it? the chance words she had overheard were only the confirmation of a latent misgiving. does any woman ever really remain in ignorance if she is not loved, or if she has been married for other reasons than love? what constant props and supports she had given to mr. loftus's love for her! it had never been allowed to stand alone. why had she from the first always bolstered it up by continually saying to herself and others, until she almost believed it: 'my husband is so devoted to me. my love is such a little thing beside his. what have i done to deserve such a great devotion?' how often she had said all these things that tepidly-loved women say! seeming to observe nothing, mr. loftus saw all, and pondered over the reason of her altered appearance, and her visibly changed feeling towards himself since the night of the masked ball. if it were that her health was threatened as it had been before her marriage, why should her affection towards himself have undergone this change? could it be anything to do with doll? and in these days sibyl was more frequently in his thoughts than in the early days of his marriage with her. the thought of her came between him and the political article which the editor of the _millennium_ had asked for. 'time will show,' he would say to himself, with a sigh, taking up his pen again. one afternoon soon afterwards he came into her sitting-room, and found her in tears. 'has crack said anything unkind?' he asked gently, while crack beat his tail in the depths of the fur rug in courteous recognition of his own name. 'no,' she said, turning her head away. 'have i, then?' sitting down by her. 'no.' 'then, my child, what is it?' 'nothing,' she said faintly. there was a pause. 'is it the same nothing that troubled you the night of the ball?' he saw her start and shrink away from him. 'oh! did doll tell you?' she gasped, turning crimson. 'my dear, he told me nothing,' said mr. loftus gently, moving slightly away from her, and looking at her with grave attention. he greatly feared that unhappiness was before her in some form or other. he waited in the hope that she would speak to him of her own accord. but she only began to cry again. she was still weak. was it possible that she was afraid of him? what could be troubling her that she, who did not know what reticence meant, could fear to tell him, which yet doll knew? doll was in love with her. had he lost his head on the night of the ball? had she discovered that she and doll were young? 'crack,' said mr. loftus, 'i have a very neglectful wife. i come to ask for something for my headache, and she pays no attention to me at all.' in earlier days sibyl would have been on the alert in a moment if mr. loftus's sacred head confessed an ache. now she moved slowly to the writing-table and produced certain innocuous remedies which he had brought to her and asked her to apply for him after that terrible time when he had had an attack of the heart and had repulsed her. presently the headache was better, and mr. loftus went back to the library and lit his pipe, which was remarkable, because he was as a rule unable to smoke after a headache. he sat motionless a long time, his eyes fixed. 'i hope,' he said at last, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, 'that i shall not live to become sibyl's natural enemy, for i think i am about the only real friend she has in the world.' and the small seed that would have quickened in another man's heart into a deep-rooted jealousy remained upon the surface of his mind as a misgiving, which took the form of anxiety for her. chapter xii. 'oui, sans doute, tout meurt; ce monde est un grand rãªve, et le peu de bonheur qui nous vient en chemin, nous n'avons pas plus tã´t ce roseau dans la main, que le vent nous l'enlã¨ve.' alfred de musset. sibyl continued pale and listless, and presently mr. loftus found fault with her gowns. they were not new enough. the colours of her tea-gowns did not suit her. he suggested that she should go to london to lady pierpoint's house for a few days to see her dressmaker, and added, as an afterthought, that he should like her to consult the specialist to whom she had gone on former occasions, and whose name he had reason to remember. sibyl received the suggestion of this visit in silence. she did not oppose herself to it, but left the room to shed a torrent of angry tears in private. the truth, which seldom visited her feeble judgment, did not tell her that mr. loftus was anxious about her health. hysteria took up the tale instead, and officiously informed her that he was tired of her. he wanted to get rid of her. men were always like that after they had been married a little time. what was a woman's love and devotion to them when the first novelty had worn off? she would go. she would certainly go; and when she was gone she would write to him, telling him that she saw only too plainly that his love for her was dead, and that she had decided never to return, and at the same time making over to him her entire fortune, reserving only for herself a pittance, on which she would live in seclusion in a cottage in some remote locality. she was somewhat consoled as she thought over the dignified, the harrowing letter which she would compose in london. parts of it, as she repeated them to herself, moved her to tears. a new sullenness was added to the previous listlessness of her demeanour. she parted from mr. loftus with studied indifference. mr. loftus missed her, not altogether unpleasantly, when she left him. it was the first time that she had been a day away from him since their marriage. life was certainly very tranquil without her. he wrote her a charming little letter every day of the three days she was away. doll was with him on business. now that sibyl was absent, something of the old affection and confidence returned between them, which shrank away in her presence; but not quite all. at times, as they were talking, the younger man longed to break down the slight, almost imperceptible barrier that his stupid untimely silence had raised. but he could not do it. he could not take the plunge. mr. loftus, however, who would not have done such a thing for worlds, unwittingly gave him a push. 'the spring coppice wants thinning,' he said to doll the third morning. 'we will go up and mark the trees this afternoon.' 'i am going away to-day,' said doll sullenly. 'stay another day,' said mr. loftus. 'mrs. gresley tells me that the sight of her happy home, and mr. gresley, and the church-tower as viewed from the spare bedroom of the vicarage, have proved a turning-point in the lives of many wild young men. stay another day, doll, and i will emulate mrs. gresley. it will do you good.' 'uncle george,' stammered the young man with sudden anger, 'will you never, never understand? have you forgotten that it is not a year ago since i told you--in this very room--and you said you would help me. i can't meet sibyl; and--and she is coming back to-day. i tried in the winter, and--it was a failure.' mr. loftus had momentarily forgotten sibyl, as he had done once before when she was ill. 'i beg your pardon, doll,' he said, his pale face reddening. 'i ought to have remembered.' there was a constrained silence. 'it need not come between us,' said mr. loftus at last. 'you must not let it do that.' 'i can't help it,' said doll. 'it does. it must.' 'sibyl's happiness,' said mr. loftus sadly, 'seems to be a costly article. a great deal has been spent upon it, apparently without making it secure. if we have any real regard for her, we must manage to save that between us, doll, whatever else goes by the board.' 'what do you take me for?' said doll fiercely. 'a good man,' said mr. loftus, 'and the person i care for most in the world.' sibyl's letter to mr. loftus was never written. at least it was written, as, indeed, were several, and read over and retouched at night in her own room; but even the best of the assortment remained unposted. sibyl brought back her wan face and limp figure to wilderleigh a few hours after doll had left it, and heard with bitterness that he had been staying there. she had pictured to herself mr. loftus alone, missing her at every moment of the day, realizing the withdrawal of the sunshine of her presence. this was a 'high jump,' on the bar of which, it must be owned, even her practised imagination caught its toe. and now she found that doll had been with him all the time--doll, whom he cared for more than for his wife. he had not missed her, after all. probably he and doll had been discussing her. she had been jealous of doll ever since she had seen mr. loftus take his arm during her first visit to wilderleigh before she was married. her jealousy revived now. for the remainder of the day sibyl met mr. loftus with averted eyes and monosyllabic answers, rehearsing in her mind parting scenes with him which were to prove more poignantly distressing to him than the best of the letters, and in which he was to appeal in vain (imagination caught its toe once more) against her irrevocable determination to leave for ever one who had married her for other motives than love. she could see herself in evening dress, pale as the jasmine flower in her breast, mournful but unflinching, withdrawing her hand, and saying, in reply to the moving representation which he would of course make of his loneliness: 'you have doll!' she decided that she would not say more than that. no reproach should pass her lips. 'you have doll!' what words for a young wife to be forced to use to her husband! her hands clenched in an agony of self-pity. what a cruel situation was hers! so sibyl walked in her waking dream, and her husband watched her. 'is it the body that is ill, or is it the mind?' he asked himself. later in the day the doctor's letter to himself--mr. loftus had written to him asking for a frank statement of sibyl's condition--confirmed his worst fears for her. 'mrs. loftus's health is endangered, not by her recent illness, of which no trace appears, but by some anxiety. she does not deny that she is suffering from great depression. unless that anxiety, whatever it may be, can be removed, her morbid condition, if prolonged, will give rise to grave apprehension as to her future.' mr. loftus had heard something very like this before--about nine months ago. he had removed a mountain in order to remove with it the first cause of her unhappiness, and now unhappiness had reappeared. no one had guessed--no one had been allowed to guess--what an effort his marriage had been to him. and it had availed nothing. he dropped the letter into the fire, and, as he did so, exhaustion and an intense weariness of life laid hold upon him. he knew well the touch of those stern hands, but this evening, as he sat alone in the library, it seemed to him as if he had never endured their full pressure until now. chapter xiii. 'o world, o life, o time. o these last steps on which i climb.' shelley. for those who do not sleep, life has two sides--the side of night as well as day--and the heaviest hour of the day or night is the hour before the dawn, when the night-lamp totters and dies, and the ashen light of another day falls like despair on the familiar articles of furniture, the chairs, the table, the wardrobe, which have been up all night like ourselves, taking the imprint of our exhaustion through the interminable hours, and which look older and more haggard than ever in the changed light which brings nor change nor rest. those who sleep at night, for whom each day is not divided by a gulf of pain, who look upon the darkness as a time of rest, and the morning as a time of waking, know one side of life, perhaps, as the passers-by in the street know one side of the hospital as they skirt it--the outside wall. mr. loftus slept ill, and the night after sibyl's return he woke early. the gray light was just showing above the white blinds as he had seen it so many, many times. would the morning ever come, he wondered, when he should no longer open his eyes upon the dawn, when 'these last steps' should be climbed, and effort would cease, and weariness might lie down and cease also? the premonitory tremor, the shudder of coming illness, laid its hand upon him, and with it came that physical recoil of the flesh from solitude before which the strongest will goes down. involuntarily he got up and went to sibyl's room. he opened the door noiselessly and looked in. the room felt deserted. he went up to the bed; it was empty. a great fear fell upon him. had she left him? poor, poor child! had she left him, as that other wife had left him in the half-forgotten past, buried beneath so many years? can any man whose wife has forsaken him ever quite forget that he has once been deserted, that the road which leads away from him has known a woman's footsteps, and another may walk in it? he stood still and listened. the spirit had over-mastered the flesh. all suffering had vanished. from the next room, sibyl's sitting-room, which opened out of her bedroom, a faint sound came. he noiselessly crossed, and looked through the half-open door, and thanked god. sibyl was lying on her face on the polished floor in her night-gown, moaning and sobbing, a white blot upon the dark boards. he had seen her lie like that once before, among the bracken in the park, in the entire abandonment of young despair. the vague suspicion of many weeks dropped its disguise, and stood revealed, an awful figure between them, between the old man in his gray hair and the young, young wife. he withdrew stealthily, regained his own room, and sat down in the armchair. that passion of tears could flow from one source only. he knew sibyl well enough to know that she had no tears, no strong emotion, for anything except that which affected her own personal happiness. her slight nature could not reach to impersonal love, any more than it could reach to righteous anger. all this apparent failure of health and listlessness had a mental cause, as he had always feared, as he now knew for certain. she was unhappy. 'she has ceased to love me,' said mr. loftus to himself, 'and she is in despair. doll loves her, and she has found it out. those tears are for doll.' there was a long pause of thought. he started at the remembrance that she was probably still lying on the floor in her thin night-gown. he got up, and tapped distinctly at the door of her bedroom. at first there was no reply, but after the second time there was a slight hurried movement and a faint 'come in.' he went in. she had crept back into bed, as he had hoped she would at the sound of his tap. 'may i have your salts?' he said, taking them from the dressing-table. 'i have waked with a headache.' 'can i do anything for it?' she asked, but without moving, her miserable eyes following his thin, gaunt figure in its gray dressing-gown. 'nothing, my dear, except forgive me for disturbing you.' 'i was not asleep,' said sibyl, yielding to the impulse, irresistible to some women, to approach the subject which they are trying to conceal. he took the salts, and went back to his own room, closing the door carefully. but he did not use them. he sighed heavily as he sat down again in the old armchair in which he had so often watched the light grow behind the welsh hills. there was another pause of thought, and he remembered again doll's confession of the day before. 'poor children!' he said--'poor children!' and he remembered his own youth and its devastating passions, and the woman whom he had loved in middle life, and how nearly once--how nearly---and he and she had been stronger than doll and sibyl. 'god forgive me!' he said; 'i meant well.' there was another pause. 'i knew her love could not last,' his mind went on. 'it was too extravagant, and it had no foundation. but i thought it would last my time, and it has not. i have outlived it; i am in the way.' mr. loftus had never willingly been in the way of anyone before. his tact had so far saved him. but a kind intention had betrayed him at last. 'i am in the way,' he repeated, 'and i am fond of them both, and i think they are both fond of me. but they will come to hate me.' the light was strong and white now, and a butterfly on the window-sill, that had mistaken spring for summer, waked, and began to beat its wings against the pane. he rose wearily, and opened the old-fashioned window wide upon its hinges. the butterfly flew away into the spring morning. 'my other butterfly,' he said--'my pretty butterfly, who mistook the spring for summer, breaking your heart against the prison windows of my worn-out life--i will release you, too!' he took up the little silver flask that always stood on his dressing-table at night and lived in his pocket by day, and which contained the only remedy which a great doctor could find for his attacks of the heart, by means of which he had been till now kept in life. 'i have a right to do it,' he said. 'i can only help them by going away. and if i am in the wrong, upon my head be it.' he checked himself in the act of emptying the contents of the flask into the dead fire. 'a right?' he said. 'what right have i to shirk the consequences of my own actions? what right to be a coward? no; i will not go away until i receive permission to do so. i will stay while it is required of me.' he sighed heavily, and replaced the flask upon the dressing-table. 'patience,' he said. 'i thought i had seen the last of you. i am tired of you. but, nevertheless, i must put up with you a little longer.' chapter xiv. 'as the water is dried upon sands, so a life flieth back to the dust.'--sir alfred lyall. how sibyl spent the morning that followed she never knew. she dared not go out of doors. the world of spring, with the new breath of life in it, mocked her. the song of the birds hurt her. she felt as if she should scream outright if she saw the may-blossom against the sky. she wandered aimlessly about the house, and at last crept back to her own room and lay down on her bed, and turned her face to the wall. the day went on. her maid brought her soup, and drew down the blinds, and was pettishly dismissed. the afternoon came. they were mowing the grass on the terrace on the south front. the faint scent of newly-cut grass came in through the open window, and seemed, through the senses, to reach some acute nerve of the brain. she moaned, and buried her face in the pillows. presently the mowing ceased, and everything became very silent. a bluebottle fly, pressed for time, rushed in, made the circuit of the room, and rushed out again. far away in the other wing, on the ground-floor, she heard the library door open. she knew mr. loftus's slow, even step. it crossed the hall; it entered the orangery; it came out through the orangery door, down the stone steps to the terrace below her window. she could hear his step on the gravel outside in the crisp air. crack gave a short bark in recognition of the spring, and satisfaction that the long morning of arranging papers and the afternoon of letter-writing were at last over. the steps dwindled and died away into the sunny silence. it seemed to sibyl's overwrought mind that he was walking slowly out of her life, and that unless she made haste to follow him she would lose him altogether. with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she sprang to her feet, and put on her hat and shoes. then she braved the spring, and went swiftly out. * * * * * a great tranquillity had fallen upon mr. loftus. he had made up his mind. after a turn along the terrace, he and crack went into the little wood near the gardens, and sat down under the pink horse-chestnut-tree, just blushing into flower. it would have been difficult to put the arrangement into words, but there was a tacit understanding between the husband and wife that when mr. loftus sat under that particular tree he did not mind being interrupted. sibyl generally fluttered out to him after he had been there a few minutes, though the wood was out of sight of the windows. and he waited for her to come to him now. spring had returned at last. but you might have walked through the wood and not known she was there: have seen only the naked trees, and the gray twigs of the alder, bleached white where the rabbits had bitten them in the frost. but if you had stopped to listen and look as mr. loftus did, you would have seen and heard her; seen her in the blue haze, and the mystery of change that lurked among the gray twigs, and in the rare primroses among the brown leaves; heard her in the persistent double-tongue of the chiff-chaff, and, not near at hand, but two trees away, in the ripple of the goldfinch, with a little question at the end of it. is it a hint of immortality, that haunting desire and expectation of happiness which comes with the primroses, that longing for some future year when the spring shall bring with it no heartache, the autumn no contrition; of another year, somewhere in the future, when the ills of life will be done away? mr. loftus looked straight in front of him, and his face took an expression as of one whose eyes are on a goal where even patience itself, so visible in every line of his quiet face, will at last with other burdens be laid aside. she saw him before he saw her, as she came towards him. her heart went out to him wistfully and passionately by turns. she longed to turn to him as a young wife turns to a young husband, and cry her heart out on his breast, and be petted, and caressed, and comforted. but she dared not. whatever besides she was ignorant of, she had learnt certain things about her husband, and one of them was that she must never show her devotion unasked. and she was seldom asked. her life was a constant repression of its greatest, its only real affection. as she came towards him he roused himself and smiled at her. she sat down by him in silence. he had a single primrose in the buttonhole of his coat, and he took it out and drew it very gently through the russian embroidery on her bodice. 'when i was young, sibyl,' he said, 'i was convinced, and the conviction has never wholly left me, that flowers are god's thoughts which he sows broadcast in the hearts of all alike. but we will have none of them, and they drop unheeded to the ground. but the faithful earth receives them--thoughts despised and rejected of us--and nurses them in her bosom, and they come forth transfigured. and that is why, when we see them again, we love them so much, and feel akin to them.' her locked hands trembled on her knee. 'it must have been a beautiful thought that could turn into a lily,' he went on, noting, but ignoring, her emotion. 'i wonder, if it had fallen into a poet's heart, what it would have grown into. nothing more beautiful, i think. and i know the primroses are first love. i have felt sure of that always. i wonder, my sibyl, when there is so much in your heart for me, that there are any left to come out in the woods; but there are a few, you see, among the brown leaves.' 'they will soon be over,' said sibyl, turning her head away. 'yes,' said mr. loftus, with a gentleness which was new to sibyl, and he was always gentle. 'they will die presently, as first love dies. but nevertheless it is a beautiful gift while it lasts, and we must not grieve because, like the primroses, it cannot last in flower _for ever_. i have lived through so many feelings, sibyl, i have seen so many die which seemed immortal, that i have long since ceased to count on the permanence of any.' he leant towards her, and for the first time he took her slender hands and kissed them. it was as if he were readjusting his position towards her, reassuring her of his trust and confidence and sympathy, supporting her in some great trouble. she leaned her forehead against his shoulder, and a sense of comfort came across her desolation, as if she were leaning her faint soul against his soul. he put his arm round her, and drew her closer to him. 'my darling!' he said, and there was an emotion in his voice which she had never heard in it before. her hat had slipped off, and he passed his hand very tenderly over her hair. sibyl's over-strained nerves relaxed. some of the craving of her heart and its long yearning was stilled by the touch of his hand. ah! he loved her, after all--certainly he loved her. doll was right, after all. how foolish she had been to cry all night! certainly he loved her. she could not speak. she could not weep. she could only lean against him. she had never known him like this before. it was this that she had always wanted, all her life, long before she had ever met him. 'you have been so good to me,' he went on, 'from the first day of our married life when i was ill. do you remember? and i know that your dear love and kindness will not fail me while i live. i thank and bless you for all you have given me, your whole spring of primroses; and now that spring is passing, as it must, sibyl, as it must, not by your fault, take comfort, and when other feelings come into your heart, as they have come in, do not reproach yourself, do not cut me to the heart by grieving, but remember that i understand, and that my love and honour and gratitude can never change towards you, and that i too was young once: as young as--doll, and there is no need for you and him to be so miserable. it will only be--like a--long engagement.' as the drift of his words gradually became clear to her, sibyl insensibly shrank back as from an abyss before her feet. but in another moment she took in their whole meaning. she pushed him from her with sudden violence, and stood before him, her hands clenched, her eyes blazing, her slender figure shaking with passion. 'how dare you!' she stammered. 'how dare you insult me?' he put out his hand feebly, and she struck it down. 'what is doll to me?' she went on, 'to me, _your wife_! oh, will you never, never understand that i love you, that i worship you, that i care for nothing in the whole world but you, and that i cried all night because you married me out of pity?' sibyl wrung her hands. 'oh! how dared you do it, how dared you swear to love me before god, if you did not, if you could not? i am too miserable. i cannot bear it--i cannot bear it!' he sat like one stunned. his hand went to his heart. in a moment her arms were round him, and his head was on her shoulder. 'forgive,' he repeated over and over again, between the long-drawn gasps which shook him from head to foot. and then the battle for life began. she found his little flask in his pocket, and managed to make him swallow the contents. he struggled, but she upheld him. her strength was as the strength of ten. at last, all in a moment, the struggle ceased, and a light came into his fixed eyes of awe and thankfulness, and--was it joy? he did not move. he did not speak. his whole being seemed absorbed in that of some vast enfolding presence. she called him wildly by name. he trembled, and his troubled eyes, with all the light blown out of them, wandered back to seek hers. death looked at her through them. he saw her as across a gulf. he recognised her. he remembered. he had hoped that when he came to die it might be quietly, without a scene, but it was not to be. he made a last effort. 'not for pity--for----' he gasped, his ebbing breath winnowing the air. but death cut short the lie faltering on his lips, and his head fell suddenly forward on her breast. she held him closely to her, murmuring incoherent words of love and tenderness, such as she had never dared to speak while he had ears to hear. * * * * * how long she had knelt beside him, holding him in her arms, the frightened servants, who at last found them after sunset, never knew. and when they came to lay him in his coffin, they saw on one of the thin folded hands a faint blue mark, as from a blow. postscript. sibyl was an inconsolable widow. her grief reached a depth which placed her beyond the succour of human sympathy, and lady pierpoint, who had lost her young husband in her youth, was felt to take a superficial view of sibyl's bereavement. she shut herself up at wilderleigh for a year and refused comfort, and then suddenly married doll, the only man except mr. gresley whom she had allowed to see her during her widowhood. in rather less than a month after her marriage with him she made the interesting discovery that he was the only man in the world who really understood her. his gift of platitude, harmonizing as it did with hers, was an inexhaustible source of admiration to her. she was wont to say in confidence to her woman friends, that, devotedly as she had loved her first husband, she had found her ideal in her second one; and that it was to doll she owed the real development of her character, a subject in which she took great interest. for some years, while her daughter remained an only child, she was passionately devoted to her. but when her son was born she ceased to take much interest in the little girl, who was by this, time rather spoilt, and consequently tiresome. doll, who proved exemplary in domestic life, took to her when sibyl forgot her, and became deeply attached to her. later in life sibyl became inconsolably jealous of her daughter. the end. billing and sons, printers, guildford. novels from _mr. edward arnold's list_. by the author of 'the red badge of courage.' george's mother. by stephen crane. cloth, 2s. _saturday review._ 'from first to last it goes with immense vigour and sympathy. but the story must be read for its power to be understood; quotation fails, for the simple reason that it is a bare story and nothing beyond. apart from its distinctive qualities, english readers will welcome this book as an indication of the growth of a real and independent critical method across the atlantic, side by side and directing really original work.' _athenã¦um._ 'a striking scene of the relations, in a rough world, between a boy and his mother.' _speaker._ 'stephen crane proved conclusively in "the red badge of courage" his possession of an extraordinary power of vivid and accurate vision expressed with startling poignancy of phrase; and in his later production, "george's mother," we find the same rugged directness and almost savage intensity, the same contempt for conventional graces of style, and the love for violent colouring, which marked his previous work.' _daily chronicle._ 'the gradual progress of deterioration in george kelcey is very briefly but very cleverly and convincingly set out.' _st. james's gazette._ 'it is a _tour de force_ of description and analysis, this terrible scene of george's debauch--not in the least laboured, or zolaistic, or photographic, but amazingly actual, and lightened with a grim sense of humour.' by the author of 'into the highways and hedges.' worth while. by f. f. montrã�sor, author of 'into the highways and hedges,' 'the one who looked on.' crown 8vo., cloth, 2s. 6d. _academy._ 'the quiet excellence of miss montrã©sor's little book may likely enough cause it to lie unnoticed among its thrilling companions. there is, none the less, more of art and literature in two short sketches than one is likely to meet with again in a hurry. if inferior work, gaudily bedraped, gets all the encores, in the shape of many editions, i cannot think she will greatly care. such work as hers only comes, as the proverb has it, by prayer and fasting. and she will receive ungrudging praise from those who revere sterling merit, and respect labour at once unobtrusive, competent, sincere.' _guardian._ '"worth while" is a real idyll of a life's sacrifice, most sweetly and touchingly told.' _glasgow herald._ 'both the stories in this volume are of very superior quality. the characters are distinctly original, and the workmanship is admirable.' _manchester mercury._ 'although the two stories contained in the present volume are comparatively short, they serve to display the author's peculiar gifts in a striking manner.' _liverpool courier._ 'two most pathetic and beautiful stories make up this little volume. the writer is to be congratulated on the delicate beauty of her stories.' by the author of 'the apotheosis of mr. tyrawley.' a mask and a martyr. by e. livingston prescott. one vol., crown 8vo., cloth, 6s. _westminster gazette._ 'this is an undeniably clever book. a picture of self-sacrifice so complete and so enduring is a rare picture in fiction, and has rarely been more ably or more finely drawn. this singular and pathetic story is told all through with remarkable restraint, and shows a strength and skill of execution which place its author high among the novel-writers of the day.' _daily telegraph._ 'there is no doubt that this is a striking book. the story it has to tell is thoroughly original and unconventional, while the manner of telling shows much restrained power.' _spectator._ 'mr. prescott has evidently a future before him.' _pall mall gazette._ 'mr. prescott has given us a clever and an interesting book. we have seldom read of such superhuman courage, such transcendent love, as mr. prescott has shown us in his masterly picture of captain cosmo harradyne, of the fighting hussars. a story which we confidently, nay, earnestly, recommend to our readers; they will thank us for doing so.' _national observer._ 'a book which has much cleverness of treatment, an excellent style, a great deal of interest, a high ideal, and a real pathos. perhaps it is not necessary to add that a novel of which so much can be said is one greatly above the common run of fiction. the book should be, and we have no doubt will be, read with real interest by many people.' 'one of the best stories of the season.'--_daily chronicle._ hadjira, _a turkish love story_. by adalet. one volume, crown 8vo., cloth, 6s. _speaker._ 'certainly one of the most interesting and valuable works of fiction issued from the press for a long time past. even if we were to regard the book as an ordinary novel, we could commend it heartily; but its great value lies in the fact that it reveals to us a hidden world, and does so with manifest fidelity. but the reader must learn for himself the lesson which this remarkable and fascinating book teaches.' _daily chronicle._ 'a turkish love story written in excellent english by a young ottoman lady, would be a book worth reading, if only as a curiosity; but when, as in this instance, it is of uncommon merit and originality, it is particularly welcome. it is deeply interesting, fascinatingly so. it is as a picture of family life in turkey that this book is so interesting, possibly because the picture it provides is unexpectedly agreeable. as a study of turkish life in our times, when western civilization is beginning to penetrate into the seclusion of the harem, this book is a valuable contribution to contemporary literature. it is a well-merited compliment to its author to say of "hadjira" that it is one of the best stories of the season.' _pall mall gazette._ 'an interesting and readable book.' _st. james's gazette._ 'the book is excellently written. as a clearly truthful account of modern turkish life, from the woman's point of view, it is as valuable as it is interesting. we shall hope to have more from the same pen.' _guardian._ 'a curiously interesting bit of work.' a reluctant evangelist. by alice spinner, author of 'lucilla,' 'a study in colour,' etc. crown 8vo., 1 vol., 6s. _saturday review._ '"a reluctant evangelist" is as good as its predecessor "lucilla," which we were glad to be able to praise last year. the west indies, with their "colour problem," their weird romance and undercurrent of horror, will last a long time as background for new stories.' _glasgow herald._ 'it is into the wonderland of the west indies that miss spinner takes us: into a region of hot sunshine, of blue sky, of sparkling sea. all the stories are excellent, and will repay perusal.' _pall mall gazette._ 'good, too, is miss spinner's budget of short stories. "buckra tommie" is an exquisitely pathetic story. the writer is evidently at home in the south seas, and with the out-of-the-way humanity she meets there.' _irish times._ 'a charming little series of stories. they are very daintily written, and although the incidents upon which they turn are not always very striking, they are at all events novel, and they have been conceived with much dramatic power.' _cape times._ 'these short stories are all distinctly good.' _englishman._ 'we can strongly recommend these stories. they are varied and interesting, and have a distinct literary merit.' interludes. by maud oxenden. one volume, crown 8vo., 6s. _scotsman._ 'the writer is to be congratulated on the strength with which she portrays men and women, and describes the passions of love or of grief that sometimes fill the mind. there are other personages in these pages, whose experiences of love and joy and grief are under other circumstances than those indicated; but if the writer had depicted none other than the three personages that appear in the tragic scene in london she would have scored a distinct success. an admirably-written book.' _sheffield telegraph._ 'we have not read anything so tenderly touched with pathos, and at the same time so delicately told, for a very long time. indeed, "interludes" is about as good a piece of literary work of its class as we could wish to read, and is worth a high place in the works which appeal to the emotional in our nature.' _bradford observer._ 'the stories evince a considerable and disciplined faculty of invention which, though it produces situations of intense interest, never becomes riotous or extravagant. we will close our too brief note with an expression of the pleasure we have felt in reading these chaste and beautiful fancies.' _guardian._ 'there is much that is both clever and original in miss oxenden's "interludes." there is often very genuine pathos, and nearly all the volume is interesting.' twenty-second thousand. stephen remarx. _the story of a venture in ethics._ by the hon. and rev. james adderley. small 8vo., elegantly bound, 3s. 6d.; paper, 1s. _daily telegraph._ 'written with a vigour, warmth, and sincerity which cannot fail to captivate the reader's attention and command his respect.' _saturday review._ 'let us express our thankfulness at encountering, for once in a way, an author who can amuse us.' _star._ 'the book is charmingly written.' _guardian._ 'not only do we agree with mr. adderley in his general objects, and in many of his fundamental principles, but we believe that the path of reform lies very much in the direction to which he has pointed.' _daily chronicle._ 'the story is one of a novel kind, and many people will find it interesting and very suggestive.' _rock._ 'a little but very notable volume.' _record._ 'a little book, but one of which much will be heard.' dave's sweetheart. by mary gaunt. one vol., 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d. _spectator._ 'it is interesting to watch the literature which is coming over to us from australia, a portion of which is full of promise, but we may safely say that of all the novels that have been laid before readers in this country, "dave's sweetheart," in a literary point of view and as a finished production, takes a higher place than any that has yet appeared. from the opening scene to the closing page we have no hesitation in predicting that not a word will be skipped even by the most _blasã©_ of novel readers.' _daily telegraph._ 'in every respect one of the most powerful and impressive novels of the year.' _tablet._ 'essentially a strong book. the writer has a wonderfully clean way of describing the elemental facts of life, and lets her plummet-line go down deep into the depths of human tears. the book is of interest down to the last line.' _weekly sun._ 'the narrative is throughout animated, and rises occasionally to heights of great dramatic power, whilst the picture of life in the diggings is delineated in a way that compels admiration.' _morning post._ 'the action is rapid and well-developed, the incidents exciting, as becomes the nature of the subject, and the human interest unusually deep.' _times._ 'a vigorous and dramatic story of the early gold-digging days in victoria. "dave's sweetheart" is a good story.' _guardian._ 'many books of australian life have come before us lately, and to none of them are we inclined to give more honest praise than to "dave's sweetheart."' _speaker._ 'alike from a dramatic and a literary point of view, "dave's sweetheart" is admirably told, with restraint and with distinction.' tommy atkins. a tale of the ranks. by robert blatchford, author of 'a son of the forge,' 'merrie england,' etc. second edition. crown 8vo., cloth, 6s. _bradford observer._ 'a splendid narrative of the barrack life of the rank and file.' _eastern morning news._ 'there is not a dull page in the book.' _glasgow herald._ 'most vigorous and picturesque sketches of barrack life.' _scotsman._ 'entertaining throughout, and reveals high literary ability.' _dundee advertiser._ 'a really vivacious book; the incidents are so well selected that the reader never wearies from start to finish.' _liverpool post._ 'the book is both clever and amusing.' _broad arrow._ 'for this well-conceived, well-written, and well-informed little story we have little but commendation to offer.' the bayonet that came home. by n. wynn williams, author of 'tales of modern greece.' crown 8vo., 3s. 6d. _dundee advertiser._ 'well worth perusing.' _national observer._ 'mr. williams's story of modern greece throws a curious light on her corrupt politics, on petty oppression, and on the conscription, with its attendant hardships to the peasant population.' _glasgow herald._ 'a powerfully-written and vivid little story.' by the author of 'aunt anne.' love-letters of a worldly woman. by mrs. w. k. clifford, author of 'aunt anne,' 'mrs. keith's crime,' etc. cloth, 2s. 6d. _queen._ 'one of the cleverest books that ever a woman wrote.' _morning post._ 'it is that _rara avis_--a volume characterized by knowledge of human nature and brightened by refined wit.' _world._ 'a book that will gladden the hearts of those who love literature for its own sake.' _review of reviews._ 'many writers have pictured to us a woman, but none more successfully than mrs. clifford, whose madge brooke stands forth distinct and almost flesh and blood--a human document.' on the threshold. by isabella o. ford, author of 'miss blake, of monkshalton.' cloth, 3s. 6d. _guardian._ 'it is a relief to turn from many of the novels that come before us to miss ford's true, penetrating, and sympathetic description of the lives of some of the women of our day.' _bradford observer._ 'those who have followed and admired miss ford's active social and political work will be interested in this latest work of hers, and will understand its special characteristics. it only remains to be added that the literary workmanship of the book is excellent.' _hearth and home._ 'a decidedly clever book.' misther o'ryan. an incident in the history of a nation. by edward mcnulty. small 8vo., elegantly bound, 3s. 6d. _national observer._ '"ould paddy" and the "poor dark cratur" are as pathetic figures as any we have met with in recent romance, and would alone stamp their creator as a writer of real force and originality.' _pall mall gazette._ 'an extremely well-written satire of the possibilities of blarney and brag.' _bookman._ 'an irish story of far more than ordinary ability.' _church times._ 'a sad story, but full of racy irish wit.' _yorkshire post._ 'it is a book to circulate everywhere, a book which, by its pathos and its power, its simplicity and its vivid truth, will impress the mind as the logic and the reasoning of the statesman too rarely do.' ormisdal. by the earl of dunmore, f.r.g.s., author of 'the pamirs.' one vol., cloth, 6s. _glasgow herald._ 'in this breezy and entertaining novel lord dunmore has given us a very readable and racy story of the life that centres in a highland shooting, about the end of august.' _st. james's gazette._ 'the impression left on the mind after laying down "ormisdal" is that lord dunmore is a remarkably lucky man to lead such a pleasant life among such charming people and in such charming places, and that everybody will be delighted to hear from him again, when he has more of the same sort to tell us, whether he wraps it up in a book of personal anecdote or a novel.' that fiddler fellow. _a tale of st. andrews._ by horace g. hutchinson, author of 'my wife's politics,' 'golf,' 'creatures of circumstance,' etc. popular edition, crown 8vo., cloth, 2s. 6d. _spectator._ 'a singularly ingenious and interesting tale.' _the world._ 'what mr. hutchinson writes is always pleasant to read.' _the guardian._ 'a strange history of hypnotism and crime, which will delight any lover of the grim and terrible.' _national observer._ 'an excellent story.' the bondwoman. _a story of the northmen in lakeland._ by w. g. collingwood, author of 'thorstein of the mere,' 'the life and work of john ruskin,' etc. cloth, 16mo., 3s. 6d. _leeds mercury._ 'as for the thrilling details of the plot, and the other sterling charms of the little work, we must refer our readers to its pages, especially those of them who may be touring, or contemplating a tour, in westmorland and cumberland.' _manchester guardian._ 'mr. collingwood has attempted the almost impossible task of constructing the social life of a remote period, of evolving from dry and doubtful specimens the pulse and colour of a bygone age, and his success has been remarkable.' _glasgow herald._ 'his story is a stirring and vigorous one, which can hardly fail to take hold of the imagination and leave a vivid impression on it.' two famous french novels. the tutor's secret. (_le secret du prã�cepteur._) translated from the french of victor cherbuliez. one volume, crown 8vo., cloth, 6s. _daily chronicle._ 'm. cherbuliez is to be congratulated on having found a translator who has done justice to him, and to do justice to m. cherbuliez is no mean achievement, for he is one of the most artistic and delightful of modern french novelists. he is also one of the few whose works may be safely left lying about where the young person is prone to penetrate. in "the tutor's secret" all his finest qualities are to be found.' _manchester guardian._ 'an admirable translation of a delightful novel. those who have not read it in french must hasten to read it in english.' _westminster gazette_. 'if victor cherbuliez did not already possess a great reputation his latest production would have been quite sufficient to secure him renown as a novelist. from the first line to the last we recognise a master hand at work, and there is not a page that even the veriest skimmer will care to pass over.' the mystery of the rue soly. from the french of h. de balzac, by lady knutsford. one volume, 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d. _spectator._ 'to place a first-rate foreign novel in reach of those whose education does not enable them to enjoy it in the original is to confer a real boon upon them; and everyone who is not a french scholar has much cause to be grateful to lady knutsford for the capital translation of balzac's renowned ferragus.' _scotsman._ 'lady knutsford's translation is excellent.' _speaker._ 'admirably translated.' transcriber's note inconsistencies have been retained in spelling, hyphenation, punctuation, and grammar, except where indicated in the list below: single quote added after "death." on page 139 "his" added after "on" on page 157 "s" changed to "is" on page 214 single quote added before "mr." on page 214 period changed to comma after "spinner" on page 216 single quote changed to double after "ormisdal" on page 222 period changed to comma after "hutchinson" on page 223 period changed to comma after "collingwood" on page 223 single quote added after "over." on page 224 april 2005 2005 is the 150th anniversary of mrs. hungerford's birthday. mrs. hungerford (margaret wolfe hamilton) (1855?-1897), a little rebel (1890) lovell edition a little rebel a novel by the duchess _author of "her last throw," "april's lady," "faith and unfaith," etc. etc._ montreal: john lovell & son, 23 st. nicholas street. entered according to act of parliament in the year 1891, by john lovell & son, in the office of the minister of agriculture and statistics at ottawa. a little rebel. chapter i. "perplex'd in the extreme." "the memory of past favors is like a rainbow, bright, vivid and beautiful." the professor, sitting before his untasted breakfast, is looking the very picture of dismay. two letters lie before him; one is in his hand, the other is on the table-cloth. both are open; but of one, the opening lines--that tell of the death of his old friend--are all he has read; whereas he has read the other from start to finish, already three times. it is from the old friend himself, written a week before his death, and very urgent and very pleading. the professor has mastered its contents with ever-increasing consternation. indeed so great a revolution has it created in his mind, that his face--(the index of that excellent part of him)--has, for the moment, undergone a complete change. any ordinary acquaintance now entering the professor's rooms (and those acquaintances might be whittled down to quite a _little_ few), would hardly have known him. for the abstraction that, as a rule, characterizes his features--the way he has of looking at you, as if he doesn't see you, that harasses the simple, and enrages the others--is all gone! not a trace of it remains. it has given place to terror, open and unrestrained. "a girl!" murmurs he in a feeble tone, falling back in his chair. and then again, in a louder tone of dismay--"a _girl!"_ he pauses again, and now again gives way to the fear that is destroying him--"a _grown_ girl!" after this, he seems too overcome to continue his reflections, so goes back to the fatal letter. every now and then a groan escapes him, mingled with mournful remarks, and extracts from the sheet in his hand-"poor old wynter! gone at last!" staring at the shaking signature at the end of the letter that speaks so plainly of the coming icy clutch that should prevent the poor hand from forming ever again even such sadly erratic characters as these. "at least," glancing at the half-read letter on the cloth--_"this_ tells me so. his solicitor's, i suppose. though what wynter could want with a solicitor---poor old fellow! he was often very good to me in the old days. i don't believe i should have done even as much as i _have_ done, without him... it must be fully ten years since he threw up his work here and went to australia!... ten years. the girl must have been born before he went,"--glances at letter--"'my child, my beloved perpetua, the one thing on earth i love, will be left entirely alone. her mother died nine years ago. she is only seventeen, and the world lies before her, and never a soul in it to care how it goes with her. i entrust her to you--(a groan). to you i give her. knowing that if you are living, dear fellow, you will not desert me in my great need, but will do what you can for my little one.'" "but what is that?" demands the professor, distractedly. he pushes his spectacles up to the top of his head, and then drags them down again, and casts them wildly into a sugar-bowl. "what on earth am i to do with a girl of seventeen? if it had been a boy! even _that _would have been bad enough--but a girl! and, of course--i know wynter--he has died without a penny. he was bound to do that, as he always lived without one. _poor_ old wynter!"-as if a little ashamed of himself. "i don't see how i can afford to put her out to nurse." he pulls himself up with a start. "to nurse! a girl of seventeen! she'll want to be going out to balls and things--at her age." as if smitten to the earth by this last awful idea, he picks his glasses out of the sugar and goes back to the letter. "you will find her the dearest girl. most loving, and tender-hearted; and full of life and spirits." "good heavens!" says the professor. he puts down the letter again, and begins to pace the room. "'life and spirits.' a sort of young kangaroo, no doubt. what will the landlady say? i shall leave these rooms"--with a fond and lingering gaze round the dingy old apartment that hasn't an article in it worth ten sous--"and take a small house--somewhere--and-but--er---it won't be respectable, i think. i--i've heard things said about--er--things like that. it's no good in _looking_ an old fogey, if you aren't one; it's no earthly use,"--standing before a glass and ruefully examining his countenance--"in looking fifty, if you are only thirty-four. it will be a scandal," says the professor mournfully. "they'll cut _her_, and they'll cut me, and--what the _deuce_ did wynter mean by leaving me his daughter? a real live girl of seventeen! it'll be the death of me," says the professor, mopping his brow. "what"--wrathfully--"that determined spendthrift meant, by flinging his family on _my_ shoulders, i---oh! _poor_ old wynter!" here he grows remorseful again. abuse a man dead and gone, and one, too, who had been good to him in many ways when he, the professor, was younger than he is now, and had just quarrelled with a father who was only too prone to quarrel with anyone who gave him the chance, seems but a poor thing. the professor's quarrel with his father had been caused by the young man's refusal to accept a government appointment--obtained with some difficulty--for the very insufficient and, as it seemed to his father, iniquitous reason, that he had made up his mind to devote his life to science. wynter, too, was a scientist of no mean order, and would, probably, have made his mark in the world, if the world and its pleasures had not made their mark on him. he had been young curzon's coach at one time, and finding the lad a kindred spirit, had opened out to him his own large store of knowledge, and steeped him in that great sea of which no man yet has drank enough--for all begin, and leave it, athirst. poor wynter! the professor, turning in his stride up and down the narrow, uncomfortable room, one of the many that lie off the strand, finds his eyes resting on that other letter--carelessly opened, barely begun. from wynter's solicitor! it seems ridiculous that wynter should have _had_ a solicitor. with a sigh, he takes it up, opens it out and begins to read it. at the end of the second page, he starts, re-reads a sentence or two, and suddenly his face becomes illuminated. he throws up his head. he cackles a bit. he looks as if he wants to say something very badly--"hurrah," probably--only he has forgotten how to do it, and finally goes back to the letter again, and this time--the third time--finishes it. yes. it is all right! why on earth hadn't he read it _first?_ so the girl is to be sent to live with her aunt after all--an old lady--maiden lady. evidently living somewhere in bloomsbury. miss jane majendie. mother's sister evidently. wynter's sisters would never have been old maids, if they had resembled him, which probably they did--if he had any. what a handsome fellow he was! and such a good-natured fellow too. the professor colors here in his queer sensitive way, and pushes his spectacles up and down his nose, in another nervous fashion of his. after all, it was only this minute he had been accusing old wynter of anything but good nature. well! he had wronged him there. he glances at the letter again. he has only been appointed her guardian, it seems. guardian of her fortune, rather than of her. the old aunt will have the charge of her body, the--er--pleasure of her society--_he,_ of the estate only. fancy wynter, of all men, dying rich--actually _rich_. the professor pulls his beard, and involuntarily glances round the somewhat meagre apartment, that not all his learning, not all his success in the scientific world--and it has been not unnoteworthy, so far--has enabled him to improve upon. it has helped him to live, no doubt, and distinctly outside the line of _want,_ a thing to be grateful for, as his family having in a measure abandoned him, he, on his part, had abandoned his family in a _measure_ also (and with reservations), and it would have been impossible to him, of all men, to confess himself beaten, and return to them for assistance of any kind. he could never have enacted the part of the prodigal son. he knew this in earlier days, when husks were for the most part all he had to sustain him. but the mind requires not even the material husk, it lives on better food than that, and in his case mind had triumphed over body, and borne it triumphantly to a safe, if not as yet to a victorious, goal. yet wynter, the spendthrift, the erstwhile master of him who now could be _his_ master, has died, leaving behind him a fortune. what was the sum? he glances back to the sheet in his hand and verifies his thought. yes--eighty thousand pounds! a good fortune even in these luxurious days. he has died worth £80,000, of which his daughter is sole heiress! before the professor's eyes rises a vision of old wynter. they used to call him "old," those boys who attended his classes, though he was as light-hearted as the best of them, and as handsome as a dissipated apollo. they had all loved him, if they had not revered him, and, indeed, he had been generally regarded as a sort of living and lasting joke amongst them. curzon, holding the letter in his hand, and bringing back to his memory the handsome face and devil-may-care expression of his tutor, remembers how the joke had widened, and reached its height when, at forty years of age, old wynter had flung up his classes, leaving them all _planté là_ as it were, and declared his intention of starting life anew and making a pile for himself in some new world. well! it had not been such a joke after all, if they had only known. wynter _had_ made that mythical "pile," and had left his daughter an heiress! not only an heiress, but a gift to miss jane majendie, of somewhere in bloomsbury. the professor's disturbed face grows calm again. it even occurs to him that he has not eaten his breakfast. he so _often_ remembers this, that it does not trouble him. to pore over his books (that are overflowing every table and chair in the uncomfortable room) until his eggs are india-rubber, and his rashers gutta-percha, is not a fresh experience. but though this morning both eggs and rasher have attained a high place in the leather department, he enters on his sorry repast with a glad heart. sweet are the rebounds from jeopardy to joy! and he has so _much_ of joy! not only has he been able to shake from his shoulders that awful incubus--and ever-present ward--but he can be sure that the absent ward is so well-off with regard to this world's goods, that he need never give her so much as a passing thought--dragged, _torn_ as that thought would be from his beloved studies. the aunt, of course, will see about her fortune. _he_ has only a perfunctory duty--to see that the fortune is not squandered. but he is safe there. maiden ladies _never_ squander! and the girl, being only seventeen, can't possibly squander it herself for some time. perhaps he ought to call on her, however. yes, of course, he must call. it is the usual thing to call on one's ward. it will be a terrible business no doubt. _all_ girls belong to the genus nuisance. and _this_ girl will be at the head of her class no doubt. "lively, spirited," so far went the parent. a regular hoyden may be read between those kind parental lines. the poor professor feels hot again with nervous agitation as he imagines an interview between him and the wild, laughing, noisy, perhaps horsey (they all ride in australia) young woman to whom he is bound to make his bow. how soon must this unpleasant interview take place? once more he looks back to the solicitor's letter. ah! on jan. 3rd her father, poor old wynter, had died, and on the 26th of may, she is to be "on view" at bloomsbury! and it is now the 2nd of february. a respite! perhaps, who knows? she may never arrive at bloomsbury at all! there are young men in australia, a hoyden, as far as the professor has read (and that is saying a good deal), would just suit the man in the bush. chapter ii. "a maid so sweet that her mere sight made glad men sorrowing." nevertheless the man in the bush doesn't get her. time has run on a little bit since the professor suffered many agonies on a certain raw february morning, and now it is the 30th of may, and a glorious finish too to that sweet month. even into this dingy old room, where at a dingy old table the professor sits buried in piles of notes, and with sheets of manuscript knee-deep scattered around him, the warm glad sun is stealing; here and there, the little rays are darting, lighting up a dusty corner here, a hidden heap of books there. it is, as yet, early in the afternoon, and the riotous beams, who are no respecter of persons, and who honor the righteous and the ungodly alike, are playing merrily in this sombre chamber, given so entirely up to science and its prosy ways, daring even now to dance lightly on the professor's head, which has begun to grow a little bald. "the golden sun, in splendor likest heav'n," is proving perhaps a little too much for the tired brain in the small room. either that, or the incessant noises in the street outside, which have now been enriched by the strains of a broken-down street piano, causes him to lay aside his pen and lean back in a weary attitude in his chair. what a day it is! how warm! an hour ago he had delivered a brilliant lecture on the everlasting mammoth (a fresh specimen just arrived from siberia), and is now paying the penalty of greatness. he had done well--he knew that--he had been _interesting,_ that surest road to public favor--he had been applauded to the echo; and now, worn-out, tired in mind and body, he is living over again his honest joy in his success. in this life, however, it is not given us to be happy for long. a knock at the professor's door brings him back to the present, and the knowledge that the landlady--a stout, somewhat erratic person of fifty--is standing on his threshold, a letter in her hand. "for you, me dear," says she, very kindly, handing the letter to the professor. she is perhaps the one person of his acquaintance who has been able to see through the professor's gravity and find him _young._ "thank you," says he. he takes the letter indifferently, opens it languidly, and---well, there isn't much languor after the perusal of it. the professor sits up; literally this time slang is unknown to him; and re-reads it. _that girl has come!_ there can't be any doubt of it. he had almost forgotten her existence during these past tranquil months, when no word or hint about her reached him, but now, _here_ she is at last, descending upon him like a whirlwind. a line in a stiff, uncompromising hand apprises the professor of the unwelcome fact. the "line" is signed by "jane majendie," therefore there can be no doubt of the genuineness of the news contained in it. yes! that girl _has_ come! the professor never swears, or he might now perhaps have given way to reprehensible words. instead of that, he pulls himself together, and determines on immediate action. to call upon this ward of his is a thing that must be done sooner of later, then why not sooner? why not at once? the more unpleasant the duty, the more necessity to get it off one's mind without delay. he pulls the bell. the landlady appears again. "i must go out," says the professor, staring a little helplessly at her. "an' a good thing too," says she. "a saint's day ye might call it, wid the sun. an' where to, sir, dear? not to thim rascally sthudents, i do thrust?" "no, mrs. mulcahy. i--i am going to see a young lady," says the professor simply. "the divil!" says mrs. mulcahy with a beaming smile. "faix, that's a turn the right way anyhow. but have ye thought o' yer clothes, me dear?" "clothes?" repeats the professor vaguely. "arrah, wait," says she, and runs away lightly, in spite of her fifty years and her too, too solid flesh, and presently returns with the professor's best coat and a clothes brush that, from its appearance, might reasonably be supposed to have been left behind by noah when he stepped out of the ark. with this latter (having put the coat on him) she proceeds to belabor the professor with great spirit, and presently sends him forth shining--if not _in_ternally, at all events _ex_ternally. in truth the professor's mood is not a happy one. sitting in the hansom that is taking him all too swiftly to his destination, he dwells with terror on the girl--the undesired ward--who has been thrust upon him. he has quite made up his mind about her. an australian girl! one knows what to expect _there!_ health unlimited; strength tremendous; and noise--_much_ noise. yes, she is sure to be a _big_ girl. a girl with branching limbs, and a laugh you could hear a mile off. a young woman with no sense of the fitness of things, and a settled conviction that nothing could shake, that "'strailia" is _the_ finest country on earth! a bouncing creature who _never_ sits down; to whom rest or calm is unknown, and whose highest ambition will be to see the tower and the wax-works. her hair is sure to be untidy; hanging probably in straight, black locks over her forehead, and her frock will look as if it had been pitchforked on to her, and requires only the insubordination of _one_ pin to leave her without it again. the professor is looking pale, but has on him all the air of one prepared for _anything_ as the maid shows him in the drawing-room of the house where miss jane majendie lives. his thoughts are still full her niece. _her_ niece, poor woman, and _his_ ward--poor _man!_ when the door opens and _some one_ comes in. _some one!_ the professor gets slowly on to his feet, and stares at the advancing apparition. is it child or woman, this fair vision? a hard question to answer! it is quite easy to read, however, that "some one" is very lovely! "it is you, mr. curzon, is it not?" says the vision. her voice is sweet and clear, a little petulant perhaps, but still _very_ sweet. she is quite small--a _little_ girl--and clad in deep mourning. there is something pathetic about the dense black surrounding such a radiant face, and such a childish figure. her eyes are fixed on the professor, and there is evident anxiety in their hazel depths; her soft lips are parted; she seems hesitating as if not knowing whether she shall smile or sigh. she has raised both her hands as if unconsciously, and is holding them clasped against her breast. the pretty fingers are covered with costly rings. altogether she makes a picture--this little girl, with her brilliant eyes, and mutinous mouth, and soft black clinging gown. dainty-sweet she looks, "sweet as is the bramble-flower." "yes," says the professor, in a hesitating way, as if by no means certain of the fact. he is so vague about it, indeed, that "some one's" dark eyes take a mischievous gleam. "are you _sure?"_ says she, and looks up at him suddenly, a little sideways perhaps, as if half frightened, and gives way to a naughty sort of little laugh. it rings through the room, this laugh, and has the effect of frightening her _altogether_ this time. she checks herself, and looks first down at the carpet with the big roses on it, where one little foot is wriggling in a rather nervous way, and then up again at the professor, as if to see if he is thinking bad things of her. she sighs softly. "have you come to see me or aunt jane?" asks she; "because aunt jane is out--_i'm glad to say"_--this last pianissimo. "to see you," says the professor, absently. he is thinking! he has taken her hand, and held it, and dropped it again, all in a state of high bewilderment. "is _this_ the big, strong, noisy girl of his imaginings? the bouncing creature with untidy hair, and her clothes pitchforked on to her?" "well--i hoped so," says she, a little wistfully as it seems to him, every trace of late sauciness now gone, and with it the sudden shyness. after many days the professor grows accustomed to these sudden transitions that are so puzzling yet so enchanting, these rapid, inconsequent, but always lovely changes "from grave to gay, from lively to severe." "won't you sit down?" says his small hostess, gently, touching a chair near her with her slim fingers. "thank you," says the professor, and then stops short. "you are----" "your ward," says she, ever so gently still, yet emphatically. it is plain that she is now on her very _best_ behavior. she smiles up at him in a very encouraging way. "and you are my guardian, aren't you?" "yes," says the professor, without enthusiasm. he has seated himself, not on the chair she has pointed out to him, but on a very distant lounge. he is conscious of a feeling of growing terror. this lovely child has created it, yet why, or how? was ever guardian mastered by a ward before? a desire to escape is filling him, but he has got to do his duty to his dead friend, and this is part of it. he has retired to the far-off lounge with a view to doing it as distantly as possible, but even this poor subterfuge fails him. miss wynter, picking up a milking-stool, advances leisurely towards him, and seating herself upon it just in front of him, crosses her hands over her knees and looks expectantly up at him with a charming smile. "_now_ we can have a good talk," says she. chapter iii. "and if you dreamed how a friend's smile and nearness soothe a heart that's sore, you might be moved to stay awhile before my door." "about?" begins the professor, and stammers, and ceases. "everything," says she, with a little nod. "it is impossible to talk to aunt jane. she doesn't talk, she only argues, and always wrongly. but you are different. i can see that. now tell me,"--she leans even more forward and looks intently at the professor, her pretty brows wrinkled as if with extreme and troublous thought--"what are the duties of a guardian?" "eh?" says the professor. he moves his glasses up to his forehead and then pulls them down again. did ever anxious student ask him question so difficult of answer as this one--that this small maiden has propounded? "you can think it over," says she most graciously. "there is no hurry, and i am quite aware that one isn't made a guardian _every_ day. do you think you could make it out whilst i count forty?" "i think i could make it out more quickly if you didn't count at all," says the professor, who is growing warm. "the duties of a guardian--are--er--to--er--to see that one's ward is comfortable and happy." "then there is a great deal of duty for _you_ to do," says she solemnly, letting her chin slip into the hollow of her hand. "i know--i'm sure of it," says the professor with a sigh that might be called a groan. "but your aunt, miss majendie--your mother's sister--can----" "i don't believe she is my mother's sister," says miss wynter calmly. "i have seen my mother's picture. it is lovely! aunt jane was a changeling--i'm sure of it. but never mind her. you were going to say----?" "that miss majendie, who is virtually your guardian--can explain it all to you much better than i can." "aunt jane is _not_ my guardian!" the mild look of enquiry changes to one of light anger. the white brown contracts. "and certainly she could never make one happy and comfortable. well--what else?" "she will look after----" "i told you i don't care about aunt jane. tell me what _you_ can do----" "see that your fortune is not----" "i don't care about my fortune either," with a little petulant gesture. "but i _do_ care about my happiness. will you see to _that?_" "of course," says the professor gravely. "then you will take me away from aunt jane!" the small vivacious face is now all aglow. "i am not happy with aunt jane. i"--clasping her hands, and letting a quick, vindictive fire light her eyes--"i _hate_ aunt jane. she says things about poor papa that---_oh!_ how i hate her!" "but--you shouldn't--you really should not. i feel certain you ought not," says the professor, growing vaguer every moment. "ought i not?" with a quick little laugh that is all anger and no mirth. "i _do_ though, for all that! i"--pausing, and regarding him with a somewhat tragic air that sits most funnily upon her--"am not going to stay here much longer!" _"what!"_ says the professor aghast. "but my dear---miss wynter, i'm afraid you _must."_ "why? what is she to me?" "your aunt." "that's nothing--nothing at all--even a _guardian_ is better than that. and you are my guardian. why," coming closer to him and pressing five soft little fingers in an almost feverish fashion upon his arm, "why can't _you_ take me away?" _"i?"_ "yes, yes, you." she comes even nearer to him, and the pressure of the small fingers grows more eager--there is something in them that might well be termed coaxing. _"do,"_ says she. "oh! impossible!" says the professor. the color mounts to his brow. he almost _shakes_ off the little clinging fingers in his astonishment and agitation. has she no common sense--no knowledge of the things that be? she has drawn back from him and is regarding him somewhat strangely. "impossible to leave aunt jane?" questions she. it is evident she has not altogether understood, and yet is feeling puzzled. "well," defiantly, "we shall see!" _"why_ don't you like your aunt jane?" asks the professor distractedly. he doesn't feel nearly as fond of his dead friend as he did an hour ago. "because," lucidly, "she _is_ aunt jane. if she were _your_ aunt jane you would know." "but my dear----" "i really wish," interrupts miss wynter petulantly, "you wouldn't call me 'my dear.' aunt jane calls me that when she is going to say something horrid to me. papa----" she pauses suddenly, and tears rush to her dark eyes. "yes. what of your father?" asks the professor hurriedly, the tears raising terror in his soul. "you knew him--speak to me of him," says she, a little tremulously. "i knew him well indeed. he was very good to me when--when i was younger. i was very fond of him." "he was good to everyone," says miss wynter, staring hard at the professor. it is occurring to her that this grave sedate man with his glasses could never have been younger. he must always have been older than the gay, handsome, _debonnaire_ father, who had been so dear to her. "what were you going to tell me about him?" asks the professor gently. "only what he used to call me--_doatie!_ i suppose," wistfully, "you couldn't call me that?" "i am afraid not," says the professor, coloring even deeper. "i'm sorry," says she, her young mouth taking a sorrowful curve. "but don't call me miss wynter, at all events, or 'my dear.' i do so want someone to call me by my christian name," says the poor child sadly. "perpetua--is it not?" says the professor, ever so kindly. "no--'pet,'" corrects she. "it's shorter, you know, and far easier to say." "oh!" says the professor. to him it seems very difficult to say. is it possible she is going to ask him to call her by that familiar--almost affectionate--name? the girl must be mad. "yes--much easier," says perpetua; "you will find that out, after a bit, when you have got used to calling me by it. are you going now, mr. curzon? going _so soon?_" "i have classes," says the professor. "students?" says she. "you teach them? i wish i was a student. i shouldn't have been given over to aunt jane then, or," with a rather wilful laugh, "if i had been i should have led her, oh!" rapturously, _"such a life!"_ it suggests itself to the professor that she is quite capable of doing that now, though she is _not_ of the sex male. "good-bye," says he, holding out his hand. "you will come soon again?" demands she, laying her own in it. "next week--perhaps." "not till then? i shall be dead then," says she, with a rather mirthless laugh this time. "do you know that you and aunt jane are the only two people in all london whom i know?" "that is terrible," says he, quite sincerely. "yes. isn't it?" "but soon you will know people. your aunt has acquaintances. they--surely they will call; they will see you--they----" "will take an overwhelming fancy to me? just as you have done," says she, with a quick, rather curious light in her eyes, and a tilting of her pretty chin. "there! _go,"_ says she, "i have some work to do; and you have your classes. it would never do for you to miss _them._ and as for next week!--make it next month! i wouldn't for the world be a trouble to you in any way." "i shall come next week," says the professor, troubled in somewise by the meaning in her eyes. what is it? simple loneliness, or misery downright? how young she looks--what a child! that tragic air does not belong to her of right. she should be all laughter, and lightness, and mirth---"as you will," says she; her tone has grown almost haughty; there is a sense of remorse in his breast as he goes down the stairs. has he been kind to old wynter's child? has he been true to his trust? there has been an expression that might almost be termed despair in the young face as he left her. her face, with that expression on it, haunts him all down the road. yes. he will call next week. what day is this? friday. and friday next he is bound to deliver a lecture somewhere--he is not sure where, but certainly somewhere. well, saturday then he might call. but that---why not call thursday--or even wednesday? wednesday let it be. he needn't call every week, but he had said something about calling next week, and--she wouldn't care, of course--but one should keep their word. what a strange little face she has--and strange manners, and--not able to get on evidently with her present surroundings. what an old devil that aunt must be! chapter iv. "dear, if you knew what tears they shed, who live apart from home and friend, to pass my house, by pity led, your steps would tend." he makes the acquaintance of the latter very shortly. but requires no spoon to sup with her, as miss majendie's invitations to supper, or indeed to luncheon, breakfast or dinner, are so few and rare that it might be rash for a hungry man to count on them. the professor, who has felt it to be his duty to call on his ward regularly every week, has learned to know and (i regret to say) to loathe that estimable spinster christened jane majendie. after every visit to her house he has sworn to himself that _"this one"_ shall be his last, and every wednesday following he has gone again. indeed, to-day being wednesday in the heart of june, he may be seen sitting bolt upright in a hansom on his way to the unlovely house that holds miss majendie. as he enters the dismal drawing-room, where he finds miss majendie and her niece, it becomes plain, even to his inexperienced brain, that there has just been a row on, somewhere. perpetua is sitting on a distant lounge, her small vivacious face one thunder-cloud. miss majendie, sitting on the hardest chair this hideous room contains, is smiling. a terrible sign. the professor pales before it. "i am glad to see you, mr. curzon," says miss majendie, rising and extending a bony hand. "as perpetua's guardian, you may perhaps have some influence over her. i say 'perhaps' advisedly, as i scarcely dare to hope _anyone_ could influence a mind so distorted as hers." "what is it?" asks the professor nervously--of perpetua, not of miss majendie. "i'm dull," says perpetua sullenly. the professor glances keenly at the girl's downcast face, and then at miss majendie. the latter glance is a question. "you hear her," says miss majendie coldly--she draws her shawl round her meagre shoulders, and a breath through her lean nostrils that may be heard. "perhaps _you_ may be able to discover her meaning." "what is it?" asks the professor, turning to the girl, his tone anxious, uncertain. young women with "wrongs" are unknown to him, as are all other sorts of young women for the matter of that. and _this_ particular young woman looks a little unsafe at the present moment. "i have told you! i am tired of this life. i am dull--stupid. i want to go out." her lovely eyes are flashing, her face is white--her lips trembling. _"take_ me out," says she suddenly. "perpetua!" exclaims miss majendie. "how unmaidenly! how immodest!" perpetua looks at her with large, surprised eyes. "why," says she. "i really think," interrupts the professor hurriedly, who see breakers ahead, "if i were to take perpetua for a walk--a drive--to--er--to some place or other--it might destroy this _ennui_ of which she complains. if you will allow her to come out with me for an hour or so, i----" "if you are waiting for _my_ sanction, mr. curzon, to that extraordinary proposal, you will wait some time," says miss majendie slowly, frigidly. she draws the shawl still closer, and sniffs again. "but----" "there is no 'but,' sir. the subject doesn't admit of argument. in my young days, and i should think"--scrutinising him exhaustively through her glasses--_"in yours_, it was not customary for a young _gentlewoman _to go out walking, alone, with _'a man'!!"_ if she had said with a famished tiger, she couldn't have thrown more horror into her tone. the professor had shrunk a little from that classing of her age with his, but has now found matter for hope in it. "still--my age--as you suggest--so far exceeds perpetua's--i am indeed so much older than she is, that i might be allowed to escort her wherever it may please her to go." "the _real_ age of a man nowadays, sir, is a thing impossible to know," says miss majendie. "you wear glasses--a capital disguise! i mean nothing offensive--_so far_--sir, but it behoves me to be careful, and behind those glasses, who can tell what demon lurks? nay! no offence! an _innocent_ man would _feel_ no offence!" "really, miss majendie!" begins the poor professor, who is as red as though he were the guiltiest soul alive. "let me proceed, sir. we were talking of the ages of men." _"we?"_ "certainly! it was you who suggested the idea that, being so much older than my niece, miss wynter, you could therefore escort her here and there--in fact _everywhere_--in fact"--with awful meaning--_"any_ where!" "i assure you, madam," begins the professor, springing to his feet--perpetua puts out a white hand. "ah! let her talk," says she. _"then_ you will understand." "but men's ages, sir, are a snare and a delusion!" continues miss majendie, who has now mounted her hobby, and will ride it to the death. "who can tell the age of any man in this degenerate age? we look at their faces, and say _he_ must be so and so, and _he_ a few years younger, but looks are vain, they tell us nothing. some look old, because they _are_ old, some look old--through _vice!"_ the professor makes an impatient gesture. but miss majendie is equal to most things. "'who excuses himself _accuses_ himself,'" quotes she with terrible readiness. "why that gesture, mr. curzon? i made no mention of _your_ name. and indeed, i trust your age would place you outside of any such suspicion, still, i am bound to be careful where my niece's interests are concerned. you, as her guardian if a _faithful_ guardian" (with open doubt as to this, expressed in eye and pointed finger), "should be the first to applaud my caution." "you take an extreme view," begins the professor, a little feebly, perhaps. that eye and that pointed finger have cowed him. "one's views _have_ to be extreme in these days if one would continue in the paths of virtue," said miss majendie. _"your_ views," with a piercing and condemnatory glance, "are evidently _not_ extreme. one word for all, mr. curzon, and this argument is at an end. i shall not permit my niece, with my permission, to walk with you or any other man whilst under my protection." "i daresay you are right--no doubt--no doubt" mumbles the professor, incoherently, now thoroughly frightened and demoralized. good heavens! what an awful old woman! and to think that this poor child is under her care. he happens at this moment to look at the poor child, and the scorn _for him_ that gleams in her large eyes perfects his rout. to say that she was _right!_ "if perpetua wishes to go for a walk," says miss majendie, breaking through a mist of angry feeling that is only half on the surface, "i am here to accompany her." "i don't want to go for a walk--with you," says perpetua, rudely it must be confessed, though her tone is low and studiously reserved. "i don't want to go for a walk _at all."_ she pauses, and her voice chokes a little, and then suddenly she breaks into a small passion of vehemence. "i want to go somewhere, to _see_ something," she cries, gazing imploringly at curzon. "to _see_ something!" says her aunt, "why it was only last sunday i took you to westminster abbey, where you saw the grandest edifice in all the world." "most interesting place," says the professor, _sotto voce,_ with a wild but mad hope of smoothing matters down for perpetua's sake. if it _was_ for perpetua's sake, she proves herself singularly ungrateful. she turns upon him a small vivid face, alight with indignation. "you support her," cries she. _"you!_ well, i shall tell you! i"--defiantly--"i don't want to go to churches at all. i want to go to _theatres!_ there!" there is an awful silence. miss marjorie's face is a picture! if the girl had said she wanted to go to the devil instead of to the theatre, she could hardly have looked more horrified. she takes a step forward, closer to perpetua. "go to your room! and pray--_pray_ for a purer mind!" says she. "this is hereditary, all this! only prayer can cast it out. and remember, this is the last word upon this subject. as long as you are under _my_ roof you shall never go to a sinful place of amusement. i forbid you ever to speak of theatres again." "i shall not be forbidden!" says perpetua. she confronts her aunt with flaming eyes and crimson cheeks. "i _do_ want to go to the theatre, and to balls, and dances, and _everything_. i"--passionately, and with a most cruel, despairing longing in her young voice, "want to dance, to laugh, to sing, to amuse myself--to be the gayest thing in all the world!" she stops as if exhausted, surprised perhaps at her own daring, and there is silence for a moment, a _little_ moment, and then miss majendie looks at her. "'the gayest thing in all the world!' _and your father only four months dead!"_ says she, slowly, remorselessly. all in a moment, as it were, the little crimson angry face grows white--white as death itself. the professor, shocked beyond words, stands staring, and marking the sad changes in it. perpetua is trembling from head to foot. a frightened look has come into her beautiful eyes--her breath comes quickly. she is as a thing at bay--hopeless, horrified. her lips part as if she would say something. but no words come. she casts one anguished glance at the professor, and rushes from the room. it was but a momentary glimpse into a heart, but it was terrible. the professor turns upon miss majendie in great wrath. "that was cruel--uncalled for!" says he, a strange feeling in his heart that he has not time to stop and analyse _then_. "how could you hurt her so? poor child! poor girl! she _loved_ him!" "then let her show respect to his memory," says miss majendie vindictively. she is unmoved--undaunted. "she was not wanting in respect." his tone is hurried. this woman with the remorseless eye is too much for the gentle professor. "all she _does_ want is change, amusement. she is young. youth must enjoy." "in moderation--and in proper ways," says miss majendie stonily. "in moderation," she repeats mechanically, almost unconsciously. and then suddenly her wrath gets the better of her, and she breaks out in a violent rage. that one should dare to question _her_ actions! "who are _you?"_ demands she fiercely, "that you should presume to dictate right and wrong to _me."_ "i am miss wynter's guardian," says the professor, who begins to see visions--and all the lower regions let loose at once. could an original fury look more horrible than this old woman, with her grey nodding head, and blind vindictive passion. he hears his voice faltering, and knows that he is edging towards the door. after all, what can the bravest man do with an angry old woman, except to get away from her as quickly as possible? and the professor, through brave enough in the usual ways, is not brave where women are concerned. "guardian or no guardian, i will thank you to remember you are in _my_ house!" cries miss majendie, in a shrill tone that runs through the professor's head. "certainly. certainly," says he, confusedly, and then he slips out of the room, and having felt the door close behind him, runs tumultuously down the staircase. for years he has not gone down any staircase so swiftly. a vague, if unacknowledged, feeling that he is literally making his escape from a vital danger, is lending wings to his feet. before him lies the hall-door, and that way safety lies, safety from that old gaunt, irate figure upstairs. he is not allowed to reach it, however--just yet. a door on the right side of the hall is opened cautiously; a shapely little head is as cautiously pushed through it, and two anxious red lips whisper:-"mr. curzon," first, and then, as he turns in answer to the whisper, "sh--_sh!"_ chapter v. "my love is like the sea, as changeful and as free; sometimes she's angry, sometimes rough, yet oft she's smooth and calm enough- ay, much too calm for me." it is perpetua. a sad-eyed, a tearful-eyed perpetua, but a lovely perpetua for all that. "well?" says he. _"sh!"_ says she again, shaking her head ominously, and putting her forefinger against her lip. "come in here," says she softly, under her breath. "here," when he does come in, is a most untidy place, made up of all things heterogeneous. now that he is nearer to her, he can see that she has been crying vehemently, and that the tears still stand thick within her eyes. "i felt i _must_ see you," says she, "to tell you--to ask you. to--oh! you _heard_ what she said! do--do _you_ think----?" "not at all, not at all," declares the professor hurriedly. "don't--_don't_ cry, perpetua! look here," laying his hand nervously upon her shoulder and giving her a little angry shake. _"don't_ cry! good heavens! why should you mind that awful old woman?" nevertheless, he had minded that awful old woman himself very considerably. "but--it _is_ soon, isn't it?" says she. "i know that myself, and yet--" wistfully--"i can't help it. i _do_ want to see things, and to amuse myself." "naturally," says the professor. "and it isn't that i _forget_ him," says she in an eager, intense tone, "i _never_ forget him--never--never. only i do want to laugh sometimes and to be happy, and to see mr. irving as charles i." the climax is irresistible. the professor is unable to suppress a smile. "i'm afraid, from what i have heard, _that_ won't make you laugh," says he. "it will make me cry then. it is all the same," declares she, impartially. "i shall be enjoying myself, i shall be _seeing_ things. you--" doubtfully, and mindful of his last speech--"haven't you seen him?" "not for a long time, i regret to say. i--i'm always so busy," says the professor apologetically. _"always_ studying?" questions she. "for the most part," returns the professor, an odd sensation growing within him that he is feeling ashamed of himself. "'all work and no play,'" begins perpetua, and stops, and shakes her charming head at him. _"you_ will be a dull boy if you don't take care," says she. a ghost of a little smile warms her sad lips as she says this, and lights up her shining eyes like a ray of sunlight. then it fades, and she grows sorrowful again. "well, _i_ can't study," says she. "why not?" demands the professor quickly. here he is on his own ground; and here he has a pupil to his hand--a strange, an enigmatical, but a lovely one. "believe me knowledge is the one good thing that life contains worth having. pleasures, riches, rank, _all_ sink to insignificance beside it." "how do you know?" says she. "you haven't tried the others." "i know it, for all that. i _feel_ it. get knowledge--such knowledge as the short span of life allotted to us will allow you to get. i can lend you some books, easy ones at first, and----" "i couldn't read _your_ books," says she; "and--you haven't any novels, i suppose?" "no," says he. "but----" "i don't care for any books but novels," says she, sighing. "have you read 'alas?' i never have anything to read here, because aunt jane says novels are of the devil, and that if i read them i shall go to hell." "nonsense!" says the professor gruffly. "you mustn't think i'm afraid about _that,"_ says perpetua demurely; "i'm not. i know the same place could never contain aunt jane and me for long, so _i'm_ all right." the professor struggles with himself for a moment and then gives way to mirth. "ah! _now_ you are on my side," cries his ward exultantly. she tucks her arm into his. "and as for all that talk about 'knowledge'--don't bother me about that any more. it's a little rude of you, do you know? one would think i was a dunce--that i knew nothing--whereas, i assure you," throwing out her other hand, "i know _quite_ as much as most girls, and a great deal more than many. i daresay," putting her head to one side, and examining him thoughtfully, "i know more than you do, if it comes to that. i don't believe you know this moment who wrote 'the master of ballantrae.' come now, who was it?" she leans back from him, gazing at him mischievously, as if anticipating his defeat. as for the professor, he grows red--he draws his brows together. truly this is a most impertinent pupil! 'the master of ballantrae.' it _sounds_ like sir walter, and yet--the professor hesitates and is lost. "scott," says he, with as good an air as he can command. "wrong," cries she, clapping her hands softly, noiselessly. "oh! you _ignorant _man! go buy that book at once. it will do you more good and teach you a great deal more than any of your musty tomes." she laughs gaily. it occurs to the professor, in a misty sort of way, that her laugh, at all events, would do _anyone_ good. she has been pulling a ring on and off her finger unconsciously, as if thinking, but now looks up at him. "if you spoke to her again, when she was in a better temper, don't you think she would let you take me to the theatre some night?" she has come nearer, and has laid a light, appealing little hand upon his arm. "i am sure it would be useless," says he, taking off his glasses and putting them on again in an anxious fashion. they are both speaking in whispers, and the professor is conscious of feeling a strange sort of pleasure in the thought that he is sharing a secret with her. "besides," says he, "i couldn't very well come here again." "not come again? why?" "i'd be afraid," returns he simply. whereon miss wynter, after a second's pause, gives way and laughs "consumedly," as they would have said long, long years before her pretty features saw the light. "ah! yes," murmurs she. "how she did frighten you. she brought you to your knees--you actually"--this with keen reproach--"took her part against me." "i took her part to _help_ you," says the professor, feeling absurdly miserable. "yes," sighing, "i daresay. but though i know i should have suffered for it afterwards, it would have done me a world of good to hear somebody tell her his real opinion of her for once. i should like," calmly, "to see her writhe; she makes me writhe very often." "this is a bad school for you," says the professor hurriedly. "yes? then why don't you take me away from it?" "if i could----but---well, i shall see," says he vaguely. "you will have to be very quick about it," says she. her tone is quite ordinary; it never suggests itself to the professor that there is meaning beneath it. "you have _some_ friends surely?" says he. "there is a mrs. constans who comes here sometimes to see aunt jane. she is a young woman, and her mother was a friend of aunt jane's, which accounts for it, i suppose. she seems kind. she said she would take me to a concert soon, but she has not been here for many days. i daresay she has forgotten all about it by this time." she sighs. the charming face so near the professor's is looking sad again. the white brow is puckered, the soft lips droop. no, she cannot stay _here,_ that is certain--and yet it was her father's wish, and who is he, the professor, that he should pretend to know how girls should be treated? what if he should make a mistake? and yet again, should a little brilliant face like that know sadness? it is a problem difficult to solve. all the professor's learning fails him now. "i hope she will remember. oh! she _must,_" declares he, gazing at perpetua. "you know i would do what i could for you, but your aunt--you heard her--she would not let you go anywhere with me." "true," says perpetua. here she moves back, and folds her arms stiffly across her bosom, and pokes out her chin, in an aggressive fashion, that creates a likeness on the spot, in spite of the youthful eyes, and brow, and hair. "'young _gentle_women in _our_ time, mr. curzon, never went out walking, _alone,_ with _a man!'"_ the mimicry is perfect. the professor, after a faint struggle with his dignity, joins in her naughty mirth, and both laugh together. _"'our'_ time! she thinks you are a hundred and fifty!" says miss wynter. "well, so i am, in a way," returns the professor, somewhat sadly. "no, you're not," says she. _"i_ know better than that, i" patting his arm reassuringly, "can guess your age better than she can. i can see _at once,_ that you are not a day older than poor, darling papa. in fact you may be younger. i am perfectly certain you are not more than fifty." the professor says nothing. he is staring at her. he is beginning to feel a little forlorn. he has forgotten youth for many days, has youth in revenge forgotten him? "that is taking off a clear hundred at once," says she lightly. "no small account." here, as if noticing his silence, she looks quickly at him, and perhaps something in his face strikes her, because she goes on hurriedly. "oh! and what is age after all? i wish _i_ were old, and then i should be able to get away from aunt jane--without--without any _trouble."_ "i am afraid you are indeed very unhappy here," says the professor gravely. "i _hate_ the place," cries she with a frown. "i shan't be able to stay here. oh! _why_ didn't poor papa send me to live with you?" why indeed? that is exactly what the professor finds great difficulty in explaining to her. an "old man" of "fifty" might very easily give a home to a young girl, without comment from the world. but then if an "old man of fifty" _wasn't_ an old man of fifty---the professor checks his thoughts, they are growing too mixed. "we should have been _so_ happy," perpetua is going on, her tone regretful. "we could have gone everywhere together, you and i. i should have taken you to the theatre, to balls, to concerts, to afternoons. you would have been _so_ happy, and so should i. you would--wouldn't you?" the professor nods his head. the awful vista she has opened up to him has completely deprived him of speech. "ah! yes," sighs she, taking that deceitful nod in perfect good faith. "and you would have been good to me too, and let me look in at the shop windows. i should have taken such _care_ of you, and made your tea for you, just" sadly, "as i used to do for poor papa, and----" it is becoming too much for the professor. "it is late. i must go," says he. it is a week later when he meets her again. the season is now at its height, and some stray wave of life casting the professor into a fashionable thoroughfare, he there finds her. marching along, as usual, with his head in the air, and his thoughts in the ages when dates were unknown, a soft, eager voice calling his name brings him back to the fact that he is walking up bond street. in a carriage, exceedingly well appointed, and with her face wreathed in smiles, and one hand impulsively extended, sits perpetua. evidently the owner of the carriage is in the shop making purchases, whilst perpetua sits without, awaiting her. "were you going to cut me?" cries she. "what luck to meet you here. i am having such a _lovely_ day. mrs. constans has taken me out with her, and i am to dine with her, and go with her to a concert in the evening." she has poured it all out, all her good news in a breath, as though sure of a sympathetic listener. he is too good a listener. he is listening so hard, he is looking so intensely, that he forgets to speak, and perpetua's sudden gaiety forsakes her. is he angry? does he think----? "it's _only_ a concert," says she, flushing and hesitating. "do you think that one should not go to a concert when----" "yes?" questions the professor abstractedly, as she comes to a full stop. he has never seen her dressed like this before. she is all in black to be sure, but _such_ black, and her air! she looks quite the little heiress, like a little queen indeed--radiant, lovely. _"well_--when one is in mourning," says she somewhat impatiently, the color once again dyeing her cheek. quick tears have sprung to her eyes. they seem to hurt the professor. "one cannot be in mourning always," says he slowly. his manner is still unfortunate. "you evade the question," says she frowning. "but a concert _isn't_ like a ball, is it?" "i don't know," says the professor, who indeed has had little knowledge of either for years, and whose unlucky answer arises solely from inability to give her an honest reply. "you hesitate," says she, "you disapprove then. but," defiantly, "i don't care--a concert is _not_ like a ball." "no--i suppose not." "i can see what you are thinking," returns she, struggling with her mortification. "and it is very _hard_ of you. just because _you_ don't care to go anywhere, you think i oughtn't to care either. that is what is so selfish about people who are old. you," wilfully, "are just as bad as aunt jane." the professor looks at her. his face is perplexed--distressed--and something more, but she cannot read that. "well, not quite perhaps," says she, relenting slightly. "but nearly. and if you don't care you will grow like her. i hate people who lecture me, and besides, i don't see why a guardian should control one's whole life, and thought, and action. a guardian," resentfully, "isn't one's conscience!" "no. no. thank heaven!" says the professor, shocked. perpetua stares at him a moment and then breaks into a queer little laugh. "you evidently have no desire to be mixed up with _my_ conscience," says she, a little angry in spite of her mirth. "well, i don't want you to have anything to do with it. that's _my_ affair. but, about this concert,"--she leans towards him, resting her hand on the edge of the carriage. "do you think one should go _nowhere_ when wearing black?" "i think one should do just as one feels," says the professor nervously. "i wonder if one should _say_ just what one feels," says she. she draws back haughtily, then wrath gets the better of dignity, and she breaks out again. "what a _horrid_ answer! _you_ are unfeeling if you like!" "_i_ am?" "yes, yes! you would deny me this small gratification, you would lock me up for ever with aunt jane, you would debar me from everything! oh!" her lips trembling, "how i wish--i _wish--_guardians had never been invented." the professor almost begins to wish the same. almost--perhaps not quite! that accusation about wishing to keep her locked up for ever with miss majendie is so manifestly unjust that he takes it hardly. has he not spent all this past week striving to open a way of escape for her from the home she so detests! but, after all, how could she know that? "you have misunderstood me," says he calmly, gravely. "far from wishing you to deny yourself this concert, i am glad--glad from my _heart_--that you are going to it--that some small pleasure has fallen into your life. your aunt's home is an unhappy one for you, i know, but you should remember that even if--if you have got to stay with her until you become your own mistress, still that will not be forever." "no, i shall not stay there for ever," says she slowly. "and so--you really think----" she is looking very earnestly at him. "i do, indeed. go out--go everywhere--enjoy yourself, child, while you can." he lifts his hat and walks away. "who was that, dear?" asks mrs. constans, a pretty pale woman, rushing out of the shop and into the carriage. "my guardian--mr. curzon." "ah!" glancing carelessly after the professor's retreating figure. "a youngish man?" "no, old," says perpetua, "at least, i think--do you know," laughing, "when he's _gone_ i sometimes think of him as being pretty young, but when he is _with_ me, he is old--old and grave!" "as a guardian should be, with such a pretty ward," says mrs. constans, smiling. "his back looks young, however." "and his laugh _sounds_ young." "ah! he can laugh then?" "very seldom. too seldom. but when he does, it is a nice laugh. but he wears spectacles, you know--and--well--oh, yes, he _is_ old, distinctly old!" chapter vi. "he is happy whose circumstances suit his temper; but he is more excellent who can suit his temper to any circumstances." "the idea of _your_ having a ward! i could quite as soon imagine your having a wife," says hardinge. he knocks the ash off his cigar, and after meditating for a moment, leans back in his chair and gives way to irrepressible mirth. "i don't see why i shouldn't have a wife as well as another," says the professor, idly tapping his forefinger on the table near him. "she would bore me. but a great many fellows are bored." "you have grasped one great truth if you never grasp another!" says mr. hardinge, who has now recovered. "catch _me_ marrying." "it's unlucky to talk like that," says the professor. "it looks as though your time were near. in sophocles' time there was a man who----" "oh, bother sophocles, you know i never let you talk anything but wholesome nonsense when i drop in for a smoke with you," says the younger man. "you began very well, with that superstition of yours, but i won't have it spoiled by erudition. tell me about your ward." "would that be nonsense?" says the professor, with a faint smile. they are sitting in the professor's room with the windows thrown wide open to let in any chance gust of air that heaven in its mercy may send them. it is night, and very late at night too--the clock indeed is on the stroke of twelve. it seems a long, long time to the professor since the afternoon--the afternoon of this very day--when he had seen perpetua sitting in that open carriage. he had only been half glad when harold hardinge--a young man, and yet, strange to say, his most intimate friend--had dropped in to smoke a pipe with him. hardinge was fonder of the professor than he knew, and was drawn to him by curious intricate webs. the professor suited him, and he suited the professor, though in truth hardinge was nothing more than a gay young society man, with just the average amount of brains, but not an ounce beyond that. a tall, handsome young man, with fair brown hair and hazel eyes, a dark moustache and a happy manner, mr. hardinge laughs his way through life, without money, or love, or any other troubles. "can you ask?" says he. "go on, curzon. what is she like?" "it wouldn't interest you," says the professor. "i beg your pardon, it is profoundly interesting; i've got to keep an eye on you, or else in a weak moment you will let her marry you." the professor moves uneasily. "may i ask how you knew i _had_ a ward?" "that should go without telling. i arrived here to-night, to find you absent and mrs. mulcahy in possession, pretending to dust the furniture. she asked me to sit down--i obeyed her." "'how's the professor?'" said i. "'me dear!' said she, 'that's a bad story. he's that distracted over a young lady that his own mother wouldn't know him!' "i acknowledge i blushed. i went even so far as to make a few pantomimic gestures suggestive of the horror i was experiencing, and finally i covered my face with my handkerchief. i regret to say that mrs. mulcahy took my modesty in bad part. "'arrah! git out wid ye!' says she, 'ye scamp o' the world. 'tis a _ward _the masther has taken an' nothin' more.' "i said i thought it was quite enough, and asked if you had taken it badly, and what the doctor thought of you. but she wouldn't listen to me. "'look here, misther hardinge,' said she. 'i've come to the conclusion that wards is bad for the professor. i haven't seen the young lady, i confess, but i'm cock-sure that she's got the divil's own temper!'" hardinge pauses, and turns to the professor--"has she?" says he. "n--o," says the professor--a little frowning lovely crimson face rises before him--and then a laughing one. "no," says he more boldly, "she is a little impulsive, perhaps, but----" "just so. just so," says mr. hardinge pleasantly, and then, after a kindly survey of his companion's features, "she is rather a trouble to you, old man, isn't she?" "she? no," says the professor again, more quickly this time. "it is only this--she doesn't seem to get on with the aunt to whom her poor father sent her--he is dead--and i have to look out for some one else to take care of her, until she comes of age." "i see. i should think you would have to hurry up a bit," says mr. hardinge, taking his cigar from his lips, and letting the smoke curl upwards slowly, thoughtfully. "impulsive people have a trick of being impatient--of acting for themselves----" _"she_ cannot," says the professor, with anxious haste. "she knows nobody in town." "nobody?" "except me, and a woman who is a friend of her aunt's. if she were to go to her, she would be taken back again. perpetua knows that." "perpetua! is that her name? what a peculiar one? perpetua----" "miss wynter," sharply. "perpetua--miss wynter! exactly so! it sounds like--dorothea--lady highflown! well, _your_ lady highflown doesn't seem to have many friends here. what a pity you can't send her back to australia!" the professor is silent. "it would suit all sides. i daresay the poor girl is pining for the freedom of her old home. and, i must say, it is hard lines for you. a girl with a temper, to be----" "i did not say she had a temper." hardinge has risen to get himself some whisky and soda, but pauses to pat the professor affectionately on the back. "of _course_ not! don't i know you? you would die first! she might worry your life out, and still you would rise up to defend her at every corner. you should get her a satisfactory home as son as you can--it would ease your mind; and, after all, as she knows no one here, she is bound to behave herself until you can come to her help." "she would behave herself, as you call it," says the professor angrily, "any and every where. she is a lady. she has been well brought up. i am her guardian, she will do nothing without _my_ permission!" _won't she!_ a sound, outside the door, strikes on the ears of both men at this moment. it is a most peculiar sound, as it were the rattle of beads against wood. "what's that?" says hardinge. "everett" (the man in the rooms below) "is out, i know." "it's coming here," says the professor. it is, indeed! the door is opened in a tumultuous fashion, there is a rustle of silken skirts, and there--there, where the gas-light falls full on her from both room and landing--stands perpetua! the professor has risen to his feet. his face is deadly white. mr. hardinge has risen too. "perpetua!" says the professor; it would be impossible to describe his tone. "i've come!" says perpetua, advancing into the room. "i have done with aunt jane _for ever,"_ casting wide her pretty naked arms, "and i have come to you!" as if in confirmation of this decision, she flings from her on to a distant chair the white opera cloak around her, and stands revealed as charming a thing as ever eye fell upon. she is all in black, but black that sparkles and trembles and shines with every movement. she seems, indeed, to be hung in jet, and out of all this sombre gleaming her white neck rises, pure and fresh and sweet as a little child's. her long slight arms are devoid of gloves--she had forgotten them, no doubt, but her slender fingers are covered with rings, and round her neck a diamond necklace clings as if in love with its resting place. diamonds indeed are everywhere. in her hair, in her breast, on her neck, her fingers. her father, when luck came to him, had found his greatest joy in decking with these gems the delight of his heart. the professor turns to hardinge. that young man, who had risen with the intention of leaving the room on perpetua's entrance, is now staring at her as if bewitched. his expression is half puzzled, half amused. is _this_ the professor's troublesome ward? this lovely, graceful---"leave us!" says the professor sharply. hardinge, with a profound bow, quits the room, but not the house. it would be impossible to go without hearing the termination of this exciting episode. everett's rooms being providentially empty, he steps into them, and, having turned up the gas, drops into a chair and gives way to mirth. meantime the professor is staring at perpetua. "what has happened?" says he. chapter vii. "take it to thy breast; though thorns its stem invest, gather them, with the rest!" "she is unbearable. _unbearable!"_ returns perpetua vehemently. "when i came back from the concert to-night, she---but i won't speak of her. i _won't._ and, at all events, i have done with her; i have left her. i have come"--with decision--"to stay with you!" "eh?" says the professor. it is a mere sound, but it expresses a great deal. "to stay with you. yes," nodding her head, "it has come to that at last. i warned you it _would._ i couldn't stay with her any longer. i hate her! so i have come to stay with you--_for ever!"_ she has cuddled herself into an armchair, and, indeed, looks as if a life-long residence in this room is the plan she has laid out for herself. "good heavens! what can you mean?" asks the poor professor, who should have sworn by the heathen gods, but in a weak moment falls back upon the good old formula. he sinks upon the table next him, and makes ruin of the notes he had been scribbling--the ink is still wet--even whilst hardinge was with him. could he only have known it, there are first proofs of them now upon his trousers. "i have told you," says she. "good gracious, what a funny room this is! i told you she was abominable to me when i came home to-night. she said dreadful things to me, and i don't care whether she is my aunt or not, i shan't let her scold me for nothing; and--i'm afraid i wasn't nice to her. i'm sorry for that, but--one isn't a bit of stone, you know, and she said something--about my mother," her eyes grow very brilliant here, "and when i walked up to her she apologized for that, but afterwards she said something about poor, _poor_ papa--and--well, that was the end. i told her--amongst _other _things--that i thought she was 'too old to be alive,' and she didn't seem to mind the 'other things' half as much as that, though they were awful. at all events," with a little wave of her hands, "she's lectured me now for good; i shall never see _her_ again! i've run away to you! see?" it must be acknowledged that the professor _doesn't_ see. he is sitting on the edge of the table--dumb. "oh! i'm so _glad_ i've left her," says perpetua, with indeed heartfelt delight in look and tone. "but--do you know--i'm hungry. you--you couldn't let me make you a cup of tea, could you? i'm dreadfully thirsty! what's that in your glass?" "nothing," says the professor hastily. he removes the half-finished tumbler of whisky and soda, and places it in the open cupboard. "it looked like _something,"_ says she. "but what about tea?" "i'll see what i can do," says he, beginning to busy himself amongst many small contrivances in the same cupboard. it has gone to his heart to hear that she is hungry and thirsty, but even in the midst of his preparations for her comfort, a feeling of rage takes possession of him. he pulls his head out of the cupboard and turns to her. "you must be _mad!"_ says he. "mad? why?" asks she. "to come here. here! and at this hour!" "there was no other place: and i wasn't going to live under _her_ roof another second. i said to myself that she was my aunt, but you were my guardian. both of you have been told to look after me, and i prefer to be looked after by you. it is so simple," says she, with a suspicion of contempt in her tone, "that i wonder why you wonder at it. as i preferred _you_--of course i have come to live with you." "you _can't!"_ gasps the professor, "you must go back to miss majendie at once!" "to _her!_ i'm not going back," steadily. "and even if i would," triumphantly, "i couldn't. as she sleeps at the top of the house (to get _air,_ she says), and so does her maid, you might ring until you were black in the face, and she wouldn't hear you." "well! you can't stay here!" says the professor, getting off the table and addressing her with a truly noble attempt at sternness. "why can't i?" there is some indignation in her tone. "there's lots of room here, isn't there?" "there is _no_ room!" says the professor. this is the literal truth. "the house is full. and--and there are only men here." "so much the better!" says perpetua, with a little frown and a great deal of meaning. "i'm tired of women--they're horrid. you're always kind to me--at least," with a glance, "you always used to be, and _you're _a man! tell one of your servants to make me up a room somewhere." "there isn't one," says the professor. "oh! nonsense," says she, leaning back in her chair and yawning softly. "i'm not so big that you can't put me away somewhere. _that woman_ says i'm so small that i'll never be a grown-up girl, because i can't grow up any more. who'd live with a woman like that? and i shall grow more, isn't it?" "i daresay," says the professor vaguely. "but that is not the question to be considered now. i must beg you to understand, perpetua, that your staying here is out of the question!" "out of the---oh! i _see,"_ cries she, springing to her feet and turning a passionately reproachful face on his. "you mean that i shall be in your way here!" "no, _no_, no!" cries he, just as impulsively, and decidedly very foolishly; but the sight of her small mortified face has proved too much for him, "only----" "only?" echoes the spoiled child, with a loving smile--the child who has been accustomed to have all things and all people give way to her during her short life. "only you are afraid _i_ shall not be comfortable. but i shall. and i shall be a great comfort to you too--a great _help._ i shall keep everything in order for you. do you remember the talk we had that last day you came to aunt jane's? how i told you of the happy days we should have together, if we _were_ together. well, we are together now, aren't we? and when i'm twenty-one, we'll move into a big, big house, and ask people to dances and dinners and things. in the meantime----" she pauses and glances leisurely around her. the glance is very comprehensive. "to-morrow," says she with decision, "i shall settle this room!" the professor's breath fails him. he grows pale. to "settle" his room! "perpetua!" exclaims he, almost inarticulately, "you don't understand." "i do indeed," returns she brightly. "i've often settled papa's den. what! do you think me only a silly useless creature? you shall see! i'll settle _you_ too, by and by." she smiles at him gaily, with the most charming innocence, but oh! what awful probabilities lie within her words. _settle him!_ "do you know i've heard people talking about you at mrs. constans'," says she. she smiles and nods at him. the professor groans. to be talked about! to be discussed! to be held up to vulgar comment! he writhes inwardly. the thought is actual torture to him. "they said----" _"what?"_ demands the professor, almost fiercely. how dare a feeble feminine audience appreciate or condemn his honest efforts to enlighten his small section of mankind! "that you ought to be married," says perpetua, sympathetically. "and they said, too, that they supposed you wouldn't ever be now; but that it was a great pity you hadn't a daughter. _i_ think that too. not about your having a wife. that doesn't matter, but i really think you ought to have a daughter to look after you." this extremely immoral advice she delivers with a beaming smile. _"i'll_ be your daughter," says she. the professor goes rigid with horror. what has he _done_ that the fates should so visit him? "they said something else too," goes on perpetua, this time rather angrily. "they said you were so clever that you always looked unkempt. that?" thoughtfully, "means that you didn't brush your hair enough. never mind, _i'll_ brush it for you." "look here!" says the professor furiously, subdued fury no doubt, but very genuine. "you must go, you know. go, _at once!_ d'ye see? you can't stay in this house, d'ye _hear?_ i can't permit it. what did your father mean by bringing you up like this!" "like what?" she is staring at him. she has leant forward as if surprised--and with a sigh the professor acknowledges the uselessness of a fight between them; right or wrong she is sure to win. he is bound to go to the wall. she is looking not only surprised, but unnerved. the ebullition of wrath on the part of her mild guardian has been a slight shock to her. "tell me?" persists she. "tell you! what is there to tell you? i should think the veriest infant would have known she oughtn't to come here." "i should think an infant would know nothing," with dignity. "all your scientific researches have left you, i'm afraid, very ignorant. and i should think that the very first thing even an infant would do, if she could walk, would be to go straight to her guardian when in trouble." "at this hour?" "at any hour. what," throwing out her hands expressively, "is a guardian _for,_ if it isn't to take care of people?" the professor gives it up. the heat of battle has overcome him. with a deep breath he drops into a chair, and begins to wonder how long it will be before happy death will overtake him. but in the meantime, whilst sitting on a milestone of life waiting for that grim friend, what is to be done with her? if--good heavens! if anyone had seen her come in! "who opened the door for you?" demands he abruptly. "a great big fat woman with a queer voice! your mrs. mulcahy of course. i remember your telling me about her." mrs. mulcahy undoubtedly. well, the professor wishes now he had told his ward _more_ about her. mrs. mulcahy he can trust, but she--awful thought-will she trust him? what is she thinking now? "i said, 'is mr. curzon at home?' and she said, 'well i niver!' so i saw she was a kindly, foolish, poor creature with no sense, and i ran past her, and up the stairs, and i looked into one room where there were lights but you weren't there, and then i ran on again until i saw the light under _your_ door, and, "brightening, "there you were!" here _she_ is now, at all events, at half-past twelve at night! "wasn't it fortunate i found you?" says she. she is laughing a little, and looking so content that the professor hasn't the heart to contradict her--though where the fortune comes in---"i'm starving," says she, gaily, "will that funny little kettle soon boil?" the professor has lit a spirit-lamp with a view to giving her some tea. "i haven't had anything to eat since dinner, and you know she dines at an ungodly hour. two o'clock! i didn't know i wanted anything to eat until i escaped from her, but now that i have got _you,"_ triumphantly, "i feel as hungry as ever i can be." "there is nothing," says the professor, blankly. his heart seems to stop beating. the most hospitable and kindly of men, it is terrible to him to have to say this. of course mrs. mulcahy--who, no doubt, is still in the hall waiting for an explanation, could give him something. but mrs. mulcahy can be unpleasant at times, and this is safe to be a "time." yet without her assistance he can think of no means by which this pretty, slender, troublesome little ward of his can be fed. "nothing!" repeats she faintly. "oh, but surely in that cupboard over there, where you put the glass, there is something; even bread and butter i should like." she gets up, and makes an impulsive step forward, and in doing so brushes against a small ricketty table, that totters feebly for an instant and then comes with a crash to the ground, flinging a whole heap of gruesome dry bones at her very feet. with a little cry of horror she recoils from them. perhaps her nerves are more out of order than she knows, perhaps the long fast and long drive here, and her reception from her guardian at the end of it--so different from what she had imagined--have all helped to undo her. whatever be the cause, she suddenly covers her face with her hands and burst into tears. "take them away!" cries she frantically, and then--sobbing heavily between her broken words--"oh, i see how it is. you don't want me here at all. you wish i hadn't come. and i have no one but you--and poor papa said you would be good to me. but you are _sorry_ he made you my guardian. you would be glad if i were _dead!_ when i come to you in my trouble you tell me to go away again, and though i tell you i am hungry, you won't give me even some bread and butter! oh!" passionately, "if _you_ came to _me_ starving, i'd give _you_ things, but--you----" _"stop!"_ cries the professor. he uplifts his hands, and, as though in the act of tearing his hair, rushes from the room, and staggers downstairs to those other apartments where hardinge had elected to sit, and see out the farce, comedy, or tragedy, whichever it may prove, to its bitter end. the professor bursts in like a maniac! chapter viii. "the house of everyone is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defence against injury and violence as for his repose." "she's upstairs still," cries he in a frenzied tone. "she says she has come _for ever._ that she will not go away. she doesn't understand. great heaven! what am i to do?" "she?" says hardinge, who really in turn grows petrified for the moment--_only _for the moment. "that girl! my ward! all women are _demons!"_ says the professor bitterly, with tragic force. he pauses as if exhausted. _"your_ demon is a pretty specimen of her kind," says hardinge, a little frivolously under the circumstances it must be confessed. "where is she now?" "upstairs!" with a groan. "she says she's _hungry,_ and i haven't a thing in the house! for goodness sake think of something, hardinge." "mrs. mulcahy!" suggests hardinge, in anything but a hopeful tone. "yes--ye-es," says the professor. "you--_you _wouldn't ask her something, would you, hardinge?" "not for a good deal," says hardinge, promptly. "i say," rising, and going towards everett's cupboard, "everett's a sybarite, you know, of the worst kind--sure to find something here, and we can square it with him afterwards. beauty in distress, you know, appeals to all hearts. _here we are!"_ holding out at arm's length a pasty. "a 'weal and ammer!' take it! the guilt be on my head! bread--butter--pickled onions! oh, _not_ pickled onions, i think. really, i had no idea even everett had fallen so low. cheese!--about to proceed on a walking tour! the young lady wouldn't care for that, thanks. beer! no. _no_. sherry-woine!" "give me that pie, and the bread and butter," says the professor, in great wrath. "and let me tell you, hardinge, that there are occasions when one's high spirits can degenerate into offensiveness and vulgarity!" he marches out of the room and upstairs, leaving hardinge, let us hope, a prey to remorse. it is true, at least of that young man, that he covers his face with his hands and sways from side to side, as if overcome by some secret emotion. grief--no doubt. perpetua is graciously pleased to accept the frugal meal the professor brings her. she even goes so far as to ask him to share it with her--which invitation he declines. he is indeed sick at heart--not for himself--(the professor doesn't often think of himself)--but for her. and where is she to sleep? to turn her out now would be impossible! after all, it was a puerile trifling with the inevitable, to shirk asking mrs. mulcahy for something to eat for his self-imposed guest--because the question of _bed_ is still to come! mrs. mulcahy, terrible, as she undoubtedly can be, is yet the only woman in the house, and it is imperative that perpetua should be given up to her protection. whilst the professor is writhing in spirit over this ungetoutable fact, he becomes aware of a resounding knock at the door. paralyzed, he gazes in the direction of the sound. it _can't_ be hardinge, he would never knock like that! the knock in itself, indeed, is of such force and volume as to strike terror into the bravest heart. it is--it _must_ be--the mulcahy! and mrs. mulcahy it is! without waiting for an answer, that virtuous irishwoman, clad in righteous indignation and a snuff-colored gown, marches into the room. "may i ask, mr. curzon," says she, with great dignity and more temper, "what may be the meanin' of all this?" the professor's tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth, but perpetua's tongue remains normal. she jumps up, and runs to mrs. mulcahy with a beaming face. she has had something to eat, and is once again her own buoyant, wayward, light-hearted little self. "oh! it is all right _now,_ mrs. mulcahy," cries she, whilst the professor grows cold with horror at this audacious advance upon the militant mulcahy. "but do you know, he said first he hadn't anything to give me, and i was starving. no, you mustn't scold him--he didn't mean anything. i suppose you have heard how unhappy i was with aunt jane?--he's told you, i daresay,"--with a little flinging of her hand towards the trembling professor--"because i know"--prettily--"he is very fond of you--he often speaks to me about you. oh! aunt jane is _horrid!_ i _should_ have told you about how it was when i came, but i wanted so much to see my guardian, and tell _him_ all about it, that i forgot to be nice to anybody. see?" there is a little silence. the professor, who is looking as guilty as if the whole ten commandments have been broken by him at once, waits, shivering, for the outburst that is so sure to come. it doesn't come, however! when the mists clear away a little, he finds that perpetua has gone over to where mrs. mulcahy is standing, and is talking still to that good irishwoman. it is a whispered talk this time, and the few words of it that he catches go to his very heart. "i'm afraid he didn't _want_ me here," perpetua is saying, in a low distressed little voice--"i'm sorry i came now--but, you don't _know_ how cruel aunt jane was to me, mrs. mulcahy, you don't indeed! she--she said such unkind things about--about----" perpetua breaks down again--struggles with herself valiantly, and finally bursts out crying. "i'm tired, i'm sleepy," sobs she miserably. need i say what follows? the professor, stung to the quick by those forlorn sobs, lifts his eyes, and--behold! he sees perpetua gathered to the ample bosom of the formidable, kindly mulcahy. "come wid me, me lamb," says that excellent woman. "bad scran to the one that made yer purty heart sore. lave her to me now, misther curzon, dear, an' i'll take a mother's care of her." (this in an aside to the astounded professor.) "there now, alanna! take courage now! sure 'tis to the right shop ye've come, anyway, for 'tis daughthers i have meself, me dear--fine, sthrappin' girls as could put you in their pockits. ye poor little crather! oh! murther! who could harm the like of ye? faix, i hope that ould divil of an aunt o' yours won't darken these doors, or she'll git what she won't like from biddy mulcahy. there now! there now! 'tis into yer bed i'll tuck ye meself, for 'tis worn-out ye are--god help ye!" she is gone, taking perpetua with her. the professor rubs his eyes, and then suddenly an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards mrs. mulcahy takes possession of him. _what_ a woman! he had never thought so much moral support could be got out of a landlady--but mrs. mulcahy has certainly tided him safely over _one_ of his difficulties. still, those that remain are formidable enough to quell any foolish present attempts at relief of mind. "to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow!" how many to-morrows is she going to remain here? oh! impossible! not an _hour_ must be wasted. by the morning light something must be put on foot to save the girl from her own foolhardiness, nay ignorance! once again, sunk in the meshes of depression, the persecuted professor descends to the room where hardinge awaits him. "anything new?" demands the latter, springing to his feet. "yes! mrs. mulcahy came up." the professor's face is so gloomy, that hardinge may be forgiven for saying to himself, "she has assaulted him!" "i'm glad it isn't visible," says he, staring at the professor's nose, and then at his eye. both are the usual size. "eh?" says the professor. "she was visible of course. she was kinder than i expected." "so, i see. she might so easily have made it your lip--or your nose--or----" _"what_ is there in everett's cupboard besides the beer?" demands the professor angrily. "for heaven's sake! attend to me, and don't sit there grinning like a first-class chimpanzee!" this is extremely rude, but hardinge takes no notice of it. "i tell you she was kind--kinder than one would expect," says the professor, rapping his knuckles on the table. "oh! i see. she? miss wynter?" "no--mrs. mulcahy!" roars the professor frantically. "where's your head, man? mrs. mulcahy came into the room, and took miss wynter into her charge in the--er--the most wonderful way, and carried her off to bed." the professor mops his brow. "oh, well, _that's_ all right," says hardinge. "sit down, old chap, and let's talk it over." "it is _not_ all right," says the professor. "it is all wrong. here she is, and here she apparently means to stay. the poor child doesn't understand. she thinks i'm older than methusaleh, and that she can live here with me. i can't explain it to her--you--don't think _you_ could, do you, hardinge?" "no, i don't, indeed," says hardinge, in a hurry. "what on earth has brought her here at all?" "to _stay._ haven't i told you? to stay for ever. she says"--with a groan--"she is going to settle me! to--to _brush my hair!_ to--make my tea. she says i'm her guardian, and insists on living with me. she doesn't understand! hardinge," desperately, "what _am_ i to do?" "marry her!" suggests hardinge, who, i regret to say is choking with laughter. "that is a _jest!"_ says the professor haughtily. this unusual tone from the professor strikes surprise to the soul of hardinge. he looks at him. but the professor's new humor is short-lived. he sinks upon a chair in a tired sort of way, letting his arms fall over the sides of it. as a type of utter despair he is a distinguished specimen. "why don't you take her home again, back to the old aunt?" says hardinge, moved by his misery. "i can't. she tells me it would be useless, that the house is locked up, and--and besides, hardinge, her aunt--after _this,_ you know-would be----" "naturally," says hardinge, after which he falls back upon his cigar. "light your pipe," says he, "and we'll think it over." the professor lights it, and both men draw nearer to each other. "i'm afraid she won't go back to her aunt any way," says the professor, as a beginning to the "thinking it over." he pushes his glasses up to his forehead, and finally discards them altogether, flinging them on the table near. "if she saw you now she might understand," says hardinge--for, indeed, the professor without his glasses loses thirty per cent. of old time. "she wouldn't," says the professor. "and never mind that. come back to the question. i say she will never go back to her aunt." he looks anxiously at hardinge. one can see that he would part with a good deal of honest coin of the realm, if his companion would only _not_ agree with him. "it looks like it," said hardinge, who is rather enjoying himself. "by jove! what a thing to happen to _you,_ curzon, of all men in the world. what are you going to do, eh?" "it isn't so much that," says the professor faintly. "it is what is _she_ going to do?" _"next!"_ supplements hardinge. "quite so! it would be a clever fellow who would answer that, straight off. i say, curzon, what a pretty girl she is, though. pretty isn't the word. lovely, i----" the professor gets up suddenly. "not that," says he, raising his hand in his gentle fashion--that has now something of haste in it. "it--i--you know what i mean, hardinge. to discuss her--herself, i mean--and here----" "yes. you are right," says hardinge slowly, with, however, an irrepressible stare at the professor. it is a prolonged stare. he is very fond of curzon, though knowing absolutely nothing about him beyond the fact that he is eminently likeable; and it now strikes him as strange that this silent, awkward, ill-dressed, clever man should be the one to teach him how to behave himself. who _is_ curzon? given a better tailor, and a worse brain, he might be a reasonable-looking fellow enough, and not so old either--forty, perhaps--perhaps less. "have you no relation to whom you could send her?" he says at length, that sudden curiosity as to who curzon may be prompting the question. "some old lady? an aunt, for example?" "she doesn't seem to like aunts," says the professor, with deep dejection. "small blame to her," says hardinge, smoking vigorously. _"i've_ an aunt--but 'that's another story!' well--haven't you a cousin then?--or something?" "i have a sister," says the professor slowly. "married?" "a widow." ("fusty old person, out somewhere in the wilds of finchley," says hardinge to himself. "poor little girl--she won't fancy that either!") "why not send her to you sister then?" says he aloud. "i'm not sure that she would like to have her," says the professor, with hesitation. "i confess i have been thinking it over for some days, but----" "but perhaps the fact of your ward's being an heiress----" begins hardinge--throwing out a suggestion as it were--but is checked by something in the professor's face. "my sister is the countess of baring," says he gently. hardinge's first thought is that the professor has gone out of his mind, and his second that he himself has accomplished that deed. he leans across the table. surprise has deprived him of his usual good manners. "lady baring!--_your _sister!" says he. chapter ix. "your face, my thane, is as a book, where men may read strange matters." "i see no reason why she shouldn't be," says the professor calmly--is there a faint suspicion of hauteur in his tone? "as we are on the subject of myself, i may as well tell you that my brother is sir hastings curzon, of whom"--he turns back as if to take up some imaginary article from the floor--"you may have heard." "sir hastings!" mr. hardinge leans back in his chair and gives way to thought. this quiet, hard-working student--this man whom he had counted as a nobody--the brother of that disreputable hastings curzon! "as good as got the baronetcy," says he still thinking. "at the rate sir hastings is going he can't possibly last for another twelvemonth, and here is this fellow living in these dismal lodgings with twenty thousand a year before his eyes. a lucky thing for him that the estates are so strictly entailed. good heavens! to think of a man with all that almost in his grasp being _happy_ in a coat that must have been built in the ark, and caring for nothing on earth but the intestines of frogs and such-like abominations." "you seem surprised again," says the professor, somewhat satirically. "i confess it," says hardinge. "i can't see why you should be." _"i_ do," says hardinge drily. "that you," slowly, _"you_ should be sir hastings' brother! why----" "no more!" interrupts the professor sharply. he lifts his hand. "not another word. i know what you are going to say. it is one of my great troubles, that i always know what people are going to say when they mention him. let him alone, hardinge." "oh! _i'll_ let him alone," says hardinge, with a gesture of disgust. there is a pause. "you know my sister, then?" says the professor presently. "yes. she is very charming. how is it i have never seen you there?" "at her house?" "at her receptions?" "i have no taste for that sort of thing, and no time. fashionable society bores me. i go and see gwen on off days and early hours, when i am sure that i shall find her alone. we are friends, you will understand, she and i; capital friends, though sometimes," with a sigh, "she--she seems to disapprove of my mode of living. but we get on very well on the whole. she is a very good girl," says the professor kindly, who always thinks of lady baring as a little girl in short frocks in her nursery--the nursery he had occupied with her. to hear the beautiful, courted, haughty lady baring, who has the best of london at her feet, called "a good girl," so tickles mr. hardinge, that he leans back in his chair and bursts out laughing. "yes?" says the professor, as if asking for an explanation of the joke. "oh! nothing--nothing. only--you _are_ such a queer fellow!" says hardinge, sitting up again to look at him. "you are a _rara avis,_ do you know? no, of course you don't! you are one of the few people who don't know their own worth. i don't believe, curzon, though i should live to be a thousand, that i shall ever look upon your like again." "and so you laugh. well, no doubt it is a pleasant reflection," says the professor dismally. "i begin to wish now i had never seen myself." "oh, come! cheer up," says hardinge, "your pretty ward will be all right. if lady baring takes her in hand, she----" "ah! but will she?" says the professor. "will she like per---miss wynter?" "sure to," said hardinge, with quite a touch of enthusiasm. "'to see her is to love her, and love but'----" "that is of no consequence where anyone is concerned except lady baring," says the professor, with a little twist in his chair, "and my sister has not seen her as yet. and besides, that is not the only question--a greater one remains." "by jove! you don't say so! what?" demands mr. hardinge, growing earnest. "will miss wynter like _her?"_ says the professor. "that is the real point." "oh! i see!" says hardinge thoughtfully. the next day, however, proves the professor's fears vain in both quarters. an early visit to lady baring, and an anxious appeal, brings out all that delightful woman's best qualities. one stipulation alone she makes, that she may see the young heiress before finally committing herself to chaperone her safely through the remainder of the season. the professor, filled with hope, hies back to his rooms, calls for mrs. mulcahy, tells her he is going to take his ward out for a drive, and gives that worthy and now intensely interested landlady full directions to see that miss wynter looks--"er--nice! you know, mrs. mulcahy, her _best_ suit, and----" mrs. mulcahy came generously to the rescue. "her best frock, sir, i suppose, an' her sunday bonnet. i've often wished it before, mr. curzon, an' i'm thinkin' that 'twill be the makin' of ye; an' a handsome, purty little crathur she is an' no mistake. an' who is to give away the poor dear, sir, askin' yer pardon?" "i am," says the professor. "oh no, sir; the likes was never known. 'tis the father or one of his belongings as gives away the bride, _niver_ the husband to be, an' if ye _have_ nobody, sir, you two, why i'm sure i'd be proud to act for ye in this matther. faix i don't disguise from ye, misther curzon, dear, that i feels like a mother to that purty child this moment, an' i tell ye _this,_ that if ye don't behave dacent to her, ye'll have to answer to mrs. mulcahy for that same." "what d'ye mean, woman?" roars the professor, indignantly. "do you imagine that _--_--?" "no. i'd belave nothin' bad o' ye," says mrs. mulcahy solemnly. "i've cared ye these six years, an' niver a fault to find. but that child beyant, whin ye take her away to make her yer wife----" "you must be mad," says the professor, a strange, curious pang contracting his heart. "i am not taking her away to---i--i am taking her to my sister, who will receive her as a guest." "mad!" repeats mrs. mulcahy furiously. "who's mad? faix," preparing to leave the room, "'tis yerself was born widout a grain o' sinse!" the meeting between lady baring and perpetua is eminently satisfactory. the latter, looking lovely, but a little frightened, so takes lady baring's artistic soul by storm, that that great lady then and there accepts the situation, and asks perpetua if she will come to her for a week or so. perpetua, charmed in turn by lady baring's grace and beauty and pretty ways, receives the invitation with pleasure, little dreaming that she is there "on view," as it were, and that the invitation is to be prolonged indefinitely--that is, till either she or her hostess tire one of the other. the professor's heart sinks a little as he sees his sister rise and loosen the laces round the girl's pretty, slender throat, begging her to begin to feel at home at once. alas! he has deliberately given up his ward! _his_ ward! is she any longer his? has not the great world claimed her now, and presently will she not belong to it? so lovely, so sweet she is, will not all men run to snatch the prize?--a prize, bejewelled too, not only by nature, but by that gross material charm that men call wealth. well, well, he has done his best for her. there was, indeed, nothing else left to do. chapter x. "the sun is all about the world we see, the breath and strength of very spring; and we live, love, and feed on our own hearts." the lights are burning low in the conservatory, soft perfumes from the many flowers fill the air. from beyond--somewhere--(there is a delicious drowsy uncertainty about the where)--comes the sound of music, soft, rhythmical, and sweet. perhaps it is from one of the rooms outside--dimly seen through the green foliage--where the lights are more brilliant, and forms are moving. but just in here there is no music save the tinkling drip, drip of the little fountain that plays idly amongst the ferns. lady baring is at home to-night, and in the big, bare rooms outside dancing is going on, and in the smaller rooms, tiny tragedies and comedies are being enacted by amateurs, who, oh, wondrous tale! do know their parts and speak them, albeit no stage "proper" has been prepared for them. perhaps that is why stage-fright is not for them--a stage as big as "all the world" leaves actors very free. but in here--here, with the dainty flowers and dripping fountains, there is surely no thought of comedy or tragedy. only a little girl gowned all in white, with snowy arms and neck, and diamonds glittering in the soft masses of her waving hair. a happy little girl, to judge by the soft smile upon her lovely lips, and the gleam in her dark eyes. leaning back in her seat in the dim, cool recesses of the conservatory, amongst the flowers and the greeneries, she looks like a little nymph in love with the silence and the sense of rest that the hour holds. it is broken, however. "i am so sorry you are not dancing," says her companion, leaning towards her. his regret is evidently genuine, indeed; to hardinge the evening is an ill-spent one that precludes his dancing with perpetua wynter. "yes?" she looks up at him from her low lounge amongst the palms. "well, so am i, do you know!" telling the truth openly, yet with an evident sense of shame. "but i don't dance now, because--it is selfish, isn't it?--because i should be so unhappy afterwards if i _did!"_ "a perfect reason," says hardinge very earnestly. he is still leaning towards her, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on hers. it is an intent gaze that seldom wanders, and in truth why should it? where is any other thing as good to look at as this small, fair creature, with the eyes, and the hair, and the lips that belong to her? he has taken possession of her fan, and gently, lovingly, as though indeed it is part of her, is holding it, raising it sometimes to sweep the feathers of it across his lips. "do you think so?" says she, as if a little puzzled. "well, i confess i don't like the moments when i hate myself. we all hate ourselves sometimes, don't we?" looking at him as if doubtfully, "or is it only i myself, who----" "oh, no!" says hardinge. _"all!_ all of us detest ourselves now and again, or at least we think we do. it comes to the same thing, but you--you have no cause." "i should have if i danced," says she, "and i couldn't bear the after reproach, so i don't do it." "and yet--yet you would _like_ to dance?" "i don't know----" she hesitates, and suddenly looks up at him with eyes as full of sorrow as of mirth. "at all events i know _this,"_ says she, "that i wish the band would not play such nice waltzes!" hardinge gives way to laughter, and presently she laughs too, but softly, and as if afraid of being heard, and as if too a little ashamed of herself. her color rises, a delicate warm color that renders her absolutely adorable. "shall i order them to stop?" asks hardinge, laughing still, yet with something in his gaze that tells her he _would_ forbid them to play if he could, if only to humor her. "no!" says she, "and, after all,"--philosophically--"enjoyment is only a name." "that's all!" says hardinge, smiling. "but a very good one." "let us forget it," with a little sigh, "and talk of something else, something pleasanter." "than enjoyment?" she gives way to his mood and laughs afresh. "ah! you have me there!" says she. "i have not, indeed," he returns quietly, and with meaning. "neither there, nor anywhere." he gets up suddenly, and going to her, bends over the chair on which she is sitting. "we were talking of what?" asks she, with admirable courage, "of names, was it not? an endless subject. _my_ name now? an absurd one surely. perpetua! i don't like perpetua, do you?" she is evidently talking at random. "i do indeed!" says hardinge, promptly and fervently. his tone accentuates his meaning. "oh, but so harsh, so unusual!" "unusual! that in itself constitutes a charm." "i was going to add, however--disagreeable." "not that--never that," says hardinge. "you mean to say you really _like_ perpetua?" her large soft eyes opening with amazement. "it is a poor word," says he, his tone now very low. "if i dared say that i _adored_ 'perpetua,' i should be----" "oh, you laugh at me," interrupts she with a little impatient gesture, "you _know_ how crude, how strange, how----" "i don't, indeed. why should you malign yourself like that? you--_you--_who are----" he stops short, driven to silence by a look in the girl's eye. "what have _i_ to do with it? i did not christen myself," says she. there is perhaps a suspicion of hauteur in her tone. "i am talking to you about my _name._ you understand that, don't you?"--the hauteur increasing. "do you know, of late i have often wished i was somebody else, because then i should have had a different one." hardinge, at this point, valiantly refrains from a threadbare quotation. perhaps he is too far crushed to be able to remember it. "still it is charming," says he, somewhat confusedly. "it is absurd," says perpetua coldly. there is evidently no pity in her. and alas! when we think what _that_ sweet feeling is akin to, on the highest authority, one's hopes for hardinge fall low. he loses his head a little. "not so absurd as your guardian's, however," says he, feeling the necessity for saying something without the power to manufacture it. "mr. curzon's? what is his name?" asks she, rising out of her lounging position and looking, for the first time, interested. "thaddeus." perpetua, after a prolonged stare, laughs a little. "what a name!" says she. "worse than mine. and yet," still laughing, "it suits him, i think." hardinge laughs with her. not _at_ his friend, but _with_ her. it seems clear to him that perpetua is making gentle fun of her guardian, and though his conscience smites him for encouraging her in her naughtiness, still he cannot refrain. "he is an awfully good old fellow," says he, throwing a sop to his cerberus. "is he?" says perpetua, as if even _more_ amused. she looks up at him, and then down again, and trifles with the fan she has taken back from him, and finally laughs again; something in her laugh this time, however, puzzles him. "you don't like him?" hazards he. "after all, i suppose it is hardly natural that a ward _should_ like her guardian." "yes? and _why?"_ asks perpetua, still smiling, still apparently amused. "for one thing, the sense of restraint that belongs to the relations between them. a guardian, you know, would be able to control one in a measure." "would he?" "well, i imagine so. it is traditionary. and you?" "i don't know about _other_ people," says miss wynter, calmly, "i know only this, that nobody ever yet controlled _me,_ and i don't suppose now that anybody ever will." as she says this she looks at him with the prettiest smile; it is a mixture of amusement and defiance. hardinge, gazing at her, draws conclusions. ("perfectly _hates_ him," decides he.) it seems to him a shame, and a pity too, but after all, old curzon was hardly meant by nature to do the paternal to a strange and distinctly spoiled child, and a beauty into the bargain. "i don't think your guardian will have a good time," says he, bending over her confidentially, on the strength of this decision of his. "don't you?" she draws back from him and looks up. "you think i shall lead him a very bad life?" "well, as _he_ would regard it. not as i should," with a sudden, impassioned glance. miss wynter puts that glance behind her, and perhaps there is something--something a little dangerous in the soft, _soft_ look she now turns upon him. "he thinks so, too, of course?" says she, ever so gently. her tone is half a question, half an assertion. it is manifestly unfair, the whole thing. hardinge, believing in her tone, her smile, falls into the trap. mindful of that night when the professor in despair at her untimely descent upon him, had said many things unmeant, he answers her. "hardly that. but----" "go on." "there was a little word or two, you know," laughing. "a hint?" laughing too, but how strangely! "yes? and----?" "oh! a _mere_ hint! the professor is too loyal to go beyond that. i suppose you know you have the best man in all the world for your guardian? but it was a little unkind of your people, was it not, to give you into the keeping of a confirmed bookworm--a savant--with scarcely a thought beyond his studies?" "he could study me!" says she. "i should be a fresh specimen." "a _rara avis_, indeed! but not such as the professor's soul covets. no, believe me, you are as dust before the wind in his learned eye." "you think then--that i--am a trouble to him?" "it is inconceivable," says he, with a shrug of apology, "but he has no room in his daily thoughts, i verily believe, for anything beyond his beloved books, and notes, and discoveries." "yet _i_ am a discovery," persists she, looking at him with anxious eyes, and leaning forward, whilst her fan falls idly on her knees. "ah! but so unpardonably _recent!"_ returns he with a smile. "true!" says she. she gives him one swift brilliant glance, and then suddenly grows restless. "how _warm_ it is!" she says fretfully. "i wish----" what she was going to say, will never now be known. the approach of a tall, gaunt figure through the hanging oriental curtains at the end of the conservatory checks her speech. sir hastings curzon is indeed taller than most men, and is, besides, a man hardly to be mistaken again when once seen. perpetua has seen him very frequently of late. chapter xi. "but all was false and hollow; though his tongue dropped manna, and could make the worse appear the better reason, to perplex and dash maturest counsels." "shall i take you to lady baring?" says hardinge, quickly, rising and bending as if to offer her his arm. "no, thank you," coldly. "i think," anxiously, "you once told me you did not care for sir----" "did i? it seems quite terrible the amount of things i have told everybody." there is a distinct flash in her lovely eyes now, and her small hand has tightened round her fan. "sometimes--i talk folly! as a fact" (with a touch of defiance), "i like sir hastings, although he _is_ my guardian's brother!--my guardian who would so gladly get rid of me." there is bitterness on the young, red mouth. "you should not look at it in that light." "should i not? you should be the last to say that, seeing that you were the one to show me how to regard it. besides, you forget sir hastings is lady baring's brother too, and--you haven't anything to say against _her,_ have you? ah!" with a sudden lovely smile, "you, sir hastings?" "you are not dancing," says the tall, gaunt man, who has now come up to her. "so much i have seen. too warm? eh? you show reason, i think. and yet, if i might dare to hope that you would give me this waltz----" "no, no," says she, still with her most charming air. "i am not dancing to-night. i shall not dance this year." "that is a median law, no doubt," says he. "if you will not dance with me, then may i hope that you will give me the few too short moments that this waltz may contain?" hardinge makes a vague movement but an impetuous one. if the girl had realized the fact of his love for her, she might have been touched and influenced by it, but as it is she feels only a sense of anger towards him. anger unplaced, undefined, yet nevertheless intense. "with pleasure," says she to sir hastings, smiling at him almost across hardinge's outstretched hand. the latter draws back. "you dismiss me?" says he, with a careful smile. he bows to her--he is gone. "a well-meaning young man," says sir hastings, following hardinge's retreating figure with a delightfully lenient smile. "good-looking too; but earnest. have you noticed it? entirely well-bred, but just a little earnest! _such_ a mistake!" "i don't think that," says perpetua. "to be earnest! one _should_ be earnest." "should one?" sir hastings looks delighted expectation. "tell me about it," says he. "there is nothing to tell," says perpetua, a little petulantly perhaps. this tall, thin man! what a _bore_ he is! and yet, the other--mr. hardinge--well _he_ was worse; he was a _fool,_ anyway; he didn't understand the professor one bit! "i like mr. hardinge," says she suddenly. "happy hardinge! but little girls like you are good to everyone, are you not? that is what makes you so lovely. you could be good to even a scapegrace, eh? a poor, sad outcast like me?" he laughs and leans towards her, his handsome, dissipated, abominable face close to hers. involuntarily she recoils. "i hope everyone is good to you," says she. "why should they not be? and why do you call yourself an outcast? only bad people are outcasts. and bad people," slowly, "are not known, are they?" "certainly not," says he, disconcerted. this little girl from a far land is proving herself too much for him. and it is not her words that disconcert him so much as the straight, clear, open glance from the thoughtful eyes. to turn the conversation into another channel seems desirable to him. "i hope you are happy here with my sister," says he, in his anything but everyday tone. "quite happy, thank you. but i should have been happier still, i think, if i had been allowed to stay with your brother." sir hastings drops his glasses. good heavens! what kind of a girl is this! "to stay with my brother! to _stay,"_ stammers he. "yes. he _is_ your brother, isn't he? the professor, i mean. i should quite have enjoyed living with him, but he wouldn't hear of it. he--he doesn't like me, i'm afraid?" perpetua looks at him anxiously. a little hope that he will contradict hardinge's statement animates her mind. to feel herself a burden to her guardian--to anyone--she, who in the old home had been nothing less than an idol! surely sir hastings, his own brother, will say something, will say something, will tell her something to ease this chagrin at her heart. "who told you that?" asks sir hastings. "did he himself? i shouldn't put it beyond him. he is a misogynist; a mere bookworm! of no account. do not waste a thought on him." "you mean----" "that he detests the best part of life--that he has deliberately turned his back on all that makes our existence here worth having. i should call him a fool, but that one so dislikes having an imbecile in one's family." "the best part of life! you say he has turned his back on that." she lets her hands fall upon her knees, and turns a frowning, perplexed, but always lovely face to his. "what is it," asks she, "that best part?" "women!" returns he, slowly, undauntedly, in spite of the innocence, the serenity, that shines in the young and exquisite face before him. her eyes do not fall before his. she is plainly thinking. yes; mr. hardinge was right, he will never like her. she is only a stay, a hindrance to him! "i understand," says she sorrowfully. "he will not care--_ever._ i shall be always a trouble to him. he----" "why think of him?" says sir hastings contemptuously. he leans towards her; fired by her beauty, that is now enhanced by the regret that lies upon her pretty lips, he determines on pushing his cause at once. "if _he_ cannot appreciate you, others can--_i_ can. i----" he pauses; for the first time in his life, on such an occasion as this, he is conscious of a feeling of awkwardness. to tell a woman he loves her has been the simplest thing in the world hitherto, but now, when at last he is in earnest--when poverty has driven him to seek marriage with an heiress as a cure for all his ills--he finds himself tongue-tied; and not only by the importance of the situation, so far as money goes, but by the clear, calm, waiting eyes of perpetua. "yes?" says she; and then suddenly, as if not caring for the answer she has demanded, "you mean that he---you _too_ think that he dislikes me?" there is woe in the pale, small, lovely face. "very probably. he was always eccentric. perfect nuisance at home. none of us could understand him. i shouldn't in the least wonder if he had taken a rooted aversion to you, and taken it badly too! miss wynter! it quite distresses me to think that it should be _my _brother, of all men, who has failed to see your charm. a charm that----" he pauses effectively, to let his really fine eyes have some play. the conservatory is sufficiently dark to disguise the ravages that dissipation has made upon his handsome features. he can see that perpetua is regarding him earnestly, and with evident interest. already he regards his cause as won. it is plain that the girl is attracted by his face, as indeed she is! she is at this moment asking herself, who is it he is like? "you were saying?" says she dreamily. "that the charm you possess, though of no value in the eyes of your guardian, is, to _me,_ indescribably attractive. in fact--i----" a second pause, meant to be even more effective. perpetua turns her gaze more directly upon him. it occurs to her that he is singularly dull, poor man. "go on," says she. she nods her head at him with much encouragement. her encouragement falls short. sir hastings, who had looked for girlish confusion, is somewhat disconcerted by this open patronage. "may i" says he--"you _permit_ me then to tell you what i have so long feared to disclose. i"--dramatically--_"love you!"_ he is standing over her, his hand on the back of her chair, waiting for the swift blush, the tremor, the usual signs that follow on one of his declarations. alas! there is no blush now, no tremor, no sign at all. "that is very good of you," says perpetua, in an even tone. she moves a little away from him, but otherwise shows no emotion whatever. "the more so, in that it must be so difficult for you to love a person in fourteen days! ah! that is kind, indeed." a curious light comes into sir hastings' eyes. this little australian girl, is she _laughing_ at him? but the fact is that perpetua is hardly thinking of him at all, or merely as a shadow to her thoughts. who _is_ he like? that is the burden of her inward song. at this moment she knows. she lifts her head to see the professor standing in the curtained doorway down below. ah! yes, that is it! and, indeed, the resemblance between the two brothers is wonderfully strong at this instant! in the eyes of both a quick fire is kindled. chapter xii. "love, like a june rose, buds and sweetly blows- but tears its leaves disclose, and among thorns it grows." the professor had been standing inside the curtain for a full minute before perpetua had seen him. spell-bound he had stood there, gazing at the girl as if bewitched. up to this he had seen her only in black--black always--severe, cold--but _now!_ it is to him as though he had seen her for the first time. the graceful curves of her neck, her snowy arms, the dead white of the gown against the whiter glory of the soft bosom, the large, dark eyes so full of feeling, the little dainty head! are they _all_ new--or some sweet, fresher memory of a picture well beloved? then he had seen his brother!--hastings--the disgrace, the _roué_-and bending over _her!..._ there had been that little movement, and the girl's calm drawing back, and---the professor's step forward at that moment had betrayed him to perpetua. she rises now, letting her fan fall without thought to the ground. "you!" cries she, in a little, soft, quick way. _"you!"_ indeed it seems to her impossible that it can be he. she almost runs to him. if she had quite understood sir hastings is impossible to know, for no one has ever asked her since, but certainly the advent of her guardian is a relief to her. "you!" she says again, as if only half believing. her gaze grows bewildered. if he had never seen her in anything but black before, she had never seen him in aught but rather antiquated morning clothes. is this really the professor? her eyes ask the question anxiously. this tall, aristocratic, perfectly appointed man; this man who looks positively _young_. where are the glasses that until now hid his eyes? where is that old, old coat? "yes." yes, the professor certainly and as disagreeable as possible. his eyes are still aflame; but perpetua is not afraid of him. she is angry with him, in a measure, but not afraid. one _might_ be afraid of sir hastings, but of mr. curzon, no! the professor had seen the glad rush of the girl towards him, and a terrible pang of delight had run through all his veins--to be followed by a reaction. she had come to him because she _wanted_ him, because he might be of use to her, not because-what had hastings been saying to her? his wrathful eyes are on his brother rather than on her when he says: "you are tired?" "yes," says perpetua. "shall i take you to gwendoline?" "yes," says perpetua again. "miss wynter is in my care at present," says sir hastings, coming indolently forward. "shall i take you to lady baring?" asks he, addressing perpetua with a suave smile. "she will come with me," says the professor, with cold decision. "a command!" says sir hastings, laughing lightly. "see what it is, miss wynter, to have a hard-hearted guardian." he shrugs his shoulders. perpetua makes him a little bow, and follows the professor out of the conservatory. "if you are tired," says the professor, somewhat curtly, and without looking at her, "i should think the best thing you could do would be to go to bed!" this astounding advice receives but little favor at miss wynter's hands. "i am tired of your brother," says she promptly. "he is as tiresome a creation as i know--but not of your sister's party; and--i'm too old to be sent to bed, even by a _guardian!!"_ she puts a very big capital to the last word. "i don't want to send you to bed," says the professor simply. "though i think little girls like you----" "i am not a little girl," indignantly. "certainly you are not a big one," says he. it is an untimely remark. miss wynter's hitherto ill-subdued anger now bursts into flame. "i can't help it if i'm not big," cries she. "it isn't my fault. i can't help it either that papa sent me to you. _i_ didn't want to go to you. it wasn't my fault that i was thrown upon your hands. and--and"--her voice begins to tremble--"it isn't my fault either that you _hate_ me." "that i--hate you!" the professor's voice is cold and shocked. "yes. it is true. you need not deny it. you _know_ you hate me." they are now in an angle of the hall where few people come and go, and are, for the moment, virtually alone. "who told you that i hated you?" asks the professor in a peremptory sort of way. "no," says she, shaking her head, "i shall not tell you that, but i have heard it all the same." "one hears a great many things if one is foolish enough to listen." curzon's face is a little pale now. "and--i can guess who has been talking to you." "why should i not listen? it is true, is it not?" she looks up at him. she seems tremulously anxious for the answer. "you want me to deny it then?" "oh no, _no!"_ she throws out one hand with a little gesture of mingled anger and regret. "do you think i want you to _lie_ to me? there i am wrong. after all," with a half smile, sadder than most sad smiles because of the youth and sweetness of it, "i do not blame you. i _am_ a trouble, i suppose, and all troubles are hateful. i"--holding out her hand--"shall take your advice, i think, and go to bed." "it was bad advice," says curzon, taking the hand and holding it. "stay up, enjoy yourself, dance----" "oh! i am not dancing," says she as if offended. "why not?" eagerly. "better dance than sleep at your age. you--you mistook me. why go so soon?" she looks at him with a little whimsical expression. "i shall not know you _at all_, presently," says she. "your very appearance to-night is strange to me, and now your sentiments! no, i shall not be swayed by you. good-night, good-bye!" she smiles at him in the same sorrowful little way, and takes a step or two forward. "perpetua," says the professor sternly, "before you go, you must listen to me. you said just now you would not hear me lie to you--you shall hear only the truth. whoever told you that i hated you is the most unmitigated liar on record!" perpetua rubs her fan up and down against her cheek for a little bit. "well--i'm glad you don't hate me," says she, "but still i'm a worry. never mind,"--sighing--"i daresay i shan't be so for long." "you mean?" asks the professor anxiously. "nothing--nothing at all. good-night. good-night _indeed."_ "must you go? is enjoyment nothing to you?" "ah! you have killed all that for me," says she. this parting shaft she hurls at him--_malice prepense_. it is effectual. by it she murders sleep as thoroughly as ever did macbeth. the professor spends the remainder of the night pacing up and down his rooms. chapter xiii. "through thick and thin, both over bank and bush, in hopes her to attain by hook or crook." "you will begin to think me a fixture," says hardinge, with a somewhat embarrassed laugh, flinging himself into an armchair. "you know you are always welcome," says the professor gently, if somewhat absently. it is next morning, and he looks decidedly the worse for his sleeplessness. his face seems really old, his eyes are sunk in his head. the breakfast lying untouched upon the table tells its own tale. "dissipation doesn't agree with you," says hardinge with a faint smile. "no. i shall give it up," returns curzon, his laugh a trifle grim. "i was never more surprised in my life than when i saw you at your sister's last evening. i was relieved, too--sometimes it is necessary for a man to go out, and--and see how things are going on with his own eyes." "i wonder when that would be?" asks the professor indifferently. "when a man is a guardian," replies hardinge promptly, and with evident meaning. the professor glances quickly at him. "you mean----?" says he. "oh! yes, of course i mean something," says hardinge impatiently. "but i don't suppose you want me to explain myself. you were there last night--you must have seen for yourself." "seen what?" "pshaw!" says hardinge, throwing up his head, and flinging his cigarette into the empty fireplace. "i saw you go into the conservatory. you found her there, and--_him._ it is beginning to be the chief topic of conversation amongst his friends just now. the betting is already pretty free." "go on," says the professor. "i needn't go on. you know it now, if you didn't before." "it is you who know it--not i. _say it!"_ says the professor, almost fiercely. "it is about her?" "your ward? yes. your brother it seems has made up his mind to bestow upon her his hand, his few remaining acres, and," with a sneer, "his spotless reputation." _"hardinge!"_ cries the professor, springing to his feet as if shot. he is evidently violently agitated. his companion mistakes the nature of his excitement. "forgive me!" says he quickly. "of course _nothing_ can excuse my speaking of him like that--to you. but i feel you ought to be told. miss wynter is in your care, you are in a measure responsible for her future happiness--the happiness of her whole _life,_ curzon--and if anything goes wrong with her----" the professor puts up his hand as if to check him. he has grown ashen-grey, and the other hand resting on the back of the chair is visibly trembling. "nothing shall go wrong with her," says he, in a curious tone. hardinge regards him keenly. is this pallor, this unmistakable trepidation, caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's real character exposed? "well, i have told you," says he coldly. "it is a mistake," says the professor. "he would not dare to approach a young, innocent girl. the most honorable proposal such a man as he could make to her would be basely dishonorable." "ah! you see it in that light too," says hardinge, with a touch of relief. "my dear fellow, it is hard for me to discuss him with you, but yet i fear it must be done. did you notice nothing in his manner last night?" yes, the professor _had_ noticed something. now there comes back to him that tall figure stooping over perpetua, the handsome, leering face bent low--the girl's instinctive withdrawal. "something must be done," says he. "yes. and quickly. young girls are sometimes dazzled by men of his sort. and per--miss wynter-look here, curzon," breaking off hurriedly. "this is _your_ affair, you know. you are her guardian. you should see to it." "i could speak to her." "that would be fatal. she is just the sort of girl to say 'yes' to him because she was told to say 'no.'" "you seem to have studied her," says the professor quietly. "well, i confess i have seen a good deal of her of late." "and to some purpose. your knowledge of her should lead you to making a way out of this difficulty." "i have thought of one," says hardinge boldly, yet with a quick flush. "you are her guardian. why not arrange another marriage for her, before this affair with sir hastings goes too far?" "there are two parties to a marriage," says the professor, his tone always very low. "who is it to whom you propose to marry miss wynter?" hardinge, getting up, moves abruptly to the window and back again. "you have known me a long time, curzon," says he at last. "you--you have been my friend. i have family--position--money--i----" "i am to understand then, that _you_ are a candidate for the hand of my ward," says the professor, slowly, so slowly that it might suggest itself to a disinterested listener that he has great difficulty in speaking at all. "yes," says hardinge, very diffidently. he looks appealingly at the professor. "i know perfectly well she might do a great deal better," says he, with a modesty that sits very charmingly upon him. "but if it comes to a choice between me and your brother, i--i think i am the better man. by jove, curzon," growing hot, "it's awfully rude of me, i know, but it is so hard to remember that he _is_ your brother." but the professor does not seem offended. he seems, indeed, so entirely unimpressed by hardinge's last remark, that it may reasonably be supposed he hasn't heard a word of it. "and she?" says he. "perpetua. does she----" he hesitates, as if finding it impossible to go on. "oh! i don't know," says the younger man, with a rather rueful smile. "sometimes i think she doesn't care for me more than she does for the veriest stranger amongst her acquaintances, and sometimes----" expressive pause. "yes? sometimes?" "she has seemed kind." "kind? how kind?" "well--friendly. more friendly than she is to others. last night she let me sit out three waltzes with her, and she only sat out one with your brother." "is it?" asks the professor, in a dull, monotonous sort of way. "is it--i am not much in your or her world, you know--is it a very marked thing for a girl to sit out three waltzes with one man?" "oh, no. nothing very special. i have known girls do it often, but she is not like other girls, is she?" the professor waves this question aside. "keep to the point," says he. "well, _she_ is the point, isn't she? and look here, curzon, why aren't you of our world? it is your own fault surely; when one sees your sister, your brother, and--and _this,"_ with a slight glance round the dull little apartment, "one cannot help wondering why you----" "let that go by," says the professor. "i have explained it before. i deliberately chose my own way in life, and i want nothing more than i have. you think, then, that last night miss wynter gave you--encouragement?" "oh! hardly that. and yet--she certainly seemed to like--that is not to _dislike_ my being with her; and once--well,"--confusedly--"that was nothing." "it must have been something." "no, really; and i shouldn't have mentioned it either--not for a moment." the professor's face changes. the apathy that has lain upon it for the past five minutes now gives way to a touch of fierce despair. he turns aside, as if to hide the tell-tale features, and going to the window, gazes sightlessly on the hot, sunny street below. what was it--_what?_ shall he never have the courage to find out? and is this to be the end of it all? in a flash the coming of the girl is present before him, and now, here is her going. had he--had she--what _was_ it he meant? no wonder if her girlish fancy had fixed itself on this tall, handsome, young man, with his kindly, merry ways and honest meaning. ah! that was what she meant perhaps when last night she had told him "she would not be a worry to him _long!"_ yes, she had meant that; that she was going to marry hardinge! but to _know_ what hardinge means! a torturing vision of a little lovely figure, gowned all in white--of a little lovely face uplifted--of another face down bent! no! a thousand times, no! hardinge would not speak of that--it would be too sacred; and yet this awful doubt---"look here. i'll tell you," says hardinge's voice at this moment. "after all, you are her guardian--her father almost--though i know you scarcely relish your position; and you ought to know about it, and perhaps you can give me your opinion, too, as to whether there was anything in it, you know. the fact is, i,"--rather shamefacedly--"asked her for a flower out of her bouquet, and she gave it. that was all, and," hurriedly, "i don't really believe she meant anything _by_ giving it, only," with a nervous laugh, "i keep hoping she _did!"_ a long, long sigh comes through the professor's lips straight from his heart. only a flower she gave him! well---"what do _you_ think?" asks hardinge after a long pause. "it is a matter on which i could not think." "but there is this," says hardinge. "you will forward my cause rather than your brother's, will you not? this is an extraordinary demand to make i know--but--i also know _you."_ "i would rather see her dead than married to my brother," says the professor, slowly, distinctly. "and----?" questions hardinge. the professor hesitates a moment, and then: "what do you want me to do?" asks he. "do? 'say a good word for me' to her; that is the old way of putting it, isn't it? and it expresses all i mean. she reveres you, even if----" "if what?" "she revolts from your power over her. she is high-spirited, you know," says hardinge. "that is one of her charms, in my opinion. what i want you to do, curzon, is to--to see her at once--not to-day, she is going to an afternoon at lady swanley's--but to-morrow, and to--you know,"--nervously--"to make a formal proposal to her." the professor throws back his head and laughs aloud. such a strange laugh. "i am to propose to her--i?" says he. "for me, of course. it is very usual," says hardinge. "and you are her guardian, you know, and----" "why not propose to her yourself?" says the professor, turning violently upon him. "why give me this terrible task? are you a coward, that you shrink from learning your fate except at the hands of another--another who----" "to tell you the truth, that is it," interrupts hardinge, simply. "i don't wonder at your indignation, but the fact is, i love her so much, that i fear to put it to the touch myself. you _will_ help me, won't you? you see, you stand in the place of her father, curzon. if you were her father, i should be saying to you just what i am saying now." "true," says the professor. his head is lowered. "there, go," says he, "i must think this over." "but i may depend upon you"--anxiously--"you will do what you can for me?" "i shall do what i can for _her."_ chapter xiv. "now, by two-headed janus, nature hath framed strange fellows in her time." hardinge is hardly gone, before another--a far heavier--step sounds in the passage outside the professor's door. it is followed by a knock, almost insolent in its loudness and sharpness. "what a hole you do live in," says sir hastings, stepping into the room, and picking his way through the books and furniture as if afraid of being tainted by them. "bless me! what strange beings you scientists are. rags and bones your surroundings, instead of good flesh and blood. well, thaddeus--hardly expected to see _me_ here, eh?" "you want me?" says the professor. "don't sit down there--those notes are loose; sit here." "faith, you've guessed it, my dear fellow, i _do_ want you, and most confoundedly badly this time. your ward, now, miss wynter! deuced pretty little girl, isn't she, and good form too? wonderfully bred--considering." "i don't suppose you have come here to talk about miss wynter's good manners." "by jove! i have though. you see, thaddeus, i've about come to the length of my tether, and--er--i'm thinking of turning over a new leaf--reforming, you know--settling down--going in for dulness--domesticity, and all the other deuced lot of it." "it is an excellent resolution, that might have been arrived at years ago with greater merit," says the professor. "a preacher and a scientist in one! dear sir, you go beyond the possible," says sir hastings, with a shrug. "but to business. see here, thaddeus. i have told you a little of my plans, now hear the rest. i intend to marry--an heiress, _bien entendu_--and it seems to me that your ward, miss wynter, will suit me well enough." "and miss wynter, will you suit _her_ well enough?" "a deuced sight too well, i should say. why, the girl is of no family to signify, whereas the curzons---it will a better match for her than in her wildest dreams she could have hoped for." "perhaps, in her wildest dreams, she hoped for a good man, and one who could honestly love her." "pouf! you are hardly up to date, my dear fellow. girls, now-a-days, are wise enough to know they can't have everything, and she will get a good deal. title, position---i say, thaddeus, what i want of you is, to--er--to help me in this matter--to--crack me up a bit, eh?--to--_you_ know." the professor is silent, more through disgust than want of anything to say. staring at the man before him, he knows he is loathsome to him--loathsome, and his own brother! this man, who with some of the best blood of england in his veins, is so far, far below the standard that marks the gentleman. surely vice is degrading in more ways than one. to the professor, sir hastings, with his handsome, dissipated face, stands out, tawdry, hideous, vulgar--why, every word he says is tinged with coarseness and yet, what a pretty boy he used to be, with his soft, sunny hair and laughing eyes---"you will help me, eh?" persists sir hastings, with his little dry chronic cough, that seems to shake his whole frame. "impossible," says the professor, simply, coldly. _"no?_ why?" the professor looks at him (a penetrating glance), but says nothing. "oh! damn it all!" says his brother, his brow darkening. "you had _better,_ you know, if you want the old name kept above water much longer." "you mean----?" says the professor, turning a grave face to his. "nothing but what is honorable. i tell you i mean to turn over a new leaf. 'pon my word, i mean _that._ i'm sick of all this old racket, it's killing me. and my title is as good a one as she can find anywhere, and if i'm dipped--rather--her money would pull me straight again, and----" he pauses, struck by something in the professor's face. "you mean----?" says the latter again, even more slowly. his eyes are beginning to light. "exactly what i have said," sullenly. "you have heard me." "yes, i _have_ heard you," cries the professor, flinging aside all restraints and giving way to sudden violent passion--the more violent, coming from one so usually calm and indifferent. "you have come here to-day to try and get possession, not only of the fortune of a young and innocent girl, but of her body and _soul_ as well! and it is me, _me_ whom you ask to be a party to this shameful transaction. her dead father left her to my care, and am i to sell her to you, that her money may redeem our name from the slough into which _you_ have flung it? is innocence to be sacrificed that vice may ride abroad again? look here," says the professor, his face deadly white, "you have come to the wrong man. i shall warn miss wynter against marriage with _you,_ as long as there is breath left in my body." sir hastings has risen too; _his_ face is dark red; the crimson flood has reached his forehead and dyed it almost black. now, at this terrible moment, the likeness between the two brothers, so different in spirit, can be seen; the flashing eyes, the scornful lips, the deadly hatred. it is a shocking likeness, yet not to be denied. "what do _you_ mean, damn you?" says sir hastings; he sways a little, as if his passion is overpowering him, and clutches feebly at the edge of the table.__ "exactly what _i_ have said," retorts the professor, fiercely. "you refuse then to go with me in this matter?" _"finally._ even if i would, i could not. i--have other views for her." "indeed! perhaps those other views include yourself. are you thinking of reserving the prize for your own special benefit? a penniless guardian--a rich ward; as a situation, it is perfect; full of possibilities." "take care," says the professor, advancing a step or two. "tut! do you think i can't see through your game?" says sir hastings, in his most offensive way, which is nasty indeed. "you hope to keep me unmarried. you tell yourself, i can't live much longer, at the pace i'm going. i know the old jargon--i have it by heart--given a year at the most the title and the heiress will both be yours! i can read you--i--" he breaks off to laugh sardonically, and the cough catching him, shakes him horribly. "but, no, by heaven!" cries he. "i'll destroy your hopes yet. i'll disappoint you. i'll marry. i'm a young man yet--yet--with life--_long_ life before me--life----" a terrible change comes over his face, he reels backwards, only saving himself by a blind clinging to a book-case on his right. the professor rushes to him and places his arm round him. with his foot he drags a chair nearer, into which sir hastings falls with a heavy groan. it is only a momentary attack, however; in a little while the leaden hue clears away, and, though still ghastly, his face looks more natural. "brandy," gasps he faintly. the professor holds it to his lips, and after a minute or two he revives sufficiently to be able to sit up and look round him. "thought you had got rid of me for good and all," says he, with a malicious grin, terrible to see on his white, drawn face. "but i'll beat you yet! there!--call my fellow--he's below. can't get about without a damned attendant in the morning, now. but i'll cure all that. i'll see you dead before i go to my own grave. i----" "take your master to his carriage," says the professor to the man, who is now on the threshold. the maunderings of sir hastings--still hardly recovered from his late fit--strike horribly upon his ear, rendering him almost faint. chapter xv. "my love is like the sky, as distant and as high; perchance she's fair and kind and bright, perchance she's stormy--tearful quite- alas! i scarce know why." it is late in the day when the professor enters lady baring's house. he had determined not to wait till the morrow to see perpetua. it seemed to him that it would be impossible to go through another sleepless night, with this raging doubt, this cruel uncertainty in his heart. he finds her in the library, the soft light of the dying evening falling on her little slender figure. she is sitting in a big armchair, all in black--as he best knows her--with a book upon her knee. she looks charming, and fresh as a new-born flower. evidently neither lest night's party nor to-day's afternoon have had power to dim her beauty. sleep had visited _her_ last night, at all events. she springs out of her chair, and throws her book on the table near her. "why, you are the very last person i expected," says she. "no doubt," says the professor. who was the _first_ person she had expected? and will hardinge be here presently to plead his cause in person? "but it was imperative i should come. there is something i have to tell you--to lay before you." "not a mummy, i trust," says she, a little flippantly. "a proposal," says the professor, coldly. "much as i know you dislike the idea, still, it was your poor father's wish that i should, in a measure, regulate your life until your coming of age. i am here to-day to let you know--that--mr. hardinge has requested me to tell you that he----" the professor pauses, feeling that he is failing miserably. he, the fluent speaker at lectures, and on public platforms, is now bereft of the power to explain one small situation. "what's the matter with mr. hardinge," asks perpetua, "that he can't come here himself? nothing serious, i hope?" "i am your guardian," says the professor--unfortunately, with all the air of one profoundly sorry for the fact declared, "and he wishes _me_ to tell you that he--is desirous of marrying you." perpetua stares at him. whatever bitter thoughts are in her mind, she conceals them. "he is a most thoughtful young man," says she, blandly. "and--and you're another." "i hope i am thoughtful, if i am not young," says the professor, with dignity. her manner puzzles him. "with regard to hardinge, i wish you to know that--that i--have known him for years, and that he is in my opinion a strictly honorable, kind-hearted man. he is of good family. he has money. he will probably succeed to a baronetcy--though this is not _certain,_ as his uncle is, comparatively speaking, young still. but even without the title, hardinge is a man worthy of any woman's esteem, and confidence, and----" he is interrupted by miss wynter's giving way to a sudden burst of mirth. it is mirth of the very angriest, but it checks him the more effectually because of that. "you must place great confidence in princes!" says she. "even _'without _the title, he is worthy of esteem.'" she copies him audaciously. "what has a title got to do with esteem?--and what has esteem got to do with love?" "i should hope----" begins the professor. "you needn't. it has nothing to do with it, nothing _at all._ go back and tell mr. hardinge so; and tell him, too, that when next he goes a-wooing, he had better do it in person." "i am afraid i have damaged my mission," says the professor, who has never once looked at her since his first swift glance. _"your_ mission?" "yes. it was mere nervousness that prevented him coming to you first himself. he said he had little to go on, and he said something about a flower that you gave him----" perpetua makes a rapid movement toward a side table, takes a flower from a bouquet there, and throws it at the professor. there is no excuse to be made for her beyond the fact that her heart feels breaking, and people with broken hearts do strange things every day. "i would give a flower to _anyone!"_ says she in a quick scornful fashion. the professor catches the ungraciously given gift, toys with it, and--keeps it. is that small action of his unseen? "i hope," he says in a dull way, "that you are not angry with him because he came first to me. it was a sense of duty--i know, i _feel_--compelled him to do it, together with his honest diffidence about your affection for him. do not let pride stand in the way of----" "nonsense!" says perpetua, with a rapid movement of her hand. "pride has no part in it. i do not care for mr. hardinge--i shall not marry him." a little mist seems to gather before the professor's eyes. his glasses seem in the way, he drops them, and now stands gazing at her, as if disbelieving his senses. in fact he does disbelieve in them. "are you sure?" persists he. "afterwards you may regret----" "oh, no!" says she, shaking her head. _"mr. hardinge_ will not be the one to cause me regret." "still, think----" "think! do you imagine i have not been thinking?" cries she, with sudden passion. "do you imagine i do not know why you plead his cause so eloquently? you want to get _rid_ of me. you are _tired_ of me. you always thought me heartless, about my poor father even, and unloving, and--hateful, and----" "not heartless; what have i done, perpetua, that you should say that?" "nothing. that is what i _detest_ about you. if you said outright what you were thinking of me, i could bear it better." "but my thoughts of you. they are----" he pauses. what _are_ they? what are his thoughts of her at all hours, all seasons? "they are always kind," says he, lamely, in a low tone, looking at the carpet. that downward glance condemns him in her eyes--to her it is but a token of his guilt towards her. "they are _not!"_ says she, with a little stamp of her foot that makes the professor jump. "you think of me as a cruel, wicked, worldly girl, who would marry _anyone_ to gain position." here her fury dies away. it is overcome by something stronger. she trembles, pales, and finally bursts into a passion of tears that have no anger in them, only intense grief. "i do not," says the professor, who is trembling too, but whose utterance is firm. "whatever my thoughts are, _your_ reading of them is entirely wrong." "well, at all events you can't deny one thing," says she checking her sobs, and gazing at him again with undying enmity. "you want to get rid of me, you are determined to marry me to some one, so as to get me out of your way. but i shan't marry to please _you._ i needn't either. there is somebody else who wants to marry me besides your--_your_ candidate!" with an indignant glance. "i have had a letter from sir hastings this afternoon. and," rebelliously, "i haven't answered it yet." "then you shall answer it now," says the professor. "and you shall say 'no' to him." "why? because you order me?" "partly because of that. partly because i trust to your own instincts to see the wisdom of so doing." "ah! you beg the question," says he, "but i'm not so sure i shall obey you for all that." "perpetua! do not speak to me like that, i implore you," says the professor, very pale. "do you think i am not saying all this for your good? sir hastings--he is my brother--it is hard for me to explain myself, but he will not make you happy." "happy! _you_ think of my happiness?" "of what else?" a strange yearning look comes into his eyes. "god knows it is _all_ i think of," says he. "and so you would marry me to mr. hardinge?" "hardinge is a good man, and--he loves you." "if so, he is the only one on earth who does," cries the girl bitterly. she turns abruptly away, and struggles with herself for a moment, then looks back at him. "well, i shall not marry him," says she. "that is in your own hands," says the professor. "but i shall have something to say about the other proposal you speak of." "do you think i want to marry your brother?" says she. "i tell you no, no, _no!_ a thousand times no! the very fact that he _is_ your brother would prevent me. to be you ward is bad enough, to be your sister-in-law would be insufferable. for all the world i would not be more to you than i am now." "it is a wise decision," says the professor icily. he feels smitten to his very heart's core. had he ever dreamed of a nearer, dearer tie between them?--if so the dream is broken now. "decision?" stammers she. "not to marry my brother." "not to be more to you, you mean!" "you don't know what you are saying," says the professor, driven beyond his self-control. "you are a mere child, a baby, you speak at random." "what!" cries she, flashing round at him, "will you deny that i have been a trouble to you, that you would have been thankful had you never heard my name?" "you are right," gravely. "i deny nothing. i wish with all my soul i had never heard your name. i confess you have troubled me. i go beyond even _that,_ i declare that you have been my undoing! and now, let us make an end of it. i am a poor man and a busy one, this task your father laid upon my shoulders is too heavy for me. i shall resign my guardianship; gwendoline--lady baring--will accept the position. she likes you, and--you will find it hard to break _her_ heart." "do you mean," says the girl, "that i have broken yours? _yours?_ have i been so bad as that? yours? i have been wilful, i know, and troublesome, but troublesome people do not break one's heart. what have i done then that yours should be broken?" she has moved closer to him. her eyes are gazing with passionate question into his. "do not think of that," says the professor, unsteadily. "do not let that trouble you. as i just now told you, i am a poor man, and poor men cannot afford such luxuries as hearts." "yet poor men have them," says the girl in a little low stifled tone. "and--and girls have them too!" there is a long, long silence. to curzon it seems as if the whole world has undergone a strange, wild upheaval. what had she meant--what? her words! her words meant something, but her looks, her eyes, oh, how much more _they_ meant! and yet to listen to her--to believe--he, her guardian, a poor man, and she an heiress! oh! no. impossible. "so much the worse for the poor men," says he deliberately. there is no mistaking his meaning. perpetua makes a little rapid movement towards him--an almost imperceptible one. _did_ she raise her hands as if to hold them out to him? if so, it is so slight a gesture as scarcely to be remembered afterwards, and at all events, the professor takes no notice of it, presumably, therefore, he does not see it. "it is late," says perpetua a moment afterwards. "i must go and dress for dinner." _her_ eyes are down now. she looks pale and shamed. "you have nothing to say, then?" asks the professor, compelling himself to the question. "about what?" "hardinge." the girl turns a white face to his. "will you then _compel_ me to marry him?" says she. "am i"--faintly--"nothing to you? nothing----" she seems to fade back from him in the growing uncertainty of the light into the shadow of the corner beyond. curzon makes a step towards her. at this moment the door is thrown suddenly open, and a man--evidently a professional man--advances into the room. "sir thaddeus," begins he, in a slow, measured way. the professor stops dead short. even perpetua looks amazed. "i regret to be the messenger of bad news, sir," says the solemn man in black. "they told me i should find you here. i have to tell you, sir thaddeus, that your brother, the late lamented sir hastings, is dead." the solemn man spread his hands abroad. chapter xvi. 'till the secret be secret no more in the light of one hour as it flies, be the hour as of suns that expire or suns that rise.' it is quite a month later. august, hot and sunny, is reigning with quite a mad merriment, making the most of the days that be, knowing full well that the end of the summer is nigh. the air is stifling; up from the warm earth comes the almost overpowering perfume of the late flowers. perpetua moving amongst the carnations and hollyhocks in her soft white cambric frock, gathers a few of the former in a languid manner to place in the bosom of her frock. there they rest, a spot of blood color upon their white ground. lady baring, on the death of her elder brother, had left town for the seclusion of her country home, carrying perpetua with her. she had grown very fond of the girl, and the fancy she had formed (before sir hastings' death) that thaddeus was in love with the young heiress, and that she would make him a suitable wife, had not suffered in any way through the fact of sir thaddeus having now become the head of the family. perpetua, having idly plucked a few last pansies, looked at them, and as idly flung them away, goes on her listless way through the gardens. a whole _long_ month, and not one word from him! are his social duties now so numerous that he has forgotten he has a ward? "well," emphatically, and with a vicious little tug at her big white hat, _"some_ people have strange views about duty." she has almost reached the summer-house, vine-clad, and temptingly cool in all this heat, when a quick step behind her causes her to turn. "they told me you were here," says the professor, coming up with her. he is so distinctly the professor still, in spite of his new mourning, and the better cut of his clothes, and the general air of having been severely looked after--that perpetua feels at home with him at once. "i have been here for some time," says she calmly. "a whole month, isn't it?" "yes, i know. were you going into that green little place. it looks cool." it is cool, and particularly empty. one small seat occupies the back of it, and nothing else at all, except the professor and his ward. "perpetua!" says he, turning to her. his tone is low, impassioned. "i have come. i could not come sooner, and i _would_ not write. how could i put it all on paper? you remember that last evening?" "i remember," says she faintly. "and all you said?" "all _you_ said." "i said nothing. i did not dare. _then_ i was too poor a man, too insignificant to dare to lay bare to you the thoughts, the fears, the hopes that were killing me." "nothing!" echoes she. "have you then forgotten?" she raises her head, and casts at him a swift, but burning glance. _"was_ it nothing? you came to plead your friend's cause, i think. surely that was something? i thought it a great deal. and what was it you said of mr. hardinge? ah! i _have_ forgotten that, but i know how you extolled him--praised him to the skies--recommended him to me as a desirable suitor." she makes an impatient movement, as if to shake something from her. "why have you come to-day?" asks she. "to plead his cause afresh?" "not his--to-day." "whose then? another suitor, maybe? it seems i have more than even i dreamt of." "i do not know if you have dreamed of this one," says curzon, perplexed by her manner. some hope had been in his heart in his journey to her, but now it dies. there is little love truly in her small, vivid face, her gleaming eyes, her parted, scornful lips. "i am not given to dreams," says she, with a petulant shrug_. "i_ know what i mean always. and as i tell you, if you _have_ come here to-day to lay before me, for my consideration, the name of another of your friends who wishes to marry me, why i beg you to save me from suitors. i can make my choice from many, and when i _do_ want to marry, i shall choose for myself." "still--if you would permit me to name _this_ one," begins curzon, very humbly, "it can do you no harm to hear of him. and it all lies in your own power. you can, if you will, say yes, or----". he pauses. the pause is eloquent, and full of deep entreaty. "or no," supplies she calmly. "true! you," with a half defiant, half saucy glance, "are beginning to learn that a guardian cannot control one altogether." "i don't think i ever controlled you, perpetua." "n--o! perhaps not. but then you tried to. that's worse." "do you forbid me then to lay before you--this name--that i----?" "i have told you," says she, "that i can find a name for myself." "you forbid me to speak," says he slowly. _"i_ forbid! a ward forbid her guardian! i should be afraid!" says she, with an extremely naughty little glance at him. "you trifle with me," says the professor slowly, a little sternly, and with uncontrolled despair. "i thought--i believed--i was _mad _enough to imagine, from your manner to me that last night we met, that i was something more than a mere guardian to you." "more than _that._ that seems to be a herculean relation. what more would you be?" "i am no longer that, at all events." "what!" cries she, flushing deeply. "you--you give me up----" "it is you who give _me_ up." "you say you will no longer be my guardian!" she seems struck with amazement at this declaration on his part. she had not believed him when he had before spoken of his intention of resigning. "but you cannot," says she. "you have promised. papa _said_ you were to take care of me." "your father did not know." "he _did._ he said you were the one man in all the world he could trust." "impossible," says the professor. "a--lover--cannot be a guardian!" his voice has sunk to a whisper. he turns away, and makes a step towards the door. "you are going," cries she, fighting with a desperate desire for tears, that is still strongly allied to anger. "you would leave me. you will be no longer my guardian. ah! was i not right? did i not _tell_ you you were in a hurry to get rid of me?" this most unfair accusation rouses the professor to extreme wrath. he turns round and faces her like an enraged lion. "you are a child," says he, in a tone sufficient to make any woman resentful. "it is folly to argue with you." "a child! what are you then?" cries she tremulously. "a _fool!"_ furiously. "i was given my cue, i would not take it. you told me that it was bad enough to be your ward, that you would not on any account be closer to me. _that_ should have been clear to me, yet, like an idiot, i hoped against hope. i took false courage from each smile of yours, each glance, each word. there! once i leave you now, the chain between us will be broken, we shall never, with _my_ will, meet again. you say you have had suitors since you came down here. you hinted to me that you could mention the name of him you wished to marry. so be it. mention it to gwendoline--to any one you like, but not to me." he strides towards the doorway. he has almost turned the corner. "thaddeus!" cries a small, but frantic voice. if dying he would hear that and turn. she is holding out her hands to him, the tears are running down her lovely cheeks. "it is to you--to _you_ i would tell his name," sobs she, as he returns slowly, unwillingly, but _surely,_ to her. "to you alone." "to me! go on," says curzon; "let me hear it. what is the name of this man you want to marry?" "thaddeus curzon!" says she, covering her face with her hands, and, indeed, it is only when she feels his arms round her, and his heart beating against hers, that she so far recovers herself as to be able to add, "and a _hideous_ name it is, too!" but this last little firework does no harm. curzon is too ecstatically happy to take notice of her small impertinence. the end. obvious typographical errors silently corrected by the transcriber: chapter 1: =leaving them all _planté la_ as it were,= silently corrected as =leaving them all _planté là_ as it were,= chapter 2: ='from grave to gay,= silently corrected as ="from grave to gay,= chapter 5: =don't you think she would let you take me to the theatre some night? she has come nearer,= silently corrected as =don't you think she would let you take me to the theatre some night?" she has come nearer,= chapter 6: =she asked me to sit down--i obeyed her.= silently corrected as =she asked me to sit down--i obeyed her."= chapter 6:_ ="won't she!"= _silently corrected as_ =won't she!=_ chapter 7: =or condemn his honest efforts to enlighten his small section of mankind!"= silently corrected as =or condemn his honest efforts to enlighten his small section of mankind!= chapter 7: =of course mrs: mulcahy--who, no doubt,= silently corrected as =of course mrs. mulcahy--who, no doubt,= chapter 8: ="how many to-morrows is she going to remain here?= silently corrected as =how many to-morrows is she going to remain here?= chapter 10: =his regret is evidently genuine, indeed. to hardinge the evening= silently corrected as =his regret is evidently genuine, indeed; to hardinge the evening= chapter 10: ="oh, you laugh at me." interrupts she= silently corrected as ="oh, you laugh at me," interrupts she= chapter 12: =she had never seen him in ought but rather antiquated= silently corrected as =she had never seen him in aught but rather antiquated= chapter 12: =says he. "it is an untimely remark. miss wynter's hitherto= silently corrected as =says he. it is an untimely remark. miss wynter's hitherto__= chapter 12: =cries she. it isn't my fault=. silently corrected as =cries she. "it isn't my fault=. chapter 12: =if one is foolish enough to listen," curzon's face is a little pale= silently corrected as =if one is foolish enough to listen." curzon's face is a little pale= chapter 13: =caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's real character exposed.= silently corrected as =caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's real character exposed?= chapter 13: =at the professor. i know perfectly well= silently corrected as =at the professor. "i know perfectly well= chapter 15: =well. i shall not marry him= silently corrected as =well, i shall not marry him= file was produced from images generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions (www.canadiana.org)) a little rebel a novel by the duchess _author of "her last throw," "april's lady," "faith and unfaith," etc., etc._ montreal: john lovell & son, 23 st. nicholas street. entered according to act of parliament in the year 1891, by john lovell & son, in the office of the minister of agriculture and statistics at ottawa. a little rebel. chapter i. "perplex'd in the extreme." "the memory of past favors is like a rainbow, bright, vivid and beautiful." the professor, sitting before his untasted breakfast, is looking the very picture of dismay. two letters lie before him; one is in his hand, the other is on the table-cloth. both are open; but of one, the opening lines--that tell of the death of his old friend--are all he has read; whereas he has read the other from start to finish, already three times. it is from the old friend himself, written a week before his death, and very urgent and very pleading. the professor has mastered its contents with ever-increasing consternation. indeed so great a revolution has it created in his mind, that his face--(the index of that excellent part of him)--has, for the moment, undergone a complete change. any ordinary acquaintance now entering the professor's rooms (and those acquaintances might be whittled down to quite a _little_ few), would hardly have known him. for the abstraction that, as a rule, characterizes his features--the way he has of looking at you, as if he doesn't see you, that harasses the simple, and enrages the others--is all gone! not a trace of it remains. it has given place to terror, open and unrestrained. "a girl!" murmurs he in a feeble tone, falling back in his chair. and then again, in a louder tone of dismay--"a _girl_!" he pauses again, and now again gives way to the fear that is destroying him--"a _grown_ girl!" after this, he seems too overcome to continue his reflections, so goes back to the fatal letter. every now and then, a groan escapes him, mingled with mournful remarks, and extracts from the sheet in his hand-"poor old wynter! gone at last!" staring at the shaking signature at the end of the letter that speaks so plainly of the coming icy clutch that should prevent the poor hand from forming ever again even such sadly erratic characters as these. "at least," glancing at the half-read letter on the cloth--"_this_ tells me so. his solicitor's, i suppose. though what wynter could want with a solicitor----poor old fellow! he was often very good to me in the old days. i don't believe i should have done even as much as i _have_ done, without him.... it must be fully ten years since he threw up his work here and went to australia! ... ten years. the girl must have been born before he went,"--glances at letter--"'my child, my beloved perpetua, the one thing on earth i love, will be left entirely alone. her mother died nine years ago. she is only seventeen, and the world lies before her, and never a soul in it to care how it goes with her. i entrust her to you--(a groan). to you i give her. knowing that if you are living, dear fellow, you will not desert me in my great need, but will do what you can for my little one.'" "but what is that?" demands the professor, distractedly. he pushes his spectacles up to the top of his head, and then drags them down again, and casts them wildly into the sugar-bowl. "what on earth am i to do with a girl of seventeen? if it had been a boy! even _that_ would have been bad enough--but a girl! and, of course--i know wynter--he has died without a penny. he was bound to do that, as he always lived without one. _poor_ old wynter!"--as if a little ashamed of himself. "i don't see how i can afford to put her out to nurse." he pulls himself up with a start. "to nurse! a girl of seventeen! she'll want to be going out to balls and things--at her age." as if smitten to the earth by this last awful idea, he picks his glasses out of the sugar and goes back to the letter. "you will find her the dearest girl. most loving, and tender-hearted; and full of life and spirits." "good heavens!" says the professor. he puts down the letter again, and begins to pace the room. "'life and spirits.' a sort of young kangaroo, no doubt. what will the landlady say? i shall leave these rooms"--with a fond and lingering gaze round the dingy old apartment that hasn't an article in it worth ten sous--"and take a small house--somewhere--and ... but--er----it won't be respectable, i think. i--i've heard things said about--er--things like that. it's no good in _looking_ an old fogey, if you aren't one; it's no earthly use"--standing before a glass and ruefully examining his countenance--"in looking fifty if you are only thirty-four. it will be a scandal," says the professor mournfully. "they'll _cut_ her, and they'll cut me, and--what the _deuce_ did wynter mean by leaving me his daughter? a real live girl of seventeen! it'll be the death of me," says the professor, mopping his brow. "what"----wrathfully----"that determined spendthrift meant, by flinging his family on _my_ shoulders, i----oh! _poor_ old wynter!" here he grows remorseful again. abuse a man dead and gone, and one, too, who had been good to him in many ways when he, the professor, was younger than he is now, and had just quarrelled with a father who was always only too prone to quarrel with anyone who gave him the chance seems but a poor thing. the professor's quarrel with his father had been caused by the young man's refusal to accept a government appointment--obtained with some difficulty--for the very insufficient and, as it seemed to his father, iniquitous reason, that he had made up his mind to devote his life to science. wynter, too, was a scientist of no mean order, and would, probably, have made his mark in the world, if the world and its pleasures had not made their mark on him. he had been young curzon's coach at one time, and finding the lad a kindred spirit, had opened out to him his own large store of knowledge, and steeped him in that great sea of which no man yet has drank enough--for all begin, and leave it, athirst. poor wynter! the professor, turning in his stride up and down the narrow, uncomfortable room, one of the many that lie off the strand, finds his eyes resting on that other letter--carelessly opened, barely begun. from wynter's solicitor! it seems ridiculous that wynter should have _had_ a solicitor. with a sigh, he takes it up, opens it out and begins to read it. at the end of the second page, he starts, re-reads a sentence or two, and suddenly his face becomes illuminated. he throws up his head. he cackles a bit. he looks as if he wants to say something very badly--"hurrah," probably--only he has forgotten how to do it, and finally goes back to the letter again, and this time--the third time--finishes it. yes. it is all right! why on earth hadn't he read it _first_? so, the girl is to be sent to live with her aunt after all--an old lady--maiden lady. evidently living somewhere in bloomsbury. miss jane majendie. mother's sister evidently. wynter's sisters would never have been old maids if they had resembled him, which probably they did--if he had any. what a handsome fellow he was! and such a good-natured fellow too. the professor colors here in his queer sensitive way, and pushes his spectacles up and down his nose, in another nervous fashion of his. after all, it was only this minute he had been accusing old wynter of anything but good nature. well! he had wronged him there. he glances at the letter again. he has only been appointed her guardian, it seems. guardian of her fortune, rather than of her. the old aunt will have the charge of her body, the--er--pleasure of her society--_he_, of the estate only. fancy wynter, of all men, dying rich--actually _rich_. the professor pulls his beard, and involuntarily glances round the somewhat meagre apartment, that not all his learning, not all his success in the scientific world--and it has been not unnoteworthy, so far--has enabled him to improve upon. it has helped him to live, no doubt, and distinctly outside the line of _want_, a thing to be grateful for, as his family having in a measure abandoned him, he, on his part, had abandoned his family in a _measure_ also (and with reservations), and it would have been impossible to him, of all men, to confess himself beaten, and return to them for assistance of any kind. he could never have enacted the part of the prodigal son. he knew this in earlier days, when husks were for the most part all he had to sustain him. but the mind requires not even the material husk, it lives on better food than that, and in his case mind had triumphed over body, and borne it triumphantly to a safe, if not as yet to a victorious, goal. yet wynter, the spendthrift, the erstwhile master of him who now could be _his_ master, has died, leaving behind him a fortune. what was the sum? he glances back to the sheet in his hand and verifies his thought. yes--eighty thousand pounds! a good fortune even in these luxurious days. he has died worth £80,000, of which his daughter is sole heiress! before the professor's eyes rises a vision of old wynter. they used to call him "old," those boys who attended his classes, though he was as light-hearted as the best of them, and as handsome as a dissipated apollo. they had all loved him, if they had not revered him, and, indeed, he had been generally regarded as a sort of living and lasting joke amongst them. curzon, holding the letter in his hand, and bringing back to his memory the handsome face and devil-may-care expression of his tutor, remembers how the joke had widened, and reached its height when, at forty years of age, old wynter had flung up his classes, leaving them all _planté la_ as it were, and declared his intention of starting life anew and making a pile for himself in some new world. well! it had not been such a joke after all, if they had only known. wynter _had_ made that mythical "pile," and had left his daughter an heiress! not only an heiress, but a gift to miss jane majendie, of somewhere in bloomsbury. the professor's disturbed face grows calm again. it even occurs to him that he has not eaten his breakfast. he so _often_ remembers this, that it does not trouble him. to pore over his books (that are overflowing every table and chair in the uncomfortable room) until his eggs are india-rubber, and his rashers gutta-percha, is not a fresh experience. but though this morning both eggs and rasher have attained a high place in the leather department, he enters on his sorry repast with a glad heart. sweet are the rebounds from jeopardy to joy! and he has so _much_ of joy! not only has he been able to shake from his shoulders that awful incubus--and ever-present ward--but he can be sure that the absent ward is so well-off with regard to this word's goods, that he need never give her so much as a passing thought--dragged, _torn_ as that thought would be from his beloved studies. the aunt, of course, will see about her fortune. _he_ has has only a perfunctory duty--to see that the fortune is not squandered. but he is safe there. maiden ladies _never_ squander! and the girl, being only seventeen, can't possibly squander it herself for some time. perhaps he ought to call on her, however. yes, of course, he must call. it is the usual thing to call on one's ward. it will be a terrible business no doubt. _all_ girls belong to the genus nuisance. and _this_ girl will be at the head of her class no doubt. "lively, spirited," so far went the parent. a regular hoyden may be read between those kind parental lines. the poor professor feels hot again with nervous agitation as he imagines an interview between him and the wild, laughing, noisy, perhaps horsey (they all ride in australia) young woman to whom he is bound to make his bow. how soon must this unpleasant interview take place? once more he looks back to the solicitor's letter. ah! on jan. 3rd her father, poor old wynter, had died, and on the 26th of may, she is to be "on view" at bloomsbury! and it is now the 2nd of february. a respite! perhaps, who knows? she may never arrive at bloomsbury at all! there are young men in australia, a hoyden, as far as the professor has read (and that is saying a good deal), would just suit the man in the bush. chapter ii. "a maid so sweet that her mere sight made glad men sorrowing." nevertheless the man in the bush doesn't get her. time has run on a little bit since the professor suffered many agonies on a certain raw february morning, and now it is the 30th of may, and a glorious finish too to that sweet month. even into this dingy old room, where at a dingy old table the professor sits buried in piles of notes, and with sheets of manuscript knee-deep scattered around him, the warm glad sun is stealing; here and there, the little rays are darting, lighting up a dusty corner here, a hidden heap of books there. it is, as yet, early in the afternoon, and the riotous beams, who are no respecter of persons, and who honor the righteous and the ungodly alike, are playing merrily in this sombre chamber, given so entirely up to science and its prosy ways, daring even now to dance lightly on the professor's head, which has begun to grow a little bald. "the golden sun, in splendor likest heav'n," is proving perhaps a little too much for the tired brain in the small room. either that, or the incessant noises in the street outside, which have now been enriched by the strains of a broken-down street piano, causes him to lay aside his pen and lean back in a weary attitude in his chair. what a day it is! how warm! an hour ago he had delivered a brilliant lecture on the everlasting mammoth (a fresh specimen just arrived from siberia), and is now paying the penalty of greatness. he had done well--he knew that--he had been _interesting_, that surest road to public favor--he had been applauded to the echo; and now, worn out, tired in mind and body, he is living over again his honest joy in his success. in this life, however, it is not given us to be happy for long. a knock at the professor's door brings him back to the present, and the knowledge that the landlady--a stout, somewhat erratic person of fifty--is standing on his threshold, a letter in her hand. "for you, me dear," says she, very kindly, handing the letter to the professor. she is perhaps the one person of his acquaintance who has been able to see through the professor's gravity and find him _young_. "thank you," says he. he takes the letter indifferently, opens it languidly, and----well, there isn't much languor after the perusal of it. the professor sits up; literally this time slang is unknown to him; and re-reads it. _that girl has come!_ there can't be any doubt of it. he had almost forgotten her existence during these past tranquil months, when no word or hint about her reached him, but now, _here_ she is at last, descending upon him like a whirlwind. a line in a stiff, uncompromising hand apprises the professor of the unwelcome fact. the "line" is signed by "jane majendie," therefore there can be no doubt of the genuineness of the news contained in it. yes! that girl _has_ come! the professor never swears, or he might now perhaps have given way to reprehensible words. instead of that, he pulls himself together, and determines on immediate action. to call upon this ward of his is a thing that must be done sooner or later, then why not sooner? why not at once? the more unpleasant the duty, the more necessity to get it off one's mind without delay. he pulls the bell. the landlady appears again. "i must go out," says the professor, staring a little helplessly at her. "an' a good thing too," says she. "a saint's day ye might call it, wid the sun. an' where to, sir, dear? not to thim rascally sthudents, i do thrust?" "no, mrs. mulcahy. i--i am going to see a young lady," says the professor simply. "the divil!" says mrs. mulcahy with a beaming smile. "faix, that's a turn the right way anyhow. but have ye thought o' yer clothes, me dear?" "clothes?" repeats the professor vaguely. "arrah, wait," says she, and runs away lightly, in spite of her fifty years and her too, too solid flesh, and presently returns with the professor's best coat and a clothes brush that, from its appearance, might reasonably be supposed to have been left behind by noah when he stepped out of the ark. with this latter (having put the coat on him) she proceeds to belabor the professor with great spirit, and presently sends him forth shining--if not _in_ternally, at all events _ex_ternally. in truth the professor's mood is not a happy one. sitting in the hansom that is taking him all too swiftly to his destination, he dwells with terror on the girl--the undesired ward--who has been thrust upon him. he has quite made up his mind about her. an australian girl! one knows what to expect _there_! health unlimited; strength tremendous; and noise--_much_ noise. yes, she is sure to be a _big_ girl. a girl with branching limbs, and a laugh you could hear a mile off. a young woman with no sense of the fitness of things, and a settled conviction that nothing could shake, that "'strailia" is _the_ finest country on earth! a bouncing creature who _never_ sits down; to whom rest or calm is unknown, and whose highest ambition will be to see the tower and the wax-works. her hair is sure to be untidy; hanging probably in straight, black locks over her forehead, and her frock will look as if it had been pitchforked on to her, and requires only the insubordination of _one_ pin to leave her without it again. the professor is looking pale, but has on him all the air of one prepared for _anything_ as the maid shows him into the drawing-room of the house where miss jane majendie lives. his thoughts are still full of her niece. _her_ niece, poor woman, and _his_ ward--poor _man_! when the door opens and _some one_ comes in. _some one!_ the professor gets slowly on to his feet, and stares at the advancing apparition. is it child or woman, this fair vision? a hard question to answer! it is quite easy to read, however, that "some one" is very lovely! "it is you; mr. curzon, is it not?" says the vision. her voice is sweet and clear, a little petulant perhaps, but still _very_ sweet. she is quite small--a _little_ girl--and clad in deep mourning. there is something pathetic about the dense black surrounding such a radiant face, and such a childish figure. her eyes are fixed on the professor, and there is evident anxiety in their hazel depths; her soft lips are parted; she seems hesitating as if not knowing whether she shall smile or sigh. she has raised both her hands as if unconsciously, and is holding them clasped against her breast. the pretty fingers are covered with costly rings. altogether she makes a picture--this little girl, with her brilliant eyes, and mutinous mouth, and soft black clinging gown. dainty-sweet she looks, "sweet as is the bramble-flower." "yes," says the professor, in a hesitating way, as if by no means certain of the fact. he is so vague about it, indeed, that "some one's" dark eyes take a mischievous gleam. "are you _sure_?" says she, and looks up at him suddenly, a little sideways perhaps, as if half frightened, and gives way to a naughty sort of little laugh. it rings through the room, this laugh, and has the effect of frightening her _altogether_ this time. she checks herself, and looks first down at the carpet with the big roses on it, where one little foot is wriggling in a rather nervous way, and then up again at the professor, as if to see if he is thinking bad things of her. she sighs softly. "have you come to see me or aunt jane?" asks she; "because aunt jane is out--_i'm glad to say_"--this last pianissimo. "to see you," says the professor absently. he is thinking! he has taken her hand, and held it, and dropped it again, all in a state of high bewilderment. is _this_ the big, strong, noisy girl of his imaginings? the bouncing creature with untidy hair, and her clothes pitchforked on to her? "well--i hoped so," says she, a little wistfully as it seems to him, every trace of late sauciness now gone, and with it the sudden shyness. after many days the professor grows accustomed to these sudden transitions that are so puzzling yet so enchanting, these rapid, inconsequent, but always lovely changes "from grave to gay, from lively to severe." "won't you sit down?" says his small hostess gently, touching a chair near her with her slim fingers. "thank you," says the professor, and then stops short. "you are----" "your ward," says she, ever so gently still, yet emphatically. it is plain that she is now on her very _best_ behavior. she smiles up at him in a very encouraging way. "and you are my guardian, aren't you?" "yes," says the professor, without enthusiasm. he has seated himself, not on the chair she has pointed out to him, but on a very distant lounge. he is conscious of a feeling of growing terror. this lovely child has created it, yet why, or how? was ever guardian mastered by a ward before? a desire to escape is filling him, but he has got to do his duty to his dead friend, and this is part of it. he has retired to the far-off lounge with a view to doing it as distantly as possible, but even this poor subterfuge fails him. miss wynter, picking up a milking-stool, advances leisurely towards him, and seating herself upon it just in front of him, crosses her hands over her knees and looks expectantly up at him with a charming smile. "_now_ we can have a good talk," says she. chapter iii. "and if you dreamed how a friend's smile and nearness soothe a heart that's sore, you might be moved to stay awhile before my door." "about?" begins the professor, and stammers, and ceases. "everything," says she, with a little nod. "it is impossible to talk to aunt jane. she doesn't talk, she only argues, and always wrongly. but you are different. i can see that. now tell me,"--she leans even more forward and looks intently at the professor, her pretty brows wrinkled as if with extreme and troublous thought--"what are the duties of a guardian?" "eh?" says the professor. he moves his glasses up to his forehead and then pulls them down again. did ever anxious student ask him question so difficult of answer as this one--that this small maiden has propounded? "you can think it over," says she most graciously. "there is no hurry, and i am quite aware that one isn't made a guardian _every_ day. do you think you could make it out whilst i count forty?" "i think i could make it out more quickly if you didn't count at all," says the professor, who is growing warm. "the duties of a guardian--are--er--to--er--to see that one's ward is comfortable and happy." "then there is a great deal of duty for _you_ to do," says she solemnly, letting her chin slip into the hollow of her hand. "i know--i'm sure of it," says the professor with a sigh that might be called a groan. "but your aunt, miss majendie--your mother's sister--can----" "i don't believe she's my mother's sister," says miss wynter calmly. "i have seen my mother's picture. it is lovely! aunt jane was a changeling--i'm sure of it. but never mind her. you were going to say----?" "that miss majendie, who is virtually your guardian--can explain it all to you much better than i can." "aunt jane is _not_ my guardian!" the mild look of enquiry changes to one of light anger. the white brow contracts. "and certainly she could never make one happy and comfortable. well--what else?" "she will look after----" "i told you i don't care about aunt jane. tell me what you can do----" "see that your fortune is not----" "i don't care about my fortune either," with a little gesture. "but i _do_ care about my happiness. will you see to _that_?" "of course," says the professor gravely. "then you will take me away from aunt jane!" the small vivacious face is now all aglow. "i am not happy with aunt jane. i"--clasping her hands, and letting a quick, vindictive fire light her eyes--"i _hate_ aunt jane. she says things about poor papa that----_oh!_ how i hate her!" "but--you shouldn't--you really should not. i feel certain you ought not," says the professor, growing vaguer every moment. "ought i not?" with a quick little laugh that is all anger and no mirth. "i _do_ though, for all that! i"--pausing, and regarding him with a somewhat tragic air that sits most funnily upon her--"am not going to stay here much longer!" "_what?_" says the professor aghast. "but my dear----miss wynter, i'm afraid you _must_." "why? what is she to me?" "your aunt." "that's nothing--nothing at all--even a _guardian_ is better than that. and you are my guardian. why," coming closer to him and pressing five soft little fingers in an almost feverish fashion upon his arm, "why can't _you_ take me away?" _"i!"_ "yes, yes, you." she comes even nearer to him, and the pressure of the small fingers grows more eager--there is something in them now that might well be termed coaxing. "_do_," says she. "oh! impossible!" says the professor. the color mounts to his brow. he almost _shakes_ off the little clinging fingers in his astonishment and agitation. has she no common-sense--no knowledge of the things that be? she has drawn back from him and is regarding him somewhat strangely. "impossible to leave aunt jane?" questions she. it is evident she has not altogether understood, and yet is feeling puzzled. "well," defiantly, "we shall see!" "_why_ don't you like your aunt jane?" asks the professor distractedly. he doesn't feel nearly as fond of his dead friend as he did an hour ago. "because," lucidly, "she _is_ aunt jane. if she were _your_ aunt jane you would know." "but my dear----" "i really wish," interrupts miss wynter petulantly, "you wouldn't call me 'my dear.' aunt jane calls me that when she is going to say something horrid to me. papa----" she pauses suddenly, and tears rush to her dark eyes. "yes. what of your father?" asks the professor hurriedly, the tears raising terror in his soul. "you knew him--speak to me of him," says she, a little tremulously. "i knew him well indeed. he was very good to me, when--when i was younger. i was very fond of him." "he was good to everyone," says miss wynter, staring hard at the professor. it is occurring to her that this grave sedate man with his glasses could never have been younger. he must always have been older than the gay, handsome, _debonnaire_ father, who had been so dear to her. "what are you going to tell me about him?" asks the professor gently. "only what he used to call me--_doatie_! i suppose," wistfully, "you couldn't call me that?" "i am afraid not," says the professor, coloring even deeper. "i'm sorry," says she, her young mouth taking a sorrowful curve. "but don't call me miss wynter, at all events, or 'my dear.' i do so want someone to call me by my christian name," says the poor child sadly. "perpetua--is it not?" says the professor, ever so kindly. "no--'pet,'" corrects she. "it's shorter, you know, and far easier to say." "oh!" says the professor. to him it seems very difficult to say. is it possible she is going to ask him to call her by that familiar--almost affectionate--name? the girl must be mad. "yes--much easier," says perpetua; "you will find that out, after a bit, when you have got used to calling me by it. are you going now, mr. curzon? going _so soon_?" "i have classes," says the professor. "students?" says she. "you teach them? i wish i was a student. i shouldn't have been given over to aunt jane then, or," with a rather wilful laugh, "if i had been i should have led her, oh!" rapturously, "_such a life_!" it suggests itself to the professor that she is quite capable of doing that now, though she is _not_ of the sex male. "good-bye," says he, holding out his hand. "you will come soon again?" demands she, laying her own in it. "next week--perhaps." "not till then? i shall be dead then," says she, with a rather mirthless laugh this time. "do you know that you and aunt jane are the only two people in all london whom i know?" "that is terrible," says he, quite sincerely. "yes. isn't it?" "but soon you will know people. your aunt has acquaintances. they--surely they will call; they will see you--they----" "will take an overwhelming fancy to me? just as you have done," says she, with a quick, rather curious light in her eyes, and a tilting of her pretty chin. "there! _go_," says she, "i have some work to do; and you have your classes. it would never do for you to miss _them_. and as for next week!--make it next month! i wouldn't for the world be a trouble to you in any way." "i shall come next week," says the professor, troubled in somewise by the meaning in her eyes. what is it? simple loneliness, or misery downright? how young she looks--what a child! that tragic air does not belong to her of right. she should be all laughter, and lightness, and mirth---"as you will," says she; her tone has grown almost haughty; there is a sense of remorse in his breast as he goes down the stairs. has he been kind to old wynter's child? has he been true to his trust? there had been an expression that might almost be termed despair in the young face as he left her. her face, with that expression on it, haunts him all down the road. yes. he will call next week. what day is this? friday. and friday next he is bound to deliver a lecture somewhere--he is not sure where, but certainly somewhere. well, saturday then he might call. but that---why not call thursday--or even wednesday? wednesday let it be. he needn't call every week, but he had said something about calling next week, and--she wouldn't care, of course--but one should keep their word. what a strange little face she has--and strange manners, and--not able to get on evidently with her present surroundings. what an old devil that aunt must be. chapter iv. "dear, if you knew what tears they shed, who live apart from home and friend, to pass my house, by pity led, your steps would tend." he makes the acquaintance of the latter very shortly. but requires no spoon to sup with her, as miss majendie's invitations to supper, or indeed to luncheon, breakfast or dinner, are so few and rare that it might be rash for a hungry man to count on them. the professor, who has felt it to be his duty to call on his ward regularly every week, has learned to know and (i regret to say) to loathe that estimable spinster christened jane majendie. after every visit to her house he has sworn to himself that "_this one_" shall be his last, and every wednesday following he has gone again. indeed, to-day being wednesday in the heart of june, he may be seen sitting bolt upright in a hansom on his way to the unlovely house that holds miss jane majendie. as he enters the dismal drawing-room, where he finds miss majendie and her niece, it becomes plain, even to his inexperienced brain, that there has just been a row on somewhere. perpetua is sitting on a distant lounge, her small vivacious face one thunder-cloud. miss majendie, sitting on the hardest chair this hideous room contains, is smiling. a terrible sign. the professor pales before it. "i am glad to see you, mr. curzon," says miss majendie, rising and extending a bony hand. "as perpetua's guardian, you may perhaps have some influence over her. i say 'perhaps' advisedly, as i scarcely dare to hope _anyone_ could influence a mind so distorted as hers." "what is it?" asks the professor nervously--of perpetua, not of miss majendie. "i'm dull," says perpetua sullenly. the professor glances keenly at the girl's downcast face, and then at miss majendie. the latter glance is a question. "you hear her," says miss majendie coldly--she draws her shawl round her meagre shoulders, and a breath through her lean nostrils that may be heard. "perhaps _you_ may be able to discover her meaning." "what is it?" asks the professor, turning to the girl, his tone anxious, uncertain. young women with "wrongs" are unknown to him, as are all other sorts of young women for the matter of that. and _this_ particular young woman looks a little unsafe at the present moment. "i have told you! i am tired of this life. i am dull--stupid. i want to go out." her lovely eyes are flashing, her face is white--her lips trembling. "_take_ me out," says she suddenly. "perpetua!" exclaims miss majendie. "how unmaidenly! how immodest!" perpetua looks at her with large, surprised eyes. "why?" says she. "i really think," interrupts the professor hurriedly, who sees breakers ahead, "if i were to take perpetua for a walk--a drive--to--er--to some place or other--it might destroy this _ennui_ of which she complains. if you will allow her to come out with me for an hour or so, i----" "if you are waiting for _my_ sanction, mr. curzon, to that extraordinary proposal, you will wait some time," says miss majendie slowly, frigidly. she draws the shawl still closer, and sniffs again. "but----" "there is no 'but,' sir. the subject doesn't admit of argument. in my young days, and i should think"--scrutinizing him exhaustively through her glasses--"_in yours_, it was not customary for a young _gentlewoman_ to go out walking, alone, with '_a man_'!!" if she had said with a famished tiger, she couldn't have thrown more horror into her tone. the professor had shrunk a little from that classing of her age with his, but has now found matter for hope in it. "still--my age--as you suggest--so far exceeds perpetua's--i am indeed so much older than she is, that i might be allowed to escort her wherever it might please her to go." "the _real_ age of a man now-a-days, sir, is a thing impossible to know," says miss majendie. "you wear glasses--a capital disguise! i mean nothing offensive--_so far_--sir, but it behoves me to be careful, and behind those glasses, who can tell what demon lurks? nay! no offence! an _innocent_ man would _feel_ no offence!" "really, miss majendie!" begins the poor professor, who is as red as though he were the guiltiest soul alive. "let me proceed, sir. we were talking of the ages of men." _"we?"_ "certainly! it was you who suggested the idea, that, being so much older than my niece, miss wynter, you could therefore escort her here and there--in fact _everywhere_--in fact"--with awful meaning--"_any_ where!" "i assure you, madam," begins the professor, springing to his feet--perpetua puts out a white hand. "ah! let her talk," says she. "_then_ you will understand." "but men's ages, sir, are a snare and a delusion!" continues miss majendie, who has mounted her hobby, and will ride it to the death. "who can tell the age of any man in this degenerate age? we look at their faces, and say _he_ must be so and so, and _he_ a few years younger, but looks are vain, they tell us nothing. some look old, because they _are_ old, some look old--through _vice_!" the professor makes an impatient gesture. but miss majendie is equal to most things. "'who excuses himself _accuses_ himself,'" quotes she with terrible readiness. "why that gesture, mr. curzon? i made no mention of _your_ name. and, indeed, i trust your age would place you outside of any such suspicion, still, i am bound to be careful where my niece's interests are concerned. you, as her guardian, if a _faithful_ guardian" (with open doubt, as to this, expressed in eye and pointed finger), "should be the first to applaud my caution." "you take an extreme view," begins the professor, a little feebly, perhaps. that eye and that pointed finger have cowed him. "one's views _have_ to be extreme in these days if one would continue in the paths of virtue," said miss majendie. "_your_ views," with a piercing and condemnatory glance, "are evidently _not_ extreme. one word for all, mr. curzon, and this argument is at an end. i shall not permit my niece, with my permission, to walk with you or any other man whilst under my protection." "i daresay you are right--no doubt--no doubt," mumbles the professor, incoherently, now thoroughly frightened and demoralized. good heavens! what an awful old woman! and to think that this poor child is under her care. he happens at this moment to look at the poor child, and the scorn _for him_ that gleams in her large eyes perfects his rout. to say that she was _right_! "if perpetua wishes to go for a walk," says miss majendie, breaking through a mist of angry feeling that is only half on the surface, "i am here to accompany her." "i don't want to go for a walk--with you," says perpetua, rudely it must be confessed, though her tone is low and studiously reserved. "i don't want to go for a walk _at all_." she pauses, and her voice chokes a little, and then suddenly she breaks into a small passion of vehemence. "i want to go somewhere, to _see_ something," she cries, gazing imploringly at curzon. "to _see_ something!" says her aunt, "why it was only last sunday i took you to westminster abbey, where you saw the grandest edifice in all the world." "most interesting place," says the professor, _sotto voce_, with a wild but mad hope of smoothing matters down for perpetua's sake. if it _was_ for perpetua's sake, she proves herself singularly ungrateful. she turns upon him a small vivid face, alight with indignation. "you support her," cries she. "_you!_ well, i shall tell you! i"--defiantly--"i don't want to go to churches at all. i want to go to _theatres_! there!" there is an awful silence. miss majendie's face is a picture! if the girl had said she wanted to go to the devil instead of to the theatre, she could hardly have looked more horrified. she takes a step forward, closer to perpetua. "go to your room! and pray--_pray_ for a purer mind!" says she. "this is hereditary, all this! only prayer can cast it out. and remember, this is the last word upon this subject. as long as you are under _my_ roof you shall never go to a sinful place of amusement. i forbid you ever to speak of theatres again." "i shall not be forbidden!" says perpetua. she confronts her aunt with flaming eyes and crimson cheeks. "i _do_ want to go to the theatre, and to balls, and dances, and _everything_. i"--passionately, and with a most cruel, despairing longing in her young voice, "want to dance, to laugh, to sing, to amuse myself--to be the gayest thing in all the world!" she stops as if exhausted, surprised perhaps at her own daring, and there is silence for a moment, a _little_ moment, and then miss majendie looks at her. "'the gayest thing in all the world:' _and your father only four months dead_!" says she, slowly, remorselessly. all in a moment, as it were, the little crimson angry face grows white--white as death itself. the professor, shocked beyond words, stands staring, and marking the sad changes in it. perpetua is trembling from head to foot. a frightened look has come into her beautiful eyes--her breath comes quickly. she is as a thing at bay--hopeless, horrified. her lips part as if she would say something. but no words come. she casts one anguished glance at the professor, and rushes from the room. it was but a momentary glimpse into a heart, but it was terrible. the professor turns upon miss majendie in great wrath. "that was cruel--uncalled for!" says he, a strange feeling in his heart that he has not time to stop and analyze _then_. "how could you hurt her so? poor child! poor girl! she _loved_ him!" "then let her show respect to his memory," says miss majendie vindictively. she is unmoved--undaunted. "she was not wanting in respect." his tone is hurried. this woman with the remorseless eye is too much for the gentle professor. "all she _does_ want is change, amusement. she is young. youth must enjoy." "in moderation--and in proper ways," says miss majendie stonily. "in moderation," she repeats mechanically, almost unconsciously. and then suddenly her wrath gets the better of her, and she breaks out into a violent range. that one should dare to question _her_ actions! "who are _you_?" demands she fiercely, "that you should presume to dictate right and wrong to _me_." "i am miss wynter's guardian," says the professor, who begins to see visions--and all the lower regions let loose at once. could an original fury look more horrible than this old woman, with her grey nodding head, and blind vindictive passion. he hears his voice faltering, and knows that he is edging towards the door. after all, what can the bravest man do with an angry old woman, except to get away from her as quickly as possible? and the professor, though brave enough in the usual ways, is not brave where women are concerned. "guardian or no guardian, i will thank you to remember you are in _my_ house!" cries miss majendie, in a shrill tone that runs through the professor's head. "certainly. certainly," says he, confusedly, and then he slips out of the room, and having felt the door close behind him, runs tumultuously down the staircase. for years he has not gone down any staircase so swiftly. a vague, if unacknowledged, feeling that he is literally making his escape from a vital danger, is lending wings to his feet. before him lies the hall-door, and that way safety lies, safety from that old gaunt, irate figure upstairs. he is not allowed to reach, however--just yet. a door on the right side of the hall is opened cautiously; a shapely little head is as cautiously pushed through it, and two anxious red lips whisper:-"mr. curzon," first, and then, as he turns in answer to the whisper, "sh--_sh_!" chapter v. "my love is like the sea, as changeful and as free; sometimes she's angry, sometimes rough, yet oft she's smooth and calm enough- ay, much too calm for me." it is perpetua. a sad-eyed, a tearful-eyed perpetua, but a lovely perpetua for all that. "well?" says he. "_sh!_" says she again, shaking her head ominously, and putting her forefinger against her lip. "come in here," says she softly, under her breath. "here," when he does come in, is a most untidy place, made up of all things heterogeneous. now that he is nearer to her, he can see that she has been crying vehemently, and that the tears still stand thick within her eyes. "i felt i _must_ see you," says she, "to tell you--to ask you. to--oh! you _heard_ what she said! do--do _you_ think----?" "not at all, not at all," declares the professor hurriedly. "don't--_don't_ cry, perpetua! look here," laying his hand nervously upon her shoulder and giving her a little angry shake. "_don't_ cry! good heavens! why should you mind that awful old woman?" nevertheless, he had minded that awful old woman himself very considerably. "but--it _is_ soon, isn't it?" says she. "i know that myself, and yet--" wistfully--"i can't help it. i _do_ want to see things, and to amuse myself." "naturally," says the professor. "and it isn't that i _forget_ him," says she in an eager, intense tone, "i _never_ forget him--never--never. only i do want to laugh sometimes and to be happy, and to see mr. irving as charles i." the climax is irresistible. the professor is unable to suppress a smile. "i'm afraid, from what i have heard, _that_ won't make you laugh," says he. "it will make me cry then. it is all the same," declares she, impartially. "i shall be enjoying myself, i shall be _seeing_ things. you--" doubtfully, and mindful of his last speech--"haven't you seen him?" "not for a long time, i regret to say. i--i'm always so busy," says the professor apologetically. "_always_ studying?" questions she. "for the most part," returns the professor, an odd sensation growing within him that he is feeling ashamed of himself. "'all work and no play,'" begins perpetua, and stops, and shakes her charming head at him. "_you_ will be a dull boy if you don't take care," says she. a ghost of a little smile warms her sad lips as she says this, and lights up her shining eyes like a ray of sunlight. then it fades, and she grows sorrowful again. "well, _i_ can't study," says she. "why not?" demands the professor quickly. here he is on his own ground; and here he has a pupil to his hand--a strange, an enigmatical, but a lovely one. "believe me knowledge is the one good thing that life contains worth having. pleasure, riches, rank, _all_ sink to insignificance beside it." "how do you know?" says she. "you haven't tried the others." "i know it, for all that. i _feel_ it. get knowledge--such knowledge as the short span of life allotted to us will allow you to get. i can lend you some books, easy ones at first, and----" "i couldn't read _your_ books," says she; "and--you haven't any novels, i suppose?" "no," says he. "but----" "i don't care for any books but novels," says she, sighing. "have you read 'alas?' i never have anything to read here, because aunt jane says novels are of the devil, and that if i read them i shall go to hell." "nonsense!" said the professor gruffly. "you mustn't think i'm afraid about _that_" says perpetua demurely; "i'm not. i know the same place could never contain aunt jane and me for long, so _i'm_ all right." the professor struggles with himself for a moment and then gives way to mirth. "ah! _now_ you are on my side," cries his ward exultantly. she tucks her arm into his. "and as for all that talk about 'knowledge'--don't bother me about that any more. it's a little rude of you, do you know? one would think i was a dunce--that i knew nothing--whereas, i assure you," throwing out her other hand, "i know _quite_ as much as most girls, and a great deal more than many. i daresay," putting her head to one side, and examining him thoughtfully, "i know more than you do if it comes to that. i don't believe you know this moment who wrote 'the master of ballantrae.' come now, who was it?" she leans back from him, gazing at him mischievously, as if anticipating his defeat. as for the professor, he grows red--he draws his brows together. truly this is a most impertinent pupil! 'the master of ballantrae.' it _sounds_ like sir walter, and yet--the professor hesitates and is lost. "scott," says he, with as good an air as he can command. "wrong," cries she, clapping her hands softly, noiselessly. "oh! you _ignorant_ man! go buy that book at once. it will do you more good and teach you a great deal more than any of your musty tomes." she laughs gaily. it occurs to the professor, in a misty sort of way, that her laugh, at all events, would do _anyone_ good. she has been pulling a ring on and off her finger unconsciously, as if thinking, but now looks up at him. "if you spoke to her again, when she was in a better temper, don't you think she would let you take me to the theatre some night?" she has come nearer, and has laid a light, appealing little hand upon his arm. "i am sure it would be useless," says he, taking off his glasses and putting them on again in an anxious fashion. they are both speaking in whispers, and the professor is conscious of feeling a strange sort of pleasure in the thought that he is sharing a secret with her. "besides," says he, "i couldn't very well come here again." "not come again? why?" "i'd be afraid," returns he simply. whereon miss wynter, after a second's pause, gives way and laughs "consumedly," as they would have said long, long years before her pretty features saw the light. "ah! yes," murmurs she. "how she did frighten you. she brought you to your knees--you actually"--this with keen reproach--"took her part against me." "i took her part to _help_ you;" says the professor, feeling absurdly miserable. "yes," sighing, "i daresay. but though i know i should have suffered for it afterwards, it would have done me a world of good to hear somebody tell her his real opinion of her for once. i should like," calmly, "to see her writhe; she makes me writhe very often." "this is a bad school for you," says the professor hurriedly. "yes? then why don't you take me away from it?" "if i could----but----well, i shall see," says he vaguely. "you will have to be very quick about it," says she. her tone is quite ordinary; it never suggests itself to the professor that there is meaning beneath it. "you have _some_ friends surely?" says he. "there is a mrs. constans who comes here sometimes to see aunt jane. she is a young woman, and her mother was a friend of aunt jane's, which accounts for it, i suppose. she seems kind. she said she would take me to a concert soon, but she has not been here for many days, i daresay she has forgotten all about it by this time." she sighs. the charming face so near the professor's is looking sad again. the white brow is puckered, the soft lips droop. no, she cannot stay _here_, that is certain--and yet it was her father's wish, and who is he, the professor, that he should pretend to know how girls should be treated? what if he should make a mistake? and yet again, should a little brilliant face like that know sadness? it is a problem difficult to solve. all the professor's learning fails him now. "i hope she will remember. oh! she _must_," declares he, gazing at perpetua. "you know i would do what i could for you, but your aunt--you heard her--she would not let you go anywhere with me." "true," says perpetua. here she moves back, and folds her arms stiffly across her bosom, and pokes out her chin, in an aggressive fashion, that creates a likeness on the spot, in spite of the youthful eyes, and brow, and hair. "'young _gentle_women in _our_ time, mr. curzon, never, went out walking, _alone_, with _a man_!" the mimicry is perfect. the professor, after a faint struggle with his dignity, joins in her naughty mirth, and both laugh together. "'_our_' time! she thinks you are a hundred and fifty!" says miss wynter. "well, so i am, in a way," returns the professor, somewhat sadly. "no, you're not," says she. "_i_ know better than that. i," patting his arm reassuringly, "can guess your age better than she can. i can see _at once_, that you are not a day older than poor, darling papa. in fact, you may be younger. i am perfectly certain you are not more than fifty." the professor says nothing. he is staring at her. he is beginning to feel a little forlorn. he has forgotten youth for many days, has youth in revenge forgotten him? "that is taking off a clear hundred all at once," says she lightly. "no small amount." here, as if noticing his silence, she looks quickly at him, and perhaps something in his face strikes her, because she goes on hurriedly. "oh! and what is age after all? i wish _i_ were old, and then i should be able to get away from aunt jane--without--without any _trouble_." "i am afraid you are indeed very unhappy here," says the professor gravely. "i _hate_ the place," cries she with a frown. "i shan't be able to stay here. oh! _why_ didn't poor papa send me to live with you?" why indeed? that is exactly what the professor finds great difficulty in explaining to her. an "old man" of "fifty" might very easily give a home to a young girl, without comment from the world. but then if an "old man of fifty" _wasn't_ an old man of fifty----the professor checks his thoughts, they are growing too mixed. "we should have been _so_ happy," perpetua is going on, her tone regretful. "we could have gone everywhere together, you and i. i should have taken you to the theatre, to balls, to concerts, to afternoons. you would have been _so_ happy, and so should i. you would--wouldn't you?" the professor nods his head. the awful vista she has opened up to him has completely deprived him of speech. "ah! yes," sighs she, taking that deceitful nod in perfect good faith. "and you would have been good to me too, and let me look in at the shop windows. i should have taken such _care_ of you, and made your tea for you, just," sadly, "as i used to do for poor papa, and----" it is becoming too much for the professor. "it is late. i must go," says he. * * * * * it is a week later when he meets her again. the season is now at its height, and some stray wave of life casting the professor into a fashionable thoroughfare, he there finds he. marching along, as usual, with his head in the air, and his thoughts in the ages when dates were unknown, a soft, eager voice calling his name brings him back to the fact that he is walking up bond street. in a carriage, exceedingly well appointed, and with her face wreathed in smiles, and one hand impulsively extended, sits perpetua. evidently the owner of the carriage is in the shop making purchases, whilst perpetua sits without, awaiting her. "were you going to cut me?" cries she. "what luck to meet you here. i am having such a _lovely_ day. mrs. constans has taken me out with her, and i am to dine with her, and go with her to a concert in the evening." she has poured it all out, all her good news in a breath, as though sure of a sympathetic listener. he is too good a listener. he is listening so hard, he is looking so intensely, that he forgets to speak, and perpetua's sudden gaiety forsakes her. is he angry? does he think----? "it's _only_ a concert," says she, flushing and hesitating. "do you think that one should not go to a concert when----" "yes?" questions the professor abstractedly, as she comes to a full stop. he has never seen her dressed like this before. she is all in black to be sure, but _such_ black, and her air! she looks quite the little heiress, like a little queen indeed--radiant, lovely. "_well_--when one is in mourning," says she somewhat impatiently, the color once again dyeing her cheek. quick tears have sprung to her eyes. they seem to hurt the professor. "one cannot be in mourning always," says he slowly. his manner is still unfortunate. "you evade the question," says she frowning. "but a concert _isn't_ like a ball, is it?" "i don't know," says the professor, who indeed has had little knowledge of either for years, and whose unlucky answer arises solely from inability to give her an honest reply. "you hesitate," says she, "you disapprove then. but," defiantly, "i don't care--a concert is _not_ like a ball." "no--i suppose not!" "i can see what you are thinking," returns she, struggling with her mortification. "and it is very _hard_ of you. just because _you_ don't care to go anywhere, you think _i_ oughtn't to care either. that is what is so selfish about people who are old. you," wilfully, "are just as bad as aunt jane." the professor looks at her. his face is perplexed--distressed--and something more, but she cannot read that. "well, not quite perhaps," says she, relenting slightly. "but nearly. and if you don't take care you will grow like her. i hate people who lecture me, and besides, i don't see why a guardian should control one's whole life, and thought, and action. a guardian," resentfully, "isn't one's conscience!" "no. no. thank heaven!" says the professor, shocked. perpetua stares at him a moment and then breaks into a queer little laugh. "you evidently have no desire to be mixed up with _my_ conscience," says she, a little angry in spite of her mirth. "well, i don't want you to have anything to do with it. that's _my_ affair. but, about this concert,"--she leans towards him, resting her hand on the edge of the carriage. "do you think one should go _nowhere_ when wearing black?" "i think one should do just as one feels," says the professor nervously. "i wonder if one should _say_ just what one feels," says she. she draws back haughtily, then wrath gets the better of dignity, and she breaks out again. "what a _horrid_ answer! _you_ are unfeeling if you like!" "_i_ am?" "yes, yes! you would deny me this small gratification, you would lock me up forever with aunt jane, you would debar me from everything! oh!" her lips trembling, "how i wish--i _wish_--guardians had never been invented." the professor almost begins to wish the same. almost--perhaps not quite! that accusation about wishing to keep her locked up forever with miss majendie is so manifestly unjust that he takes it hardly. has he not spent all this past week striving to open a way of escape for her from the home she so detests! but, after all, how could she know that? "you have misunderstood me," says he calmly, gravely. "far from wishing you to deny yourself this concert, i am glad--glad from my _heart_--that you are going to it--that some small pleasure has fallen into your life. your aunt's home is an unhappy one for you, i know, but you should remember that even if--if you have got to stay with her until you become your own mistress, still that will not be forever." "no, i shall not stay there forever," says she slowly. "and so--you really think----" she is looking very earnestly at him. "i do, indeed. go out--go everywhere--enjoy yourself, child, while you can." he lifts his hat and walks away. "who was that, dear?" asks mrs. constans, a pretty pale woman, rushing out of the shop and into the carriage. "my guardian--mr. curzon." "ah!" glancing carelessly after the professor's retreating figure. "a youngish man?" "no, old," says perpetua, "at least i think--do you know," laughing, "when he's _gone_ i sometimes think of him as being pretty young, but when he is _with_ me, he is old--old and grave!" "as a guardian should be, with such a pretty ward," says mrs. constans, smiling. "his back looks young, however." "and his laugh _sounds_ young." "ah! he can laugh then?" "very seldom. too seldom. but when he does, it is a nice laugh. but he wears spectacles, you know--and--well--oh, yes, he _is_ old, distinctly old!" chapter vi "he is happy whose circumstances suit his temper; but he is more excellent who can suit his temper to any circumstances." "the idea of _your_ having a ward! i could quite as soon imagine your having a wife," says hardinge. he knocks the ash off his cigar, and after meditating for a moment, leans back in his chair and gives way to irrepressible mirth. "i don't see why i shouldn't have a wife as well as another," says the professor, idly tapping his forefinger on the table near him. "she would bore me. but a great many fellows are bored." "you have grasped one great truth if you never grasp another!" says mr. hardinge, who has now recovered. "catch _me_ marrying." "it's unlucky to talk like that," says the professor. "it looks as though your time were near. in sophocles' time there was a man who----" "oh, bother sophocles, you know i never let you talk anything but wholesome nonsense when i drop in for a smoke with you," says the younger man. "you began very well, with that superstition of yours, but i won't have it spoiled by erudition. tell me about your ward." "would that be nonsense?" says the professor, with a faint smile. they are sitting in the professor's room with the windows thrown wide open to let in any chance gust of air that heaven in its mercy may send them. it is night, and very late at night too--the clock indeed is on the stroke of twelve. it seems a long, long time to the professor since the afternoon--the afternoon of this very day--when he had seen perpetua sitting in that open carriage. he had only been half glad when harold hardinge--a young man, and yet, strange to say, his most intimate friend--had dropped in to smoke a pipe with him. hardinge was fonder of the professor than he knew, and was drawn to him by curious intricate webs. the professor suited him, and he suited the professor, though in truth hardinge was nothing more than a gay young society man, with just the average amount of brains, but not an ounce beyond that. a tall, handsome young man, with fair brown hair and hazel eyes, a dark moustache and a happy manner, mr. hardinge laughs his way through life, without money, or love, or any other troubles. "can you ask?" says he. "go on, curzon. what is she like?" "it wouldn't interest you," says the professor. "i beg your pardon, it is profoundly interesting; i've got to keep an eye on you, or else in a weak moment you will let her marry you." the professor moves uneasily. "may i ask how you knew i _had_ a ward?" "that should go without telling. i arrived here to-night to find you absent and mrs. mulcahy in possession, pretending to dust the furniture. she asked me to sit down--i obeyed her. "'how's the professor?'" said i. "'me dear!' said she, 'that's a bad story. he's that distracted over a young lady that his own mother wouldn't know him!' "i acknowledge i blushed. i went even so far as to make a few pantomimic gestures suggestive of the horror i was experiencing, and finally i covered my face with my handkerchief. i regret to say that mrs. mulcahy took my modesty in bad part. "'arrah! git out wid ye!' says she, 'ye scamp o' the world. 'tis a _ward_ the masther has taken an' nothin' more.' "i said i thought it was quite enough, and asked if you had taken it badly, and what the doctor thought of you. but she wouldn't listen to me. "'look here, misther hardinge,' said she. 'i've come to the conclusion that wards is bad for the professor. i haven't seen the young lady, i confess, but i'm cock-sure that she's got the divil's own temper!'" hardinge pauses, and turns to the professor--"has she?" says he. "n----o,"--says the professor--a little frowning lovely crimson face rises before him--and then a laughing one. "no," says he more boldly, "she is a little impulsive, perhaps, but----" "just so. just so," says mr. hardinge pleasantly, and then, after a kindly survey of his companion's features, "she is rather a trouble to you, old man, isn't she?" "she? no," says the professor again, more quickly this time. "it is only this--she doesn't seem to get on with the aunt to whom her poor father sent her--he is dead--and i have to look out for some one else to take care of her, until she comes of age." "i see. i should think you would have to hurry up a bit," says mr. hardinge, taking his cigar from his lips, and letting the smoke curl upwards slowly, thoughtfully. "impulsive people have a trick of being impatient--of acting for themselves----" "_she_ cannot," says the professor, with anxious haste. "she knows nobody in town." "nobody?" "except me, and a woman who is a friend of her aunt's. if she were to go to her, she would be taken back again. perpetua knows that." "perpetua! is that her name? what a peculiar one? perpetua----" "miss wynter," sharply. "perpetua--miss wynter! exactly so! it sounds like--dorothea--lady highflown! well, _your_ lady highflown doesn't seem to have many friends here. what a pity you can't send her back to australia!" the professor is silent. "it would suit all sides. i daresay the poor girl is pining for the freedom of her old home. and, i must say, it is hard lines for you. a girl with a temper, to be----" "i did not say she had a temper." hardinge has risen to get himself some whisky and soda, but pauses to pat the professor affectionately on the back. "of _course_ not! don't i know you? you would die first! she might worry your life out, and still you would rise up to defend her at every corner. you should get her a satisfactory home as soon as you can--it would ease your mind; and, after all, as she knows no one here, she is bound to behave herself until you can come to her help." "she would behave herself, as you call it," says the professor angrily, "any and everywhere. she is a lady. she has been well brought up. i am her guardian, she will do nothing without _my_ permission!" _"won't she!"_ a sound, outside the door strikes on the ears of both men at this moment. it is a most peculiar sound, as it were the rattle of beads against wood. "what's that?" said hardinge. "everett" (the man in the rooms below,) "is out, i know." "it's coming here," says the professor. it is, indeed! the door is opened in a tumultuous fashion, there is a rustle of silken skirts, and there--there, where the gas-light falls full on her from both room and landing--stands perpetua! the professor has risen to his feet. his face is deadly white. mr. hardinge has risen too. "perpetua!" says the professor; it would be impossible to describe his tone. "i've come!" says perpetua, advancing into the room. "i have done with aunt jane, _for ever_," casting wide her pretty naked arms, "and i have come to you!" as if in confirmation of this decision, she flings from her on to a distant chair the white opera cloak around her, and stands revealed as charming a thing as ever eye fell upon. she is all in black, but black that sparkles and trembles and shines with every movement. she seems, indeed, to be hung in jet, and out of all this sombre gleaming her white neck rises, pure and fresh and sweet as a little child's. her long slight arms are devoid of gloves--she had forgotten them, do doubt, but her slender fingers are covered with rings, and round her neck a diamond necklace clings as if in love with its resting place. diamonds indeed are everywhere. in her hair, in her breast, on her neck, her fingers. her father, when luck came to him, had found his greatest joy in decking with these gems the delight of his heart. the professor turns to hardinge. that young man, who had risen with the intention of leaving the room on perpetua's entrance, is now standing staring at her as if bewitched. his expression is half puzzled, half amused. in _this_ the professor's troublesome ward? this lovely, graceful---"leave us!" says the professor sharply. hardinge, with a profound bow, quits the room, but not the house. it would be impossible to go without hearing the termination of this exciting episode. everett's rooms being providentially empty, he steps into them, and, having turned up the gas, drops into a chair and gives way to mirth. meantime the professor is staring at perpetua. "what has happened?" says he. chapter vii. "take it to thy breast; though thorns its stem invest, gather them, with the rest!" "she is unbearable. _unbearable!_" returns perpetua vehemently. "when i came back from the concert to-night, she----but i won't speak of her. i _won't_. and, at all events, i have done with her; i have left her. i have come"--with decision--"to stay with you!" "eh?" says the professor. it is a mere sound, but it expresses a great deal. "to stay with you. yes," nodding her head, "it has come to that at last. i warned you it _would_. i couldn't stay with her any longer. i hate her! so i have come to stay with you--_for ever_!" she has cuddled herself into an armchair, and, indeed, looks as if a life-long residence in this room is the plan she has laid out for herself. "great heavens! what do you mean?" asks the poor professor, who should have sworn by the heathen gods, but in a weak moment falls back upon the good old formula. he sinks upon the table next him, and makes ruin of the notes he had been scribbling--the ink is still wet--even whilst hardinge was with him. could he only have known it, there are first proofs of them now upon his trousers. "i have told you," says she. "good gracious, what a funny room this is! i told you she was abominable to me when i came home to-night. she said dreadful things to me, and i don't care whether she is my aunt or not, i shan't let her scold me for nothing; and--i'm afraid i wasn't nice to her. i'm sorry for that, but--one isn't a bit of stone, you know, and she said something--about my mother," her eyes grow very brilliant here, "and when i walked up to her she apologized for that, but afterwards she said something about poor, _poor_ papa--and ... well, that was the end. i told her--amongst _other_ things--that i thought she was 'too old to be alive,' and she didn't seem to mind the 'other things' half as much as that, though they were awful. at all events," with a little wave of her hands, "she's lectured me now for good; i shall never see _her_ again! i've run away to you! see?" it must be acknowledged that the professor _doesn't_ see. he is still sitting on the edge of the table--dumb. "oh! i'm so _glad_ i've left her," says perpetua, with indeed heartfelt delight in look and tone. "but--do you know--i'm hungry. you--you couldn't let me make you a cup of tea, could you? i'm dreadfully thirsty! what's that in your glass?" "nothing," says the professor hastily. he removes the half-finished tumbler of whisky and soda, and places it in the open cupboard. "it looked like _something_," says she. "but what about tea?" "i'll see what i can do," says he, beginning to busy himself amongst many small contrivances in the same cupboard. it has gone to his heart to hear that she is hungry and thirsty, but even in the midst of his preparations for her comfort, a feeling of rage takes possession of him. he pulls his head out of the cupboard and turns to her. "you must be _mad_!" says he. "mad? why?" asks she. "to come here. here! and at this hour!" "there was no other place; and i wasn't going to live under _her_ roof another second. i said to myself that she was my aunt, but you were my guardian. both of you have been told to look after me, and i prefer to be looked after by you. it is so simple," says she, with a suspicion of contempt in her tone, "that i wonder why you wonder at it. as i preferred _you_--of course i have come to live with you." "you _can't_!" gasps the professor, "you must go back to miss majendie at once!" "to _her_! i'm not going back," steadily. "and even if i would," triumphantly, "i couldn't. as she sleeps at the top of the house (to get _air_, she says), and so does her maid, you might ring until you were black in the face, and she wouldn't hear you." "well! you can't stay here!" says the professor, getting off the table and addressing her with a truly noble attempt at sternness. "why can't i?" there is some indignation in her tone. "there's lots of room here, isn't there?" "there is _no_ room!" says the professor. this is the literal truth. "the house is full. and--and there are only men here." "so much the better!" says perpetua, with a little frown and a great deal of meaning. "i'm tired of women--they're horrid. you're always kind to me--at least," with a glance, "you always used to be, and _you're_ a man! tell one of your servants to make me up a room somewhere." "there isn't one," says the professor. "oh! nonsense," says she leaning back in her chair and yawning softly. "i'm not so big that you can't put me away somewhere. _that woman_ says i'm so small that i'll never be a grown-up girl, because i can't grow up any more. who'd live with a woman like that? and i shall grow more, shan't i?" "i daresay," says the professor vaguely. "but that is not the question to be considered now. i must beg you to understand, perpetua, that your staying here is out of the question!" "out of the----oh! i _see_" cries she, springing to her feet and turning a passionately reproachful face on his. "you mean that i shall be in your way here!" "no, _no_, no!" cries he, just as impulsively, and decidedly very foolishly; but the sight of her small mortified face has proved too much for him. "only----" "only?" echoes the spoiled child, with a loving smile--the child who has been accustomed to have all things and all people give way to her during her short life. "only you are afraid _i_ shall not be comfortable. but i shall. and i shall be a great comfort to you too--a great _help_. i shall keep everything in order for you. do you remember the talk we had that last day you came to aunt jane's? how i told you of the happy days we should have together, if we _were_ together. well, we are together now, aren't we? and when i'm twenty-one, we'll move into a big, big house, and ask people to dances and dinners and things. in the meantime----" she pauses and glances leisurely around her. the glance is very comprehensive. "to-morrow," says she with decision, "i shall settle this room!" the professor's breath fails him. he grows pale. to "settle" his room! "perpetua!" exclaims he, almost inarticulately, "you don't understand." "i do indeed," returns she brightly. "i've often settled papa's den. what! do you think me only a silly useless creature? you shall see! i'll settle _you_ too, by and by." she smiles at him gaily, with the most charming innocence, but oh! what awful probabilities lie within her words. _settle him!_ "do you know i've heard people talking about you at mrs. constans'," says she. she smiles and nods at him. the professor groans. to be talked about! to be discussed! to be held up to vulgar comment! he writhes inwardly. the thought is actual torture to him. "they said----" "_what?_" demands the professor, almost fiercely. how dare a feeble feminine audience appreciate or condemn his honest efforts to enlighten his small section of mankind! "that you ought to be married," says perpetua, sympathetically. "and they said, too, that they supposed you wouldn't ever be now; but that it was a great pity you hadn't a daughter. _i_ think that too. not about your having a wife. that doesn't matter, but i really think you ought to have a daughter to look after you." this extremely immoral advice she delivers with a beaming smile. "_i'll_ be your daughter," says she. the professor goes rigid with horror. what has he _done_ that the fates should so visit him? "they said something else too," goes on perpetua, this time rather angrily. "they said you were so clever that you always looked unkempt. that," thoughtfully, "means that you didn't brush your hair enough. never mind, _i'll_ brush it for you." "look here!" says the professor furiously, subdued fury no doubt, but very genuine. "you must go, you know. go, _at once_! d'ye see? you can't stay in this house, d'ye _hear_? i can't permit it. what did your father mean by bringing you up like this!" "like what?" she is staring at him. she has leant forward as if surprised--and with a sigh the professor acknowledges the uselessness of a fight between them; right or wrong she is sure to win. he is bound to go to the wall. she is looking not only surprised, but unnerved. this ebullition of wrath on the part of her mild guardian has been a slight shock to her. "tell me?" persists she. "tell you! what is there to tell you? i should think the veriest infant would have known she oughtn't to come here." "i should think an infant would know nothing," with dignity. "all your scientific researches have left you, i'm afraid, very ignorant. and i should think that the very first thing even an infant would do, if she could walk, would be to go straight to her guardian when in trouble." "at this hour?" "at any hour. what," throwing out her hands expressively, "is a guardian _for_, if it isn't to take care of people?" the professor gives it up. the heat of battle has overcome him. with a deep breath he drops into a chair, and begins to wonder how long it will be before happy death will overtake him. but in the meantime, whilst sitting on a milestone of life waiting for that grim friend, what is to be done with her? if--good heavens! if anyone had seen her come in! "who opened the door for you?" demands he abruptly. "a great big fat woman with a queer voice! your mrs. mulcahy of course. i remember your telling me about her." mrs. mulcahy undoubtedly. well, the professor wishes now he had told this ward _more_ about her. mrs. mulcahy he can trust, but she--awful thought--will she trust him? what is she thinking now? "i said, 'is mr. curzon at home?' and she said, 'well i niver!' so i saw she was a kindly, foolish, poor creature with no sense, and i ran past her, and up the stairs, and i looked into one room where there were lights but you weren't there, and then i ran on again until i saw the light under _your_ door, and," brightening, "there you were!" here _she_ is now at all events, at half-past twelve at night! "wasn't it fortunate i found you?" says she. she is laughing a little, and looking so content that the professor hasn't the heart to contradict her--though where the fortune comes in---"i'm starving," says she, gaily, "will that funny little kettle soon boil?" the professor has lit a spirit-lamp with a view to giving her some tea. "i haven't had anything to eat since dinner, and you know she dines at an ungodly hour. two o'clock! i didn't know i wanted anything to eat until i escaped from her, but now that i have got _you_," triumphantly, "i feel as hungry as ever i can be." "there is nothing," says the professor, blankly. his heart seems to stop beating. the most hospitable and kindly of men, it is terrible to him to have to say this. of course mrs. mulcahy--who, no doubt, is still in the hall waiting for an explanation, could give him something. but mrs. mulcahy can be unpleasant at times, and this is safe to be a "time." yet without her assistance he can think of no means by which this pretty, slender, troublesome little ward of his can be fed. "nothing!" repeats she faintly. "oh, but surely in that cupboard over there, where you put the glass, there is something; even bread and butter i should like." she gets up, and makes an impulsive step forward, and in doing so brushes against a small rickety table, that totters feebly for an instant and then comes with a crash to the ground, flinging a whole heap of gruesome dry bones at her very feet. with a little cry of horror she recoils from them. perhaps her nerves are more out of order than she knows, perhaps the long fast and long drive here, and her reception from her guardian at the end of it--so different from what she had imagined--have all helped to undo her. whatever be the cause, she suddenly covers her face with her hands and bursts into tears. "take them away!" cries she frantically, and then--sobbing heavily between her broken words--"oh, i see how it is. you don't want me here at all. you wish i hadn't come. and i have no one but you--and poor papa said you would be good to me. but you are _sorry_ he made you my guardian. you would be glad if i were _dead_! when i come to you in my trouble you tell me to go away again, and though i tell you i am hungry, you won't give me even some bread and butter! oh!" passionately, "if _you_ came to _me_ starving, i'd give _you_ things, but--you----" "_stop!_" cries the professor. he uplifts his hands, and, as though in the act of tearing his hair, rushes from the room, and staggers downstairs to those other apartments where hardinge had elected to sit, and see out the farce, comedy, or tragedy, whichever it may prove, to its bitter end. the professor bursts in like a maniac! chapter viii. "the house of everyone is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defence against injury and violence as for his repose." "she's upstairs still," cries he in a frenzied tone. "she says she has come _for ever_. that she will not go away. she doesn't understand. great heaven! what i am to do?" "she?" says hardinge, who really in turn grows petrified for the moment--_only_ for the moment. "that girl! my ward! all women are _demons_!" says the professor bitterly, with tragic force. he pauses as if exhausted. "_your_ demon is a pretty specimen of her kind," says hardinge, a little frivolously under the circumstances it must be confessed. "where is she now?" "upstairs!" with a groan. "she says she's _hungry_, and i haven't a thing in the house! for goodness sake think of something, hardinge." "mrs. mulcahy!" suggests hardinge, in anything but a hopeful tone. "yes--ye-es," says the professor. "you--_you_ wouldn't ask her for something, would you, hardinge?" "not for a good deal," says hardinge, promptly. "i say," rising, and going towards everett's cupboard, "everett's a sybarite, you know, of the worst kind--sure to find something here, and we can square it with him afterwards. beauty in distress, you know, appeals to all hearts. _here we are!_" holding out at arm's length a pasty. "a 'weal and ammer!' take it! the guilt be on my head! bread--butter--pickled onions! oh, _not_ pickled onions, i think. really, i had no idea even everett had fallen so low. cheese!--about to proceed on a walking tour! the young lady wouldn't care for that, thanks. beer! no. _no._ sherry-woine!" "give me that pie, and the bread and butter," says the professor, in great wrath. "and let me tell you, hardinge, that there are occasions when one's high spirits can degenerate into offensiveness and vulgarity!" he marches out of the room and upstairs, leaving hardinge, let us hope, a pray to remorse. it is true, at least of that young man, that he covers his face with his hands and sways from side to side, as if overcome by some secret emotion. grief--no-doubt. perpetua is graciously pleased to accept the frugal meal the professor brings her. she even goes so far as to ask him to share it with her--which invitation he declines. he is indeed sick at heart--not for himself--(the professor doesn't often think of himself)--but for her. and where is she to sleep? to turn her out now would be impossible! after all, it was a puerile trifling with the inevitable, to shirk asking mrs. mulcahy for something to eat for his self-imposed guest--because the question of _bed_ still to come! mrs. mulcahy, terrible as she undoubtedly can be, is yet the only woman in the house, and it is imperative that perpetua should be given up to her protection. whilst the professor is writhing in spirit over this ungetoutable fact, he becomes aware of a resounding knock at his door. paralyzed, he gazes in the direction of the sound. it _can't_ be hardinge, he would never knock like that! the knock in itself, indeed, is of such force and volume as to strike terror into the bravest breast. it is--it _must_ be--the mulcahy! and mrs. mulcahy it is! without waiting for an answer, that virtuous irishwoman, clad in righteous indignation and a snuff-colored gown, marches into the room. "may i ask, mr. curzon," says she, with great dignity and more temper, "what may be the meanin' of all this?" the professor's tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth, but perpetua's tongue remains normal. she jumps up, and runs to mrs. mulcahy with a beaming face. she has had something to eat, and is once again her own buoyant, wayward, light-hearted little self. "oh! it is all right _now_, mrs. mulcahy," cries she, whilst the professor grows cold with horror at this audacious advance upon the militant mulcahy. "but do you know, he said first he hadn't anything to give me, and i was starving. no, you mustn't scold him--he didn't mean anything. i suppose you have heard how unhappy i was with aunt jane?--he's told you, i daresay,"--with a little flinging of her hand towards the trembling professor--"because i know"--prettily--"he is very fond of you--he often speaks to me about you. oh! aunt jane is _horrid_! i _should_ have told you about how it was when i came, but i wanted so much to see my guardian, and tell _him_ all about it, that i forgot to be nice to anybody. see?" there is a little silence. the professor, who is looking as guilty as if the whole ten commandments have been broken by him at once, waits, shivering, for the outburst that is so sure to come. it doesn't come, however! when the mists clear away a little, he finds that perpetua has gone over to where mrs. mulcahy is standing, and is talking still to that good irishwoman. it is a whispered talk this time, and the few words of it that he catches go to his very heart. "i'm afraid he didn't _want_ me here," perpetua is saying, in a low distressed little voice--"i'm sorry i came now--but, you don't _know_ how cruel aunt jane was to me, mrs. mulcahy, you don't indeed! she--she said such unkind things about--about----" perpetua breaks down again--struggles with herself valiantly, and finally bursts out crying. "i'm tired, i'm sleepy," sobs she miserably. need i say what follows? the professor, stung to the quick by those forlorn sobs, lifts his eyes, and--behold! he sees perpetua gathered to the ample bosom of the formidable, kindly mulcahy. "come wid me, me lamb," says that excellent woman. "bad scran to the one that made yer purty heart sore. lave her to me now, misther curzon, dear, an' i'll take a mother's care of her." (this in an aside to the astounded professor.) "there now, alanna! take courage now! sure 'tis to the right shop ye've come, anyway, for 'tis daughthers i have meself, me dear--fine, sthrappin' girls as could put you in their pockits. ye poor little crather! oh! murther! who could harm the likes of ye? faix, i hope that ould divil of an aunt o' yours won't darken these doors, or she'll git what she won't like from biddy mulcahy. there now! there now! 'tis into yer bed i'll tuck ye meself, for 'tis worn-out ye are--god help ye!" she is gone, taking perpetua with her. the professor rubs his eyes, and then suddenly an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards mrs. mulcahy takes possession of him. _what_ a woman! he had never thought so much moral support could be got out of a landlady--but mrs. mulcahy has certainly tided him safely over _one_ of his difficulties. still, those that remain are formidable enough to quell any foolish present attempts at relief of mind. "to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow!" how many to-morrows is she going to remain here? oh! impossible! not an _hour_ must be wasted. by the morning light something must be put on foot to save the girl from her own foolhardiness, nay ignorance! once again, sunk in the meshes of depression, the persecuted professor descends to the room where hardinge awaits him. "anything new?" demands the latter, springing to his feet. "yes! mrs. mulcahy came up." the professor's face is so gloomy, that hardinge may be forgiven for saying to himself, "she has assaulted him!" "i'm glad it isn't visible," says he, staring at the professor's nose, and then at his eye. both are the usual size. "eh?" says the professor. "she was visible of course. she was kinder than i expected." "so, i see. she might so easily have made it your lip--or your nose--or----" "_what_ is there in everett's cupboard besides the beer?" demands the professor angrily. "for heaven's sake! attend to me, and don't sit there grinning like a first-class chimpanzee!" this is extremely rude, but hardinge takes no notice of it. "i tell you she was kind--kinder than one would expect," says the professor, rapping his knuckles on the table. "oh! i see. she? miss wynter?" "no--mrs. mulcahy!" roars the professor frantically. "where's your head, man? mrs. mulcahy came into the room, and took miss wynter into her charge in the--er--the most wonderful way, and carried her off to bed." the professor mops his brow. "oh, well, _that's_ all right," says hardinge. "sit down, old chap, and let's talk it over." "it is _not_ all right," says the professor. "it is all wrong. here she is, and here she apparently means to stay. the poor child doesn't understand. she thinks i'm older than methusaleh, and that she can live here with me. i can't explain it to her--you--don't think _you_ could, do you, hardinge?" "no, i don't, indeed," says hardinge, in a hurry. "what on earth has brought her here at all?" "to _stay_. haven't i told you? to stay for ever. she says"--with a groan--"she is going to settle me! to--to _brush my hair_! to--make my tea. she says i'm her guardian, and insists on living with me. she doesn't understand! hardinge," desperately, "what _am_ i to do?" "marry her!" suggests hardinge, who i regret to say is choking with laughter. "that is a _jest_!" says the professor haughtily. this unusual tone from the professor strikes surprise to the soul of hardinge. he looks at him. but the professor's new humor is short-lived. he sinks upon a chair in a tired sort of a way, letting his arms fall over the sides of it. as a type of utter despair he is a distinguished specimen. "why don't you take her home again, back to the old aunt?" says hardinge, moved by his misery. "i can't. she tells me it would be useless, that the house is locked up, and--and besides, hardinge, her aunt--after _this_, you know--would be----" "naturally," says hardinge, after which he falls back upon his cigar. "light your pipe," says he, "and we'll think it over." the professor lights it, and both men draw nearer to each other. "i'm afraid she won't go back to her aunt any way," says the professor, as a beginning to the "thinking it over." he pushes his glasses up to his forehead, and finally discards them altogether, flinging them on the table near. "if she saw you now she might understand," says hardinge--for, indeed, the professor without his glasses loses thirty per cent. of old time. "she wouldn't," says the professor. "and never mind that. come back to the question. i say she will never go back to her aunt." he looks anxiously at hardinge. one can see that he would part with a good deal of honest coin of the realm, if his companion would only _not_ agree with him. "it looks like it," said hardinge, who is rather enjoying himself. "by jove! what a thing to happen to _you_, curzon, of all men in the world. what are you going to do, eh?" "it isn't so much that," says the professor faintly. "it is what is _she_ going to do?" "_next!_" supplements hardinge. "quite so! it would be a clever fellow who would answer that, straight off. i say, curzon, what a pretty girl she is, though. pretty isn't the word. lovely, i----" the professor gets up suddenly. "not that," says he, raising his hand in his gentle fashion--that has now something of haste in it. "it--i--you know what i mean, hardinge. to discuss her--herself, i mean--and here----" "yes. you are right," says hardinge slowly, with, however, an irrepressible stare at the professor. it is a prolonged stare. he is very fond of curzon, though knowing absolutely nothing about him beyond the fact that he is eminently likeable; and it now strikes him as strange that this silent, awkward, ill-dressed, clever man should be the one to teach him how to behave himself. who _is_ curzon? given a better tailor, and a worse brain, he might be a reasonable-looking fellow enough, and not so old either--forty, perhaps--perhaps less. "have you no relation to whom you could send her?" he says at length, that sudden curiosity as to who curzon may be prompting the question. "some old lady? an aunt, for example?" "she doesn't seem to like aunts" says the professor, with deep dejection. "small blame to her," says, hardinge, smoking vigorously. "_i've_ an aunt--but 'that's another story!' well--haven't you a cousin then?--or something?" "i have a sister," says the professor slowly. "married?" "a widow." ("fusty old person, out somewhere in the wilds of finchley," says hardinge to himself. "poor little girl--she won't fancy that either!") "why not send her to your sister then?" says he aloud. "i'm not sure that she would like to have her," says the professor, with hesitation. "i confess i have been thinking it over for some days, but----" "but perhaps the fact of your ward's being an heiress----" begins hardinge--throwing out a suggestion as it were--but is checked by something in the professor's face. "my sister is the countess of baring," says he gently. hardinge's first thought is that the professor has gone out of his mind, and his second that he himself has accomplished that deed. he leans across the table. surprise has deprived him of his usual good manners. "lady baring!--_your_ sister!" says he. chapter ix. "your face, my thane, is as a book, where men may read strange matters." "i see no reason why she shouldn't be," says the professor calmly--is there a faint suspicion of hauteur in his tone? "as we are on the subject of myself, i may as well tell you that my brother is sir hastings curzon, of whom"--he turns back as if to take up some imaginary article from the floor--"you may have heard." "sir hastings!" mr. hardinge leans back in his chair and gives way to thought. this quiet, hard-working student--this man whom he had counted as a nobody--the brother of that disreputable hastings curzon! "as good as got the baronetcy," says he still thinking. "at the rate sir hastings is going he can't possibly last for another twelvemonth, and here is this fellow living in these dismal lodgings with twenty thousand a year before his eyes. a lucky thing for him that the estates are so strictly entailed. good heavens! to think of a man with all that almost in his grasp being _happy_ in a coat that must have been built in the ark, and caring for nothing on earth but the intestines of frogs and such-like abominations." "you seem surprised again," says the professor, somewhat satirically. "i confess it," says hardinge. "i can't see why you should be." "_i_ do," says hardinge drily. "that you," slowly, "_you_ should be sir hastings' brother! why----" "no more!" interrupts the professor sharply. he lifts his hand. "not another word. i know what you are going to say. it is one of my greatest troubles, that i always know what people are going to say when they mention him. let him alone, hardinge." "oh! _i'll_ let him alone," says hardinge, with a gesture of disgust. there is a pause. "you know my sister, then?" says the professor presently. "yes. she is very charming. how is it i have never seen you there?" "at her house?" "at her receptions?" "i have no taste for that sort of thing, and no time. fashionable society bores me. i go and see gwen, on off days and early hours, when i am sure that i shall find her alone. we are friends, you will understand, she and i; capital friends, though sometimes," with a sigh, "she--she seems to disapprove of my mode of living. but we get on very well on the whole. she is a very good girl," says the professor kindly, who always thinks of lady baring as a little girl in short frocks in her nursery--the nursery he had occupied with her. to hear the beautiful, courted, haughty lady baring, who has the best of london at her feet, called "a good girl," so tickles mr. hardinge, that he leans back in his chair and bursts out laughing. "yes?" says the professor, as if asking for an explanation of the joke. "oh! nothing--nothing. only--you are such a queer fellow!" says hardinge, sitting up again to look at him. "you are a _rara avis_, do you know? no, of course you don't! you are one of the few people who don't know their own worth. i don't believe, curzon, though i should live to be a thousand, that i shall ever look upon your like again." "and so you laugh. well, no doubt it is a pleasant reflection," says the professor dismally. "i begin to wish now i had never seen myself." "oh, come! cheer up," says hardinge, "your pretty ward will be all right. if lady baring takes her in hand, she----" "ah! but will she?" says the professor. "will she like per----miss wynter?" "sure to," said hardinge, with quite a touch of enthusiasm. "'to see her is to love her, and love but'----" "that is of no consequence where anyone is concerned except lady baring," says the professor, with a little twist in his chair, "and my sister has not seen her as yet. and besides, that is not the only question--a greater one remains." "by jove! you don't say so! what?" demands mr. hardinge, growing earnest. "will miss wynter like _her_?" says the professor. "that is the real point." "oh! i see!" says hardinge thoughtfully. the next day, however, proves the professor's fears vain in both quarters. an early visit to lady baring, and an anxious appeal, brings out all that delightful woman's best qualities. one stipulation alone she makes, that she may see the young heiress before finally committing herself to chaperone her safely through the remainder of the season. the professor, filled with hope, hies back to his rooms, calls for mrs. mulcahy, tells her he is going to take his ward for a drive, and gives that worthy and now intensely interested landlady full directions to see that miss wynter looks--"er--nice! you know, mrs. mulcahy, her _best_ suit, and----" mrs. mulcahy came generously to the rescue. "her best frock, sir, i suppose, an' her sunday bonnet. i've often wished it before, mr. curzon, an' i'm thinkin' that 'twill be the makin' of ye; an' a handsome, purty little crathur she is an' no mistake. an' who is to give away the poor dear, sir, askin' yer pardon?" "i am," says the professor. "oh no, sir; the likes was never known. 'tis the the father or one of his belongings as gives away the bride, _niver_ the husband to be, 'an if ye _have_ nobody, sir, you two, why i'm sure i'd be proud to act for ye in this matther. faix i don't disguise from ye, misther curzon, dear, that i feels like a mother to that purty child this moment, an' i tell ye _this_, that if ye don't behave dacent to her, ye'll have to answer to mrs. mulcahy for that same." "what d'ye mean, woman?" roars the professor, indignantly. "do you imagine that i----?" "no. i'd belave nothin' bad o' ye," says mrs. mulcahy solemnly. "i've cared ye these six years, an' niver a fault to find. but that child beyant, whin ye take her away to make her yer wife----" "you must be mad," says the professor, a strange, curious pang contracting his heart. "i am not taking her away to----i--i am taking her to my sister, who will receive her as a guest." "mad!" repeats mrs. mulcahy furiously. "who's mad? faix," preparing to leave the room, "'tis yerself was born widout a grain o' sinse!" the meeting between lady baring and perpetua is eminently satisfactory. the latter, looking lovely, but a little frightened, so takes lady baring's artistic soul by storm, that that great lady then and there accepts the situation, and asks perpetua if she will come to her for a week or so. perpetua, charmed in turn by lady baring's grace and beauty and pretty ways, receives the invitation with pleasure, little dreaming that she is there "on view," as it were, and that the invitation is to be prolonged indefinitely--that is, till either she or her hostess tire one of the other. the professor's heart sinks a little as he sees his sister rise and loosen the laces round the girl's pretty, slender throat, begging her to begin to feel at home at once. alas! he has deliberately given up his ward! _his_ ward! is she any longer his? has not the great world claimed her now, and presently will she not belong to it? so lovely, so sweet she is, will not all men run to snatch the prize?--a prize, bejewelled too, not only by nature, but by that gross material charm that men call wealth. well, well, he has done his best for her. there was, indeed, nothing else left to do. chapter x. "the sun is all about the world we see, the breath and strength of very spring; and we live, love, and feed on our own hearts." the lights are burning low in the conservatory, soft perfumes from the many flowers fill the air. from beyond--somewhere--(there is a delicious drowsy uncertainty about the where)--comes the sound of music, soft, rhymical, and sweet. perhaps it is from one of the rooms outside--dimly seen through the green foliage--where the lights are more brilliant, and forms are moving. but just in here there is no music save the tinkling drip, drip of the little fountain that plays idly amongst the ferns. lady baring is at home to-night, and in the big, bare rooms outside dancing is going on, and in the smaller rooms, tiny tragedies and comedies are being enacted by amateurs, who, oh, wondrous tale! do know their parts and speak them, albeit no stage "proper" has been prepared for them. perhaps that is why stage-fright is not for them--a stage as big as "all the world" leaves actors very free. but in here--here, with the dainty flowers and dripping fountains, there is surely no thought of comedy or tragedy. only a little girl gowned all in white, with snowy arms and neck, and diamonds gittering in the soft masses of her waving hair. a happy little girl, to judge by the soft smile upon her lovely lips, and the gleam in her dark eyes. leaning back in her seat in the dim, cool recesses of the conservatory, amongst the flowers and the greeneries, she looks like a little nymph in love with the silence and the sense of rest that the hour holds. it is broken, however. "i am so sorry you are not dancing," says her companion, leaning towards her. his regret is evidently genuine, indeed, to hardinge the evening is an ill-spent one that precludes his dancing with perpetua wynter. "yes?" she looks up at him from her low lounge amongst the palms. "well, so am i, do you know!" telling the truth openly, yet with an evident sense of shame. "but i don't dance now because--it is selfish, isn't it?--because i should be so unhappy afterwards if i _did_!" "a perfect reason," says hardinge very earnestly. he is still leaning towards her, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on hers. it is an intent gaze that seldom wanders, and in truth why should it? where is any other thing as good to look at as this small, fair creature, with the eyes, and the hair, and the lips that belong to her? he has taken possession of her fan, and gently, lovingly, as though indeed it is part of her, is holding it, raising it sometimes to sweep the feathers of it across his lips. "do you think so?" says she, as if a little puzzled. "well, i confess i don't like the moments when i hate myself. we all hate ourselves sometimes, don't we?" looking at him as if doubtfully, "or is it only i myself, who----" "oh, no!" says hardinge. "_all!_ all of us detest ourselves now and again, or at least we think we do. it comes to the same thing, but you--you have no cause." "i should have if i danced," says she, "and i couldn't bear the after reproach, so i don't do it." "and yet--yet you would _like_ to dance?" "i don't know----" she hesitates, and suddenly looks up at him with eyes as full of sorrow as of mirth. "at all events i know _this_," says she, "that i wish the band would not play such nice waltzes!" hardinge gives way to laughter, and presently she laughs too, but softly, and as if afraid of being heard, and as if too a little ashamed of herself. her color rises, a delicate warm color that renders her absolutely adorable. "shall i order them to stop?" asks hardinge, laughing still, yet with something in his gaze that tells her he _would_ forbid them to play if he could, if only to humor her. "no!" says she, "and after all,"--philosophically--"enjoyment is only a name." "that's all!" says hardinge, smiling. "but a very good one." "let us forget it," with a little sigh, "and talk of something else, something pleasanter." "than enjoyment?" she gives way to his mood and laughs afresh. "ah! you have me there!" says she. "i have not, indeed," he returns, quietly and with meaning. "neither there, nor anywhere." he gets up suddenly, and going to her, bends over the chair on which she is sitting. "we were talking of what?" asks she, with admirable courage, "of names, was it not? an endless subject. _my_ name now? an absurd one surely. perpetua! i don't like perpetua, do you?" she is evidently talking at random. "i do indeed!" says hardinge, promptly and fervently. his tone accentuates his meaning. "oh, but so harsh, so unusual!" "unusual! that in itself constitutes a charm." "i was going to add, however--disagreeable." "not that--never that," says hardinge. "you mean to say you really _like_ perpetua?" her large soft eyes opening with amazement. "it is a poor word," says he, his tone now very low. "if i dared say that i _adored_ 'perpetua,' i should be----" "oh, you laugh at me," interrupts she with a little impatient gesture, "you _know_ how crude, how strange, how----" "i don't indeed. why should you malign yourself like that? you--_you_--who are----" he stops short, driven to silence by a look in the girl's eyes. "what have _i_ to do with it? i did not christen myself," says she. there is perhaps a suspicion of hauteur in her tone. "i am talking to you about my _name_. you understand that, don't you?"--the hauteur increasing. "do you know, of late i have often wished i was somebody else, because then i should have had a different one." hardinge, at this point, valiantly refrains from a threadbare quotation. perhaps he is too far crushed to be able to remember it. "still it is charming," says he, somewhat confusedly. "it is absurd," says perpetua coldly. there is evidently no pity in her. and alas! when we think what _that_ sweet feeling is akin to, on the highest authority, one's hopes for hardinge fall low. he loses his head a little. "not so absurd as your guardian's, however," says he, feeling the necessity for saying something without the power to manufacture it. "mr. curzon's? what is his name?" asks she, rising out of her lounging position and looking, for the first time, interested. "thaddeus." perpetua, after a prolonged stare, laughs a little. "what a name!" says she. "worse than mine. and yet," still laughing, "it suits him, i think." hardinge laughs with her. not _at_ his friend, but _with_ her. it seems clear to him that perpetua is making gentle fun of her guardian, and though his conscience smites him for encouraging her in her naughtiness, still he cannot refrain. "he is an awfully good old fellow," says he, throwing a sop to his cerberus. "is he?" says perpetua, as if even _more_ amused. she looks up at him, and then down again, and trifles with the fan she has taken back from him, and finally laughs again; something in her laugh this time, however, puzzles him. "you don't like him?" hazards he. "after all, i suppose it is hardly natural that a ward _should_ like her guardian." "yes? and _why_?" asks perpetua, still smiling, still apparently amused. "for one thing, the sense of restraint that belongs to the relations between them. a guardian, you know, would be able to control one in a measure." "would he?" "well, i imagine so. it is traditionary. and you?" "i don't know about _other_ people," says miss wynter, calmly, "i know only this, that nobody ever yet controlled _me_, and i don't suppose now that anybody ever will." as she says this she looks at him with the prettiest smile; it is a mixture of amusement and defiance. hardinge, gazing at her, draws conclusions. ("perfectly _hates_ him," decides he.) it seems to him a shame, and a pity too, but after all, old curzon was hardly meant by nature to do the paternal to a strange and distinctly spoilt child, and a beauty into the bargain. "i don't think your guardian will have a good time," says he, bending over her confidentially, on the strength of this decision of his. "don't you?" she draws back from him and looks up. "you think i shall lead him a very bad life?" "well, as _he_ would regard it. not as i should," with a sudden, impassioned glance. miss wynter puts that glance behind her, and perhaps there is something--something a little dangerous in the soft, _soft_ look she now turns upon him. "he thinks so, too, of course?" says she, ever so gently. her tone is half a question, half an assertion. it is manifestly unfair, the whole thing. hardinge, believing in her tone, her smile, falls into the trap. mindful of that night when the professor in despair at her untimely descent upon him, had said many things unmeant, he answers her. "hardly that. but----" "go on." "there was a little word or two, you know," laughing. "a hint?" laughing too, but how strangely! "yes? and----?" "oh! a _mere_ hint! the professor is too loyal to go beyond that. i suppose you know you have the best man in all the world for your guardian? but it was a little unkind of your people, was it not, to give you into the keeping of a confirmed bookworm--a savant--with scarcely a thought beyond his studies?" "he could study me!" says she. "i should be a fresh specimen." "a _rara avis_, indeed! but not such as the professor's soul covets. no, believe me, you are as dust before the wind in his learned eye." "you think then--that i--am a trouble to him?" "it is inconceivable," says he, with a shrug of apology, "but he has no room in his daily thoughts, i verily believe, for anything beyond his beloved books, and notes, and discoveries." "yet _i_ am a discovery," persists she, looking at him with anxious eyes, and leaning forward, whilst her fan falls idly on her knees. "ah! but so unpardonably _recent_!" returns he with a smile. "true!" says she. she gives him one swift brilliant glance, and then suddenly grows restless. "how _warm_ it is!" she says fretfully. "i wish----" what she was going to say, will never now be known. the approach of a tall, gaunt figure through the hanging oriental curtains at the end of the conservatory checks her speech. sir hastings curzon is indeed taller than most men, and is, besides, a man hardly to be mistaken again when once seen. perpetua has seen him very frequently of late. chapter xi. "but all was false and hollow; though his tongue dropped manna, and could make the worse appear the better reason, to perplex and dash maturest counsels." "shall i take you to lady baring?" says hardinge, quickly, rising and bending as if to offer her his arm. "no, thank you," coldly. "i think," anxiously, "you once told me you did not care for sir----" "did i? it seems quite terrible the amount of things i have told everybody." there is a distinct flash in her lovely eyes now, and her small hand has tightened round her fan. "sometimes--i talk folly! as a fact" (with a touch of defiance), "i like sir hastings, although he _is_ my guardian's brother!--my guardian who would so gladly get rid of me." there is bitterness on the young, red mouth. "you should not look at it in that light." "should i not? you should be the last to say that, seeing that you were the one to show me how to regard it. besides, you forget sir hastings is lady baring's brother too, and--you haven't anything to say against _her_, have you? ah!" with a sudden lovely smile, "you, sir hastings?" "you are not dancing," says the tall, gaunt man, who has now come up to her. "so much i have seen. too warm? eh? you show reason, i think. and yet, if i might dare to hope that you would give me this waltz----" "no, no," says she, still with her most charming air. "i am not dancing to-night. i shall not dance this year." "that is a median law, no doubt," says he. "if you will not dance with me, then may i hope that you will give me the few too short moments that this waltz may contain?" hardinge makes a vague movement but an impetuous one. if the girl had realized the fact of his love for her, she might have been touched and influenced by it, but as it is she feels only a sense of anger towards him. anger unplaced, undefined, yet nevertheless intense. "with pleasure," says she to sir hastings, smiling at him almost across hardinge's outstretched hand. the latter draws back. "you dismiss me?" says he, with a careful smile. he bows to her--he is gone. "a well-meaning young man," says sir hastings, following hardinge's retreating figure with a delightfully lenient smile. "good-looking too; but earnest. have you noticed it? entirely well-bred, but just a little earnest! _such_ a mistake!" "i don't think that," says perpetua. "to be earnest! one _should_ be earnest." "should one?" sir hastings looks delighted expectation. "tell me about it," says he. "there is nothing to tell," says perpetua, a little petulantly perhaps. this tall, thin man! what a _bore_ he is! and yet, the other--mr. hardinge--well _he_ was worse; he was a _fool_, anyway; he didn't understand the professor one bit! "i like mr. hardinge," says she suddenly. "happy hardinge! but little girls like you are good to everyone, are you not? that is what makes you so lovely. you could be good to even a scapegrace, eh? a poor, sad outcast like me?" he laughs and leans towards her, his handsome, dissipated, abominable face close to hers. involuntarily she recoils. "i hope everyone is good to you," says she. "why should they not be? and why do you call yourself an outcast? only bad people are outcasts. and bad people," slowly, "are not known, are they?" "certainly not," says he, disconcerted. this little girl from a far land is proving herself too much for him. and it is not her words that disconcert him so much as the straight, clear, open glance from her thoughtful eyes. to turn the conversation into another channel seems desirable to him. "i hope you are happy here with my sister," says he, in his anything but everyday tone. "quite happy, thank you. but i should have been happier still, i think, if i had been allowed to stay with your brother." sir hastings drops his glasses. good heavens! what kind of a girl is this! "to stay with my brother! to _stay_," stammers he. "yes. he _is_ your brother, isn't he? the professor, i mean. i should quite have enjoyed living with him, but he wouldn't hear of it. he--he doesn't like me, i'm afraid?" perpetua looks at him anxiously. a little hope that he will contradict hardinge's statement animates her mind. to feel herself a burden to her guardian--to anyone--she, who in the old home had been nothing less than an idol! surely sir hastings, his own brother, will say something, will tell her something to ease this chagrin at her heart. "who told you that?" asks sir hastings. "did he himself? i shouldn't put it beyond him. he is a misogynist; a mere bookworm! of no account. do not waste a thought on him." "you mean----?" "that he detests the best part of life--that he has deliberately turned his back on all that makes our existence here worth the having. i should call him a fool, but that one so dislikes having an imbecile in one's family." "the best part of life! you say he has turned his back on that." she lets her hands fall upon her knees, and turns a frowning, perplexed, but always lovely face to his. "what is it," asks she, "that best part?" "women!" returns he, slowly, undauntedly, in spite of the innocence, the serenity, that shines in the young and exquisite face before him. her eyes do not fall before his. she is plainly thinking. yes; mr. hardinge was right, he will never like her. she is only a stay, a hindrance to him! "i understand," says she sorrowfully. "he will not care--_ever_. i shall be always a trouble to him. he----" "why think of him?" says sir hastings contemptuously. he leans towards her: fired by her beauty, that is now enhanced by the regret that lies upon her pretty lips, he determines on pushing his cause at once. "if _he_ cannot appreciate you, others can--_i_ can. i----" he pauses; for the first time in his life, on such an occasion as this, he is conscious of a feeling of awkwardness. to tell a woman he loves her has been the simplest thing in the world hitherto, but now, when at last he is in earnest--when poverty has driven him to seek marriage with an heiress as a cure for all his ills--he finds himself tongue-tied; and not only by the importance of the situation, so far as money goes, but by the clear, calm, waiting eyes of perpetua. "yes?" says she; and then suddenly, as if not caring for the answer she has demanded. "you mean that he----you, _too_, think that he dislikes me?" there is woe in the pale, small, lovely face. "very probably. he was always eccentric. perfect nuisance at home. none of us could understand him. i shouldn't in the least wonder if he had taken a rooted aversion to you, and taken it badly too! miss wynter! it quite distresses me to think that it should be _my_ brother, of all men, who has failed to see your charm. a charm that----" he pauses effectively, to let his really fine eyes have some play. the conservatory is sufficiently dark to disguise the ravages that dissipation has made upon his handsome features. he can see that perpetua is regarding him earnestly, and with evident interest. already he regards his cause as won. it is plain that the girl is attracted by his face, as indeed she is! she is at this moment asking herself, who is it he is like? "you were saying?" says she dreamily. "that the charm you possess, though of no value in the eyes of your guardian, is, to _me_, indescribably attractive. in fact--i----" a second pause, meant to be even more effective. perpetua turns her gaze more directly upon him. it occurs to her that he is singularly dull, poor man. "go on," says she. she nods her head at him with much encouragement. her encouragement falls short. sir hastings, who had looked for girlish confusion, is somewhat disconcerted by this open patronage. "may i?" says he--"you _permit_ me then to tell you what i have so longed, feared to disclose. i"--dramatically--"_love you_!" he is standing over her, his hand on the back of her chair, waiting for the swift blush, the tremor, the usual signs that follow on one of his declarations. alas! there is no blush now, no tremor, no sign at all. "that is very good of you," says perpetua, in an even tone. she moves a little away from him, but otherwise shows no emotion whatever. "the more so, in that it must be so difficult for you to love a person in fourteen days! ah! that is kind, indeed." a curious light comes into sir hastings' eyes. this little australian girl, is she _laughing_ at him? but the fact is that perpetua is hardly thinking of him at all, or merely as a shadow to her thoughts. who _is_ he like? that is the burden of her inward song. at this moment she knows. she lifts her head to see the professor standing in the curtained doorway down below. ah! yes, that is it! and, indeed, the resemblance between the two brothers is wonderfully strong at this instant! in the eyes of both a quick fire is kindled. chapter xii. "love, like a june rose, buds and sweetly blows- but tears its leaves disclose, and among thorns it grows." the professor had been standing inside the curtain for a full minute before perpetua had seen him. spell-bound he had stood there, gazing at the girl as if bewitched. up to this he had seen her only in black--black always--severe, cold--but _now_! it is to him as though he had seen her for the first time. the graceful curves of her neck, her snowy arms, the dead white of the gown against the whiter glory of the soft bosom, the large, dark eyes so full of feeling, the little dainty head! are they _all_ new--or some sweet, fresher memory of a picture well beloved? then he had seen his brother!--hastings--the disgrace, the _roué_ ... and bending over _her_!... there had been that little movement, and the girl's calm drawing back, and---the professor's step forward at that moment had betrayed him to perpetua. she rises now, letting her fan fall without thought to the ground. "you!" cries she, in a little, soft, quick way. "_you!_" indeed it seems to her impossible that it can be he. she almost runs to him. if she had quite understood sir hastings is impossible to know, for no one has ever asked her since, but certainly the advent of her guardian is a relief to her. "you!" she says again, as if only half believing. her gaze grows bewildered. if he had never seen her in anything but black before, she had never seen him in ought but rather antiquated morning clothes. is this really the professor? her eyes ask the question anxiously. this tall, aristocratic, perfectly-appointed man; this man who looks positively _young_. where are the glasses that until now hid his eyes? where is that old, old coat? "yes." yes, the professor certainly and as disagreeable as possible. his eyes are still aflame; but perpetua is not afraid of him. she is angry with him, in a measure, but not afraid. one _might_ be afraid of sir hastings, but of mr. curzon, no! the professor had seen the glad rush of the girl towards him, and a terrible pang of delight had run through all his veins--to be followed by a reaction. she had come to him because she _wanted_ him, because he might be of use to her, not because.... what had hastings been saying to her? his wrathful eyes are on his brother rather than on her when he says: "you are tired?" "yes," says perpetua. "shall i take you to gwendoline?" "yes," says perpetua again. "miss wynter is in my care at present," says sir hastings, coming indolently forward. "shall i take you to lady baring?" asks he, addressing perpetua with a suave smile. "she will come with me," says the professor, with cold decision. "a command!" says sir hastings, laughing lightly. "see what it is, miss wynter, to have a hard-hearted guardian." he shrugs his shoulders. perpetua makes him a little bow, and follows the professor out of the conservatory. "if you are tired," says the professor, somewhat curtly, and without looking at her, "i should think the best thing you could do would be to go to bed!" this astounding advice receives but little favor at miss wynter's hands. "i am tired of your brother," says she promptly. "he is as tiresome a creation as i know--but not of your sister's party; and--i'm too old to be sent to bed, even by a _guardian_!!" she puts a very big capital to the last word. "i don't want to send you to bed," says the professor simply. "though i think little girls like you----" "i am not a little girl," indignantly. "certainly you are not a big one," says he. it is an untimely remark. miss wynter's hitherto ill-subdued anger now bursts into flame. "i can't help it if i'm not big," cries she. "it isn't my fault. i can't help it either that papa sent me to you. _i_ didn't want to go to you. it wasn't my fault that i was thrown upon your hands. and--and"--her voice begins to tremble--"it isn't my fault either that you _hate_ me." "that i--hate you!" the professor's voice is cold and shocked. "yes. it is true. you need not deny it. you _know_ you hate me." they are now in an angle of the hall where few people come and go, and are, for the moment, virtually alone. "who told you that i hated you?" asks the professor in a peremptory sort of way. "no," says she, shaking her head, "i shall not tell you that, but i have heard it all the same." "one hears a great many things if one is foolish enough to listen," curzon's face is a little pale now. "and--i can guess who has been talking to you." "why should i not listen? it is true, is it not?" she looks up at him. she seems tremulously anxious for the answer. "you want me to deny it then?" "oh, no, _no_!" she throws out one hand with a little gesture of mingled anger and regret. "do you think i want you to _lie_ to me? there i am wrong. after all," with a half smile, sadder than most sad smiles because of the youth and sweetness of it, "i do not blame you. i _am_ a trouble, i suppose, and all troubles are hateful. i"--holding out her hand--"shall take your advice, i think, and go to bed." "it was bad advice," says curzon, taking the hand and holding it. "stay up, enjoy yourself, dance----" "oh! i am not dancing," says she as if offended. "why not?" eagerly, "better dance than sleep at your age. you--you mistook me. why go so soon?" she looks at him with a little whimsical expression. "i shall not know you _at all_, presently," says she. "your very appearance to-night is strange to me, and now your sentiments! no, i shall not be swayed by you. good-night, good-bye!" she smiles at him in the same sorrowful little way, and takes a step or two forward. "perpetua," says the professor sternly, "before you go you must listen to me. you said just now you would not hear me lie to you--you shall hear only the truth. whoever told you that i hated you is the most unmitigated liar on record!" perpetua rubs her fan up and down against her cheek for a little bit. "well--i'm glad you don't hate me," says she, "but still i'm a worry. never mind,"--sighing--"i daresay i shan't be so for long." "you mean?" asks the professor anxiously. "nothing--nothing at all. good-night. good-night, _indeed_." "must you go? is enjoyment nothing to you?" "ah! you have killed all that for me," says she. this parting shaft she hurls at him--_malice prepense_. it is effectual. by it she murders sleep as thoroughly as ever did macbeth. the professor spends the remainder of the night pacing up and down his rooms. chapter xiii. "through thick and thin, both over bank and bush, in hopes her to attain by hook or crook. "you will begin to think me a fixture," says hardinge with a somewhat embarrassed laugh, flinging himself into an armchair. "you know you are always welcome," says the professor gently, if somewhat absently. it is next morning, and he looks decidedly the worse for his sleeplessness. his face seems really old, his eyes are sunk in his head. the breakfast lying untouched upon the table tells its own tale. "dissipation doesn't agree with you," says hardinge with a faint smile. "no. i shall give it up," returns curzon, his laugh a trifle grim. "i was never more surprised in my life than when i saw you at your sister's last evening. i was relieved, too--sometimes it is necessary for a man to go out, and--and see how things are going on with his own eyes." "i wonder when that would be?" asks the professor indifferently. "when a man is a guardian," replies hardinge promptly, and with evident meaning. the professor glances quickly at him. "you mean----?" says he. "oh! yes, of course i mean something," says hardinge impatiently. "but i don't suppose you want me to explain myself. you were there last night--you must have seen for yourself." "seen what?" "pshaw!" says hardinge, throwing up his head, and flinging his cigarette into the empty fireplace. "i saw you go into the conservatory. you found her there, and--_him_. it is beginning to be the chief topic of conversation amongst his friends just now. the betting is already pretty free." "go on," says the professor. "i needn't go on. you know it now, if you didn't before." "it is you who know it--not i. _say it!_" says the professor, almost fiercely. "it is about her?" "your ward? yes. your brother it seems has made his mind to bestow upon her his hand, his few remaining acres, and," with a sneer, "his spotless reputation." "_hardinge!_" cries the professor, springing to his feet as if shot. he is evidently violently agitated. his companion mistakes the nature of his excitement. "forgive me!" says he quickly. "of course _nothing_ can excuse my speaking of him like that--to you. but i feel you ought to be told. miss wynter is in your care, you are in a measure responsible for her future happiness--the happiness of her whole _life_, curzon--and if anything goes wrong with her----" the professor puts up his hand as if to check him. he has grown ashen-grey, and the other hand resting on the back of the chair is visibly trembling. "nothing shall go wrong with her," says he, in a curious tone. hardinge regards him keenly. is this pallor, this unmistakable trepidation, caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's real character exposed. "well, i have told you," says he coldly. "it is a mistake," says the professor. "he would not dare to approach a young, innocent girl. the most honorable proposal such a man as he could make to her would be basely dishonorable." "ah! you see it in that light too," says hardinge, with a touch of relief. "my dear fellow, it is hard for me to discuss him with you, but yet i fear it must be done. did you notice nothing in his manner last night?" yes, the professor _had_ noticed something. now there comes back to him that tall figure stooping over perpetua, the handsome, leering face bent low--the girl's instinctive withdrawal. "something must be done," says he. "yes. and quickly. young girls are sometimes dazzled by men of his sort. and per--miss wynter ... look here, curzon," breaking off hurriedly. "this is _your_ affair, you know. you are her guardian. you should see to it." "i could speak to her." "that would be fatal. she is just the sort of girl to say 'yes' to him because she was told to say 'no.'" "you seem to have studied her," says the professor quietly. "well, i confess i have seen a good deal of her of late." "and to some purpose. your knowledge of her should lead you to making a way out of this difficulty." "i have thought of one," says hardinge boldly, yet with a quick flush. "you are her guardian. why not arrange another marriage for her, before this affair with sir hastings goes too far." "there are two parties to a marriage," says the professor, his tone always very low. "who is it to whom you propose to marry miss wynter?" hardinge, getting up, moves abruptly to the window and back again. "you have known me a long time, curzon," says he at last. "you--you have been my friend. i have family--position--money--i----" "i am to understand, then, that _you_ are a candidate for the hand of my ward," says the professor slowly, so slowly that it might suggest itself to a disinterested listener that he has great difficulty in speaking at all. "yes," says hardinge, very diffidently. he looks appealingly at the professor. "i know perfectly well she might do a great deal better," says he, with a modesty that sits very charmingly upon him. "but if it comes to a choice between me and your brother, i--i think i am the better man. by jove, curzon," growing hot, "it's awfully rude of me, i know, but it is so hard to remember that he _is_ your brother." but the professor does not seem offended. he seems, indeed, so entirely unimpressed by hardinge's last remark, that it may reasonably be supposed he hasn't heard a word of it. "and she?" says he. "perpetua. does she----" he hesitates as if finding it impossible to go on. "oh! i don't know," says the younger man, with a rather rueful smile. "sometimes i think she doesn't care for me more than she does for the veriest stranger amongst her acquaintances, and sometimes----" expressive pause. "yes? sometimes?" "she has seemed kind." "kind? how kind?" "well--friendly. more friendly than she is to others. last night she let me sit out three waltzes with her, and, she only sat out one with your brother." "is it?" asks the professor, in a dull, monotonous sort of way. "is it--i am not much in your or her world, you know--is it a very marked thing for a girl to sit out three waltzes with one man?" "oh, no. nothing very special. i have known girls do it often, but she is not like other girls, is she?" the professor waves this question aside. "keep to the point," says he. "well, _she_ is the point, isn't she? and look here, curzon, why aren't you of our world? it is your own fault surely; when one sees your sister, your brother, and--and _this_," with a slight glance round the dull little apartment, "one cannot help wondering why you----" "let that go by," says the professor. "i have explained it before. i deliberately chose my own way in life, and i want nothing more than i have. you think, then, that last night miss wynter gave you--encouragement?" "oh! hardly that. and yet--she certainly seemed to like--that is not to _dislike_ my being with her: and once--well,"--confusedly--"that was nothing." "it must have been something." "no, really; and i shouldn't have mentioned it either--not for a moment." the professor's face changes. the apathy that has lain upon it for the past five minutes now gives way to a touch of fierce despair. he turns aside, as if to hide the tell-tale features, and going to the window, gazes sightlessly on the hot, sunny street below. what was it--_what_? shall he ever have the courage to find out? and is this to be the end of it all? in a flash the coming of the girl is present before him, and now, here is her going. had she--had she--what _was_ it he meant? no wonder if her girlish fancy had fixed itself on this tall, handsome, young man, with his kindly, merry ways and honest meaning. ah! that was what she meant perhaps when last night she had told him "she would not be a worry to him _long_." yes, she had meant that; that she was going to marry hardinge! but to _know_ what hardinge means! a torturing vision of a little lovely figure, gowned all in white--of a little lovely face uplifted--of another face down bent! no! a thousand times, no! hardinge would not speak of that--it would be too sacred; and yet this awful doubt---"look here. i'll tell you," says hardinge's voice at this moment. "after all, you are her guardian--her father almost--though i know you scarcely relish your position; and you ought to know about it, and perhaps you can give me your opinion, too, as to whether there was anything in it, you know. the fact is, i,"--rather shamefacedly--"asked her for a flower out of her bouquet, and she gave it. that was all, and," hurriedly, "i don't really believe she meant anything _by_ giving it, only," with a nervous laugh, "i keep hoping she _did_!" a long, long sigh comes through the professor's lips straight from his heart. only a flower she gave him! well---"what do _you_ think?" asks hardinge after a long pause. "it is a matter on which i could not think." "but there is this," says hardinge. "you will forward my cause rather than your brother's, will you not? this is an extraordinary demand to make i know--but--i also know _you_." "i would rather see her dead than married to my brother," says the professor, slowly, distinctly. "and----?" questions hardinge. the professor hesitates a moment, and then: "what do you want me to do?" asks he. "do? 'say a good word for me' to her; that is the old way of putting it, isn't it? and it expresses all i mean. she reveres you, even if----" "if what?" "she revolts from your power over her. she is high-spirited, you know," says hardinge. "that is one of her charms, in my opinion. what i want you to do, curzon, is to--to see her at once--not to-day, she is going to an afternoon at lady swanley's--but to-morrow, and to--you know,"--nervously--"to make a formal proposal to her." the professor throws back his head and laughs aloud. such a strange laugh. "i am to propose to her--i?" says he. "for me, of course. it is very usual," says hardinge. "and you are her guardian, you know, and----" "why not propose to her yourself?" says the professor, turning violently upon him. "why give me this terrible task? are you a coward, that you shrink from learning your fate except at the hands of another--another who----" "to tell you the truth, that is it," interrupts hardinge, simply. "i don't wonder at your indignation, but the fact is, i love her so much, that i fear to put it to the touch myself. you _will_ help me, won't you? you see, you stand in the place of her father, curzon. if you were her father, i should be saying to you just what i am saying now." "true," says the professor. his head is lowered. "there, go," says he, "i must think this over." "but i may depend upon you"--anxiously--"you will do what you can for me?" "i shall do what i can for _her_." chapter xiv. "now, by a two-headed janus, nature hath framed strange fellows in her time." hardinge is hardly gone before another--a far heavier--step sounds in the passage outside the professor's door. it is followed by a knock, almost insolent in its loudness and sharpness. "what a hole you do live in," says sir hastings, stepping into the room, and picking his way through the books and furniture as if afraid of being tainted by them. "bless me! what strange beings you scientists are. rags and bones your surroundings, instead of good flesh and blood. well, thaddeus--hardly expected to see _me_ here, eh?" "you want me?" says the professor. "don't sit down there--those notes are loose; sit here." "faith, you've guessed it, my dear fellow, i _do_ want you, and most confoundedly badly this time. your ward, now, miss wynter! deuced pretty little girl, isn't she, and good form too? wonderfully bred--considering." "i don't suppose you have come here to talk about miss wynter's good manners." "by jove! i have though. you see, thaddeus, i've about come to the length of my tether, and--er--i'm thinking of turning over a new leaf--reforming, you know--settling down--going in for dulness--domesticity, and all the other deuced lot of it." "it is an excellent resolution, that might have been arrived at years ago with greater merit," says the professor. "a preacher and a scientist in one! dear sir, you go beyond the possible," says sir hastings, with a shrug. "but to business. see here, thaddeus. i have told you a little of my plans, now hear the rest. i intend to marry--an heiress, _bien entendu_--and it seems to me that your ward, miss wynter, will suit me well enough." "and miss wynter, will you suit _her_ well enough?" "a deuced sight too well, i should say. why, the girl is of no family to signify, whereas the curzons----it will be a better match for her than in her wildest dreams she could have hoped for." "perhaps, in her wildest dreams, she hoped for a good man, and one who could honestly love her." "pouf! you are hardly up to date, my dear fellow. girls, now-a-days, are wise enough to know they can't have everything, and she will get a good deal. title, position----i say, thaddeus, what i want of you is to--er--to help me in this matter--to--crack me up a bit, eh?--to--_you_ know." the professor is silent, more through disgust than want of anything to say. staring at the man before him, he knows he is loathsome to him--loathsome, and his own brother! this man, who with some of the best blood of england in his veins, is so far, far below the standard that marks the gentleman. surely vice is degrading in more ways than one. to the professor, sir hastings, with his handsome, dissipated face, stands out, tawdry, hideous, vulgar--why, every word he says is tinged with coarseness; and yet, what a pretty boy he used to be, with his soft, sunny hair and laughing eyes---"you will help me, eh?" persists sir hastings, with his little dry chronic cough, that seems to shake his whole frame. "impossible," says the professor, simply, coldly. "_no?_ why?" the professor looks at him (a penetrating glance), but says nothing. "oh! damn it all!" says his brother, his brow darkening. "you had _better_, you know, if you want the old name kept above water much longer." "you mean----?" says the professor, turning a grave face to his. "nothing but what is honorable. i tell you i mean to turn over a new leaf. 'pon my soul, i mean _that_. i'm sick of all this old racket, it's killing me. and my title is as good a one as she can find anywhere, and if i'm dipped--rather--her money would pull me straight again, and----" he pauses, struck by something in the professor's face. "you mean----?" says the latter again, even more slowly. his eyes are beginning to light. "exactly what i have said," sullenly. "you have heard me." "yes, i _have_ heard you," cries the professor, flinging aside all restraints and giving way to sudden violent passion--the more violent, coming from one so usually calm and indifferent. "you have come here to-day to try and get possession, not only of the fortune of a young and innocent girl, but of her body and _soul_ as well! and it is me, _me_ whom you ask to be a party to this shameful transaction. her dead father left her to my care, and i am to sell her to you, that her money may redeem our name from the slough into which _you_ have flung it? is innocence to be sacrificed that vice may ride abroad again? look here," says the professor, his face deadly white, "you have come to the wrong man. i shall warn miss wynter against marriage with _you_, as long as there is breath left in my body." sir hastings has risen too; _his_ face is dark red; the crimson flood has reached his forehead and dyed it almost black. now, at this terrible moment, the likeness between the two brothers, so different in spirit, can be seen; the flashing-eyes, the scornful lips, the deadly hatred. it is a shocking likeness, yet not to be denied. "what do _you_ mean, damn you?" says sir hastings; he sways a little, as if his passion is overpowering him, and clutches feebly at the edge of the table. "exactly what _i_ have said," retorts the professor, fiercely. "you refuse then to go with me in this matter?" "_finally._ even if i would, i could not. i--have other views for her." "indeed! perhaps those other views include yourself. are you thinking of reserving the prize for your own special benefit? a penniless guardian--a rich ward; as a situation, it is perfect; full of possibilities." "take care," says the professor, advancing a step or two. "tut! do you think i can't see through your game?" says sir hastings, in his most offensive way, which is nasty indeed. "you hope to keep me unmarried. you tell yourself, i can't live much longer, at the pace i'm going. i know the old jargon--i have it by heart--given a year at the most the title and the heiress will both be yours! i can read you--i--" he breaks off to laugh sardonically, and the cough catching him, shakes him horribly. "but, no, by heaven!" cries he. "i'll destroy your hopes yet. i'll disappoint you. i'll marry. i'm a young man yet--yet--with life--_long_ life before me--life----" a terrible change comes over his face, he reels backwards, only saving himself by a blind clinging to a book-case on his right. the professor rushes to him and places his arm round him. with his foot he drags a chair nearer, into which sir hastings falls with a heavy groan. it is only a momentary attack, however; in a little while the leaden hue clears away, and, though still ghastly, his face looks more natural. "brandy," gasps he faintly. the professor holds it to his lips, and after a minute or two he revives sufficiently to be able to sit up and look round him. "thought you had got rid of me for good and all," says he, with a malicious grin, terrible to see on his white, drawn face. "but i'll beat you yet! there!--call my fellow--he's below. can't get about without a damned attendant in the morning, now. but i'll cure all that. i'll see you dead before i go to my own grave. i----" "take your master to his carriage," says the professor to the man, who is now on the threshold. the maunderings of sir hastings--still hardly recovered from his late fit--strike horribly upon his ear, rendering him almost faint. chapter xv. my love is like the sky, as distant and as high; perchance she's fair and kind and bright, perchance she's stormy--tearful quite- alas! i scarce know why." it is late in the day when the professor enters lady baring's house. he had determined not to wait till the morrow to see perpetua. it seemed to him that it would be impossible to go through another sleepless night, with this raging doubt, this cruel uncertainty in his heart. he finds her in the library, the soft light of the dying evening falling on her little slender figure. she is sitting in a big armchair, all in black--as he best knows her--with a book upon her knee. she looks charming, and fresh as a new-born flower. evidently neither last night's party nor to-day's afternoon have had power to dim her beauty. sleep had visited _her_ last night, at all events. she springs out of her chair, and throws her book on the table near her. "why, you are the very last person i expected," says she. "no doubt," says the professor. who was the _first_ person she has expected? and will hardinge be here presently to plead his cause in person? "but it was imperative i should come. there is something i have to tell you--to lay before you." "not a mummy, i trust," says she, a little flippantly. "a proposal," says the professor, coldly. "much as i know you dislike the idea, still; it was your poor father's wish that i should, in a measure, regulate your life until your coming of age. i am here to-day to let you know--that--mr. hardinge has requested me to tell you that he----" the professor pauses, feeling that he is failing miserably. he, the fluent speaker at lectures, and on public platforms, is now bereft of the power to explain one small situation. "what's the matter with mr. hardinge," asks perpetua, "that he can't come here himself? nothing serious, i hope?" "i am your guardian," says the professor--unfortunately, with all the air of one profoundly sorry for the fact declared, "and he wishes _me_ to tell you that he--is desirous of marrying you." perpetua stares at him. whatever bitter thoughts are in her mind, she conceals them. "he is a most thoughtful young man," says she, blandly. "and--and you're another." "i hope i am thoughtful, if i am not young," says the professor, with dignity. her manner puzzles him. "with regard to hardinge, i wish you to know that--that i--have known him for years, and that he is in my opinion a strictly honorable, kind-hearted man. he is of good family. he has money. he will probably succeed to a baronetcy--though this is not _certain_, as his uncle is, comparatively speaking, young still. but, even without the title, hardinge is a man worthy of any woman's esteem, and confidence, and----" he is interrupted by miss wynter's giving way to a sudden burst of mirth. it is mirth of the very angriest, but it checks him the more effectually, because of that. "you must place great confidence in princes!" says she. "even '_without_ the title, he is worthy of esteem.'" she copies him audaciously. "what has a title got to do with esteem?--and what has esteem got to do with love?" "i should hope----" begins the professor. "you needn't. it has nothing to do with it, nothing _at all_. go back and tell mr. hardinge so; and tell him, too, that when next he goes a-wooing, he had better do it in person." "i am afraid i have damaged my mission," says the professor, who has never once looked at her since his first swift glance. "_your_ mission?" "yes. it was mere nervousness that prevented him coming to you first himself. he said he had little to go on, and he said something about a flower that you gave him----" perpetua makes a rapid movement toward a side table, takes a flower from a bouquet there, and throws it at the professor. there is no excuse to be made for her beyond the fact that her heart feels breaking, and people with broken hearts do strange things every day. "i would give a flower to _anyone_!" says she in a quick scornful fashion. the professor catches the ungraciously given gift, toys with it, and--keeps it. is that small action of his unseen? "i hope," he says in a dull way, "that you are not angry with him because he came first to me. it was a sense of duty--i know, i _feel_--compelled him to do it, together with his honest diffidence about your affection for him. do not let pride stand in the way of----" "nonsense!" says perpetua, with a rapid movement of her hand. "pride has no part in it. i do not care for mr. hardinge--i shall not marry him." a little mist seems to gather before the professor's eyes. his glasses seem in the way, he drops them, and now stands gazing at her as if disbelieving his senses. in fact he does disbelieve in them. "are you sure?" persists he. "afterwards you may regret----" "oh, no!" says she, shaking her head. "_mr. hardinge_ will not be the one to cause me regret." "still think----" "think! do you imagine i have not been thinking?" cries she, with sudden passion. "do you imagine i do not know why you plead his cause so eloquently? you want to get _rid_ of me. you are _tired_ of me. you always thought me heartless, about my poor father even, and unloving, and--hateful, and----" "not heartless; what have i done, perpetua, that you should say that?" "nothing. that is what i _detest_ about you. if you said outright what you were thinking of me, i could bear it better." "but my thoughts of you. they are----" he pauses. what _are_ they? what are his thoughts of her at all hours, all seasons? "they are always kind," says he, lamely, in a low tone, looking at the carpet. that downward glance condemns him in her eyes--to her it is but a token of his guilt towards her. "they are _not_!" says she, with a little stamp of her foot that makes the professor jump. "you think of me as a cruel, wicked, worldly girl, who would marry _anyone_ to gain position." here her fury dies away. it is overcome by something stronger. she trembles, pales, and finally bursts into a passion of tears that have no anger in them, only an intense grief. "i do not," says the professor, who is trembling too, but whose utterance is firm. "whatever my thoughts are, _your_ reading of them is entirely wrong." "well, at all events you can't deny one thing," says she checking her sobs, and gazing at him again with undying enmity. "you want to get rid of me, you are determined to marry me to some one, so as to get me out of your way. but i shan't marry to please _you_. i needn't either. there is somebody else who wants to marry me besides your--_your_ candidate!" with an indignant glance. "i have had a letter from sir hastings this afternoon. and," rebelliously, "i haven't answered it yet." "then you shall answer it now," says the professor. "and you shall say 'no' to him." "why? because you order me?" "partly because of that. partly because i trust to your own instincts to see the wisdom of so doing." "ah! you beg the question," says she, "but i'm not so sure i shall obey you for all that." "perpetua! do not speak to me like that, i implore you," says the professor, very pale. "do you think i am not saying all this for your good? sir hastings--he is my brother--it is hard for me to explain myself, but he will not make you happy." "happy! _you_ think of my happiness?" "of what else?" a strange yearning look comes into his eyes. "god knows it is _all_ i think of," says he. "and so you would marry me to mr. hardinge?" "hardinge is a good man, and he loves you." "if so, he is the only one on earth who does," cries the girl bitterly. she turns abruptly away, and struggles with herself for a moment, then looks back at him. "well. i shall not marry him," says she. "that is in your own hands," says the professor. "but i shall have something to say about the other proposal you speak of." "do you think i want to marry your brother?" says she. "i tell you no, no, _no_! a thousand times no! the very fact that he _is_ your brother would prevent me. to be your ward is bad enough, to be your sister-in-law would be insufferable. for all the world i would not be more to you than i am now." "it is a wise decision," says the professor icily. he feels smitten to his very heart's core. had he ever dreamed of a nearer, dearer tie between them?--if so the dream is broken now. "decision?" stammers she. "not to marry my brother." "not to be more to you, you mean!" "you don't know what you are saying," says the professor, driven beyond his self-control. "you are a mere child, a baby, you speak at random." "what!" cries she, flashing round at him, "will you deny that i have been a trouble to you, that you would have been thankful had you never heard my name?" "you are right," gravely. "i deny nothing. i wish with all my soul i had never heard your name. i confess you troubled me. i go beyond even _that_, i declare that you have been my undoing! and now, let us make an end of it. i am a poor man and a busy one, this task your father laid upon my shoulders is too heavy for me. i shall resign my guardianship; gwendoline--lady baring--will accept the position. she likes you, and--you will find it hard to break _her_ heart." "do you mean," says the girl, "that i have broken yours? _yours?_ have i been so bad as that? yours? i have been wilful, i know, and troublesome, but troublesome people do not break one's heart. what have i done then that yours should be broken?" she has moved closer to him. her eyes are gazing with passionate question into his. "do not think of that," says the professor, unsteadily. "do not let that trouble you. as i just now told you, i am a poor man, and poor men cannot afford such luxuries as hearts." "yet poor men have them," says the girl in a little low stifled tone. "and--and girls have them too!" there is a long, long silence. to curzon it seems as if the whole world has undergone a strange, wild upheaval. what had she meant--what? her words! her words meant something, but her looks, her eyes, oh, how much more _they_ meant! and yet to listen to her--to believe--he, her guardian, a poor man, and she an heiress! oh! no. impossible. "so much the worse for the poor men," says he deliberately. there is no mistaking his meaning. perpetua makes a little rapid movement towards him--an almost imperceptible one. _did_ she raise her hands as if to hold them out to him? if so, it is so slight a gesture as scarcely to be remembered afterwards, and at all events the professor takes no notice of it, presumably, therefore, he does not see it. "it is late," says perpetua a moment afterwards. "i must go and dress for dinner." _her_ eyes are down now. she looks pale and shamed. "you have nothing to say, then?" asks the professor, compelling himself to the question. "about what?" "hardinge." the girl turns a white face to his. "will you then _compel_ me to marry him?" says she. "am i"--faintly--"nothing to you? nothing----" she seems to fade back from him in the growing uncertainty of the light into the shadow of the corner beyond. curzon makes a step towards her. at this moment the door is thrown suddenly open, and a man--evidently a professional man--advances into the room. "sir thaddeus," begins he, in a slow, measured way. the professor stops dead short. even perpetua looks amazed. "i regret to be the messenger of bad news, sir," says the solemn man in black. "they told me i should find you here. i have to tell you, sir thaddeus, that your brother, the late lamented sir hastings is dead." the solemn man spread his hands abroad. chapter xvi. 'till the secret be secret no more in the light of one hour as it flies, be the hour as of suns that expire or suns that rise." it is quite a month later. august, hot and sunny, is reigning with quite a mad merriment, making the most of the days that be, knowing full well that the end of the summer is nigh. the air is stifling; up from the warm earth comes the almost overpowering perfume of the late flowers. perpetua moving amongst the carnations and hollyhocks in her soft white cambric frock, gathers a few of the former in a languid manner to place in the bosom of her frock. there they rest, a spot of blood color upon their white ground. lady baring, on the death of her elder brother, had left town for the seclusion of her country home, carrying perpetua with her. she had grown very fond of the girl, and the fancy she had formed (before sir hastings' death) that thaddeus was in love with the young heiress, and that she would make him a suitable wife, had not suffered in any way through the fact of sir thaddeus having now become the head of the family. perpetua, having idly plucked a few last pansies, looked at them, and as idly flung them away, goes on her listless way through the gardens. a whole _long_ month and not one word from him! are his social duties now so numerous that he has forgotten he has a ward? "well," emphatically, and with a vicious little tug at her big white hat, "_some_ people have strange views about duty." she has almost reached the summer-house, vine-clad, and temptingly cool in all this heat, when a quick step behind her causes her to turn. "they told me you were here," says the professor, coming up with her. he is so distinctly the professor still, in spite of his new mourning, and the better cut of his clothes, and the general air of having been severely looked after--that perpetua feels at home with him at once. "i have been here for some time," says she calmly. "a whole month, isn't it?" "yes, i know. were you going into that green little place. it looks cool." it is cool, and particularly empty. one small seat occupies the back of it, and nothing else at all, except the professor and his ward. "perpetua!" says he, turning to her. his tone is low, impassioned. "i have come. i could not come sooner, and i _would_ not write. how could i put it all on paper? you remember that last evening?" "i remember," says she faintly. "and all you said?" "all _you_ said." "i said nothing. i did not dare. _then_ i was too poor a man, too insignificant to dare to lay bare to you the thoughts, the fears, the hopes that were killing me." "nothing!" echoes she. "have you then forgotten?" she raises her head, and casts at him a swift, but burning glance. "_was_ it nothing? you came to plead your friend's cause, i think. surely that was something? i thought it a great deal. and what was it you said of mr. hardinge? ah! i _have_ forgotten that, but i know how you extolled him--praised him to the skies--recommended him to me as a desirable suitor." she makes an impatient movement, as if to shake something from her. "why have you come to-day?" asks she. "to plead his cause afresh?" "not his--to-day." "whose then? another suitor, maybe? it seems i have more than even i dreamt of." "i do not know if you have dreamed of this one," says curzon, perplexed by her manner. some hope had been in his heart in his journey to her, but now it dies. there is little love truly in her small, vivid face, her gleaming eyes, her parted, scornful lips. "i am not given to dreams," says she, with a petulant shrug, "_i_ know what i mean always. and as i tell you, if you _have_ come here to-day to lay before me, for my consideration, the name of another of your friends who wishes to marry me, why i beg you to save yourself the trouble. even the country does not save me from suitors. i can make my choice from many, and when i _do_ want to marry, i shall choose for myself." "still--if you would permit me to name _this_ one," begins curzon, very humbly, "it can do you no harm to hear of him. and it all lies in your own power. you can, if you will, say yes, or----" he pauses. the pause is eloquent, and full of deep entreaty. "or no," supplies she calmly. "true! you," with a half defiant, half saucy glance, "are beginning to learn that a guardian cannot control one altogether." "i don't think i ever controlled you, perpetua." "n--o! perhaps not. but then you tried to. that's worse." "do you forbid me then to lay before you--this name--that i----?" "i have told you," says she, "that i can find a name for myself." "you forbid me to speak," says he slowly. "_i_ forbid! a ward forbid her guardian! i should be afraid!" says she, with an extremely naughty little glance at him. "you trifle with me," says the professor slowly, a little sternly, and with uncontrolled despair. "i thought--i believed--i was _mad_ enough to imagine, from your manner to me that last night we met, that i was something more than a mere guardian to you." "more than _that_. that seems to be a herculean relation. what more would you be?" "i am no longer that, at all events." "what!" cries she, flushing deeply. "you--you give me up----" "it is you who give _me_ up." "you say you will no longer be my guardian!" she seems struck with amazement at this declaration on his part. she had not believed him when he had before spoken of his intention of resigning. "but you cannot," says she. "you have promised. papa _said_ you were to take care of me." "your father did not know." "he _did_. he said you were the one man in all the world he could trust." "impossible," says the professor. "a--lover--cannot be a guardian!" his voice has sunk to a whisper. he turns away, and makes a step towards the door. "you are going," cries she, fighting with a desperate desire for tears, that is still strongly allied to anger. "you would leave me. you will be no longer my guardian, ah! was i not right? did i not _tell_ you you were in a hurry to get rid of me?" this most unfair accusation rouses the professor to extreme wrath. he turns round and faces her like an enraged lion. "you are a child," says he, in a tone sufficient to make any woman resentful. "it is folly to argue with you." "a child! what are you then?" cries she tremulously. "a _fool_!" furiously. "i was given my cue, i would not take it. you told me that it was bad enough to be your ward, that you would not on any account be closer to me. _that_ should have been clear to me, yet, like an idiot, i hoped against hope. i took false courage from each smile of yours, each glance, each word. there! once i leave you now, the chain between us will be broken, we shall never, with _my_ will, meet again. you say you have had suitors since you came down here. you hinted to me that you could mention the name of him you wished to marry. so be it. mention it to gwendoline--to any one you like, but not to me." he strides towards the doorway. he has almost turned the corner. "thaddeus" cries a small, but frantic voice. if dying he would hear that and turn. she is holding out her hands to him, the tears are running down her lovely cheeks. "it is to you--to _you_ i would tell his name," sobs she, as he returns slowly, unwillingly, but _surely_, to her. "to you alone." "to me! go on," says curzon; "let me hear it. what is the name of this man you want to marry?" "thaddeus curzon!" says she, covering her face with her hands, and, indeed, it is only when she feels his arms round her, and his heart beating against hers, that she so far recovers herself as to be able to add, "and a _hideous_ name it is, too!" but this last little firework does no harm. curzon is too ecstatically happy to take notice of her small impertinence. the end. * * * * * jelly of cucumber and roses. made by w. a. dyer & co., montreal, is a delightfully fragrant toilet article. removes freckles and sun-burn, and renders chapped and rough skin, after one application, smooth and pleasant. no toilet-table is complete without a tube of dyer's jelly of cucumber and roses. sold by all druggists. agents for united states-caswell, massey & co., new york & newport. * * * * * teeth like pearls! is a common expression. the way to obtain it, use dyer's arnicated tooth paste, fragrant and delicious. try it. druggists keep it. w.a. dyer & co., montreal. * * * * * burdock blood bitters the key to health unlocks all the clogged secretions of the stomach, liver, bowels and blood, carrying off all humors and impurities from the entire system, correcting acidity, and curing biliousness, dyspepsia, sick headache, constipation, rheumatism, dropsy, dry skin, dizziness, jaundice, heartburn, nervous and general debility, salt rheum, erysipelas, scrofula, etc. it purifies and eradicates from the blood all poisonous humors, from a common pimple to the worst scrofulous sore. * * * * * dyspepsine! the great american remedy. for dyspepsia in all its forms, as indigestion, flatulency, heartburn, waterbrash, sick-headache, constipation, biliousness, and all forms of dyspepsia; regulating the action of the stomach, and of the digestive organs. sold by all druggist, 5oc. a bottle. sole proprietor, wallace dawson. montreal, can., rouses point, n. y. * * * * * dr. chevallier's red spruce gum paste, dr. nelson's prescription, _goudron de norwege_, are the best remedies for coughs and colds. insist upon getting one of them. 25c. each. for sale by all respectable druggists. laviolette & nelson, druggists, _agents of french patents._ 16o5 notre dame st. * * * * * have you teeth? --then preserve them by using-lyman's cherry tooth paste. whitens the teeth, sweetens the breath, prevents decay. in handsome engraved pots,--25 cents each. trade mark secured. lyman's royal canadian perfumes. the only canadian perfumes on the english market. cerise. english violets. heliotrope. jockey club. etc. prairie flowers. pond lily white rose. ylang ylang. etc. * * * * * established 1852 lorge & co., hatters & furriers. 21 st. lawrence main st. 21 montreal. established 1866. l. j. a. surveyer, 6 st. lawrence st. 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[illustration] asa holmes or at the cross=roads by annie fellows johnston author of "the little colonel," "two little knights of kentucky," etc. with a frontispiece by ernest fosbery [illustration] boston l.c. page & company publishers _copyright, 1900, 1901_ by e. s. barnett _copyright, 1902_ by l. c. page and company (incorporated) _all rights reserved_ _seventh impression_ colonial press electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, mass., u. s. a. to a dear old philosopher whose cheerful optimism and sunny faith have sweetened life for all who know him asa holmes or at the cross-roads chapter i there is no place where men learn each other's little peculiarities more thoroughly than in the group usually to be found around the stove in a country store. such acquaintance may be of slow growth, like the oak's, but it is just as sure. each year is bound to add another ring to one's knowledge of his neighbours if he lounges with them, as man and boy, through the saturday afternoons of a score of winters. a boy learns more there than he can be taught in schools. it may be he is only a tow-headed, freckle-faced little fellow of eight when he rides over to the cross-roads store for the first time by himself. too timid to push into the circle around the fire, he stands shivering on the outskirts, looking about him with the alertness of a scared rabbit, until the storekeeper fills his kerosene can and thrusts the weekly mail into his red mittens. then some man covers him with confusion by informing the crowd that "that little chap is perkins's oldest," and he scurries away out of the embarrassing focus of the public eye. but the next time he is sent on the family errands he stays longer and carries away more. perched on the counter, with his heels dangling over a nail keg, while he waits for the belated mail train, he hears for the first time how the government ought to be run, why it is that the country is going to the dogs, and what will make hens lay in cold weather. added to this general information, he slowly gathers the belief that these men know everything in the world worth knowing, and that their decisions on any subject settle the matter for all time. he may have cause to change his opinion later on, when his sapling acquaintance has gained larger girth; when he has loafed with them, smoked with them, swapped lies and spun yarns, argued through a decade of stormy election times, and talked threadbare every subject under the sun. but now, in his callow judgment, he is listening to the wit and wisdom of the nation. now, as he looks around the overflowing room, where butter firkins crowd the calicoes and crockery, and where hams and saddles swing sociably from the same rafter, as far as his knowledge goes, this is the only store in the universe. some wonder rises in his childish brain as he counts the boxes of axle-grease and the rows of shining new pitchforks, as to where all the people live who are to use so many things. he has yet to learn that this one little store that is such a marvel to him is only a drop in the bucket, and that he may travel the width of the continent, meeting at nearly every mile-post that familiar mixture of odours--coal oil, mackerel, roasted coffee, and pickle brine. and a familiar group of men, discussing the same old subjects in the same old way, will greet him at every such booth he passes on his pilgrimage through vanity fair. probably in after years perkins's oldest will never realise how much of his early education has been acquired at that saturday afternoon loafing-place, but he will often find himself looking at things with the same squint with which he learned to view them through 'squire dobbs's short-sighted spectacles. many a time he will find that he has been unconsciously warped by the prejudices he heard expressed there, and that his opinions of life in general and men in particular are the outgrowth of those early conversations which gave him the creed of his boyhood. "them blamed yankees!" exclaims one of these neighbourhood orators, tilting his chair back against the counter, and taking a vicious bite at his plug of tobacco. "they don't know no better than to eat cold bread the year 'round!" and the boy, accepting the statement unquestioningly, stores away in his memory not only the remark, but all the weighty emphasis of disgust which accompanied the remark in the spitting of a mouthful of tobacco juice. henceforth his idea of the menu north of the mason and dixon line is that it resembles the bill of fare of a penitentiary, and he feels that there is something coldblooded and peculiar about a people not brought up on a piping hot diet of hoe-cake and beaten biscuit. in the same way the lad whose opinions are being moulded in some little corner grocery of a new england village, or out where the roads cross on the western prairie, receives his prejudices. it may be years before he finds out for himself that the land of boone is not fenced with whiskey jugs and feuds, and that the cap-sheaf on every shock of wheat in its domain is not a winchester rifle. but these prejudices, popular at local cross-roads, are only the side lines of which every section carries its own specialty. when it comes to staple articles, dear to the american heart and essential to its liberty and progress, their standard of value is the same the country over. one useful lesson the youthful lounger may learn here, if he can learn it anywhere, and that is to be a shrewd reader of men and motives. since staple characteristics in human nature are repeated everywhere, like staple dry goods and groceries, a thorough knowledge of the group around the stove will be a useful guide to perkins's oldest in forming acquaintances later in life. long after he has left the little hamlet and grown gray with the experiences of the metropolis, he will run across some queer dick whose familiar personality puzzles him. as he muses over his evening pipe, suddenly out of the smoke wreaths will spring the face of some old codger who aired his wisdom in the village store, and he will recognise the likeness between the two as quickly as he would between two cans of leaf lard bearing the same brand. but perkins's oldest is only in the primer of his cross-roads curriculum now, and these are some of the lessons he is learning as he edges up to the group around the fire. on the day before thanksgiving, for instance, he was curled up on a box of soap behind the chair of old asa holmes--miller holmes everybody calls him, because for nearly half a century his water-mill ground out the grist of all that section of country. he is retired now; gave up his business to his grandsons. they carry it on in another place with steam and modern machinery, and he is laid on the shelf. but he isn't a back number, even if his old deserted mill is. it is his boast that now he has nothing else to do, he not only keeps up with the times, but ahead of them. everybody goes to him for advice; everybody looks up to him as they do to a hardy old forest tree that's lived through all sorts of hurricanes, but has stood to the last, sturdy of limb, and sound to the core. he is as sweet and mellow as a winter apple, ripened in the sun, and that's why everybody likes to have him around. you don't see many old men like that. their troubles sour them. well, this day before thanksgiving the old miller was in his usual place at the store, and as usual it was he who was giving the cheerful turn to the conversation. some of the men were feeling sore over the recent election; some had not prospered as they had hoped with their crops, and were experiencing the pinch of hard times and sickness in their homes. still there was a holiday feeling in the atmosphere. frequent calls for nutmeg, and sage, and cinnamon, left the air spicy with prophecies of the morrow's dinner. the farmers had settled down for a friendly talk, with the comfortable sense that the crops were harvested, the wood piled away for the winter, and a snug, warm shelter provided for the cattle. it was good to see the hard lines relax in the weather-beaten faces, in the warmth of that genial comradeship. even the gruffest were beginning to thaw a little, when the door opened, and bud hines slouched in. the spirits of the crowd went down ten degrees. not that he said anything; only gave a gloomy nod by way of greeting as he dropped into a chair. but his whole appearance said it for him; spoke in the droop of his shoulders, and the droop of his hat brim, and the droop of his mouth at the corners. he looked as if he might have sat for the picture of the man in the "biglow papers," when he said: "sometimes my innard vane pints east for weeks together, my natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' my sins come drizzlin' on my conscience sharp ez pins." the miller greeted him with the twinkle in his eye that eighty years and more have never been able to dim; and perkins's oldest had his first meeting with the man who always finds a screw loose in everything. nothing was right with bud hines. one of his horses had gone lame, and his best heifer had foundered, and there was rust in his wheat. he didn't have any heart to keep thanksgiving, and he didn't see how anybody else could, with the bottom dropped clean out of the markets and the new road tax so high. for his part he thought that everything was on its last legs, and it wouldn't be long till all the powers were at war, and prices would go up till a poor man simply couldn't live. it was impossible not to be affected more or less by his gloomy forebodings, and the old miller, looking around on the listening faces, saw them settling back in their old discouraged lines. clasping his hands more firmly over the top of his cane, he exclaimed: "now look here, bud hines, i'm going to give you a proverb that was made on purpose for such a poor, weak-kneed mr. ready-to-halt as you are: 'never be discouraged, and never be a discourager!' if you can't live up to the first part, you certainly can to the second. no matter how hard things go with you, you've no right to run around throwing cold water on other people. what if your horse has gone lame? you've got a span of mules that can outpull my yoke of oxen any day. one heifer oughtn't to send a man into mourning the rest of his days, and it would be more fitting to be thankful over your good tobacco crop than to groan over the failure of your wheat. more fitting to the season. as for the rest of the things you're worrying over, why, man, they haven't happened yet, and maybe never will. my old grandad used to say to me when i was a lad, 'never cross your bridge till you come to it, asa,' and i've proved the wisdom of that saying many a time. suppose'n you put that in your pipe and smoke it." if perkins's oldest learns no other lesson this year than to put those two proverbs into practice, he will have had a valuable education. how many thanksgivings they will help to make for him! how many problems and perplexities they will solve! "never be discouraged; never be a discourager! don't cross your bridge until you come to it!" it is a philosophy that will do away with half the ills which flesh imagines it is heir to. thanksgiving day! how much more it means to the old miller than to the little fellow beside him on the soap box! to the child it is only a feast day; to the old man it is a festival that links him to a lifetime of sacred memories. "five and eighty years," he says, musingly, resting his chin on the wrinkled hands that clasp the head of his cane. a silence falls on the group around the stove, and through the cracked door the red firelight shines out on thoughtful faces. "it's a long time; five and eighty years," he repeats, "and every one of them crowned with a thanksgiving. boys," lifting his head and looking around him, "you've got a good bit of pike to travel over yet before you get as far as i've gone, and some of you are already half fagged out and beginning to wonder if it's all worth while--bud, here, for instance. i'd like to give you all a word of encouragement. "looking back, i can see that i've had as many ups and downs as any of you, and more than your share of work and trouble, for i've lived longer, and nearly all the years are marked with graves. seems to me that lately i've had to leave a new grave behind me at every mile-stone, till now i'm jogging on all alone. family gone, old neighbours gone, old friends--i'm the last of the old set. but, still, when all is said and done, i haven't lost heart, for 'i've lived, seen god's hand through a lifetime, and all was for best.' "when i was milling down there on bear creek you'd 'a' thought i was a fool if i hadn't taken my rightful toll out of every bushel of grist that ran through my hopper, and sometimes i think that the almighty must feel that way about us when we go on grinding and grinding, and never stopping to count up our share of the profit and pleasure and be thankful over it. i believe that no matter what life pours into our hopper, we are to grind some toll of good out of it for ourselves, and as long as a man does his part toward producing something for the world's good, some kind of bread for its various needs, he will never go hungry himself. "and i believe more than that. you've heard people compare old age to a harvest field, and talk about the autumn of life with its ripened corn waiting for the reaper death, and all that, and speak about the 'harvest home,' as if it were the glorious end of everything. but it never did strike me that way, boys. the best comes after the harvesting, when the wheat is turned into flour and the flour into bread, and the full, wholesome loaves go to make up blood and muscle and brain. that's giving it a sort of immortality, you might say, raising it into a higher order of life. and it's the same with a man. his old age is just a ripening for something better a little further on. all that we go through with here isn't for nothing, and at eighty-five, when it looks as if a man had come to the stepping-off place, i've come to believe that 'the best is yet to be.'" there is a stir around the door, and the old miller looks around inquiringly. the mail has come in, and he rises slowly to get his weekly paper. perkins's oldest, waiting his turn in front of the little case of pigeonholes, eyes the old man with wondering side glances. he has not understood more than half of what he has heard, but he is vaguely conscious that something is speaking to him now, as he looks into the tranquil old face. it is the miller's past that is calling to him; all those honest, hard-working years that show themselves in the bent form and wrinkled hands; the serene peacefulness that bespeaks a clear conscience; the big, sunny nature that looks out of those aged eyes; and above all the great hopefulness that makes his days a perpetual thanksgiving. the mute eloquence of an unspoken invitation thrills the child's heart, he knows not why: "grow old along with me; the best is yet to be!" it is the greatest lesson that perkins's oldest can ever learn. chapter ii one would have known that it was the day before christmas at the cross-roads store, even if the big life insurance calendar over the desk had not proclaimed the fact in bold red figures. an unwonted bustle pervaded the place. rows of plump, dressed turkeys hung outside the door, and on the end of the counter where the pyramid of canned tomatoes was usually stacked, a little evergreen tree stood in a brave array of tinsel and tiny christmas tapers. it was only an advertisement. no one might hope to be the proud possessor of the noah's ark lodged in its branches, or of the cheap toys and candy rings dangling from every limb, unless he had the necessary pennies. still, every child who passed it eyed it with such wistful glances that the little rubber santa claus at the base must have felt his elastic heart stretch almost to bursting. above the familiar odour of coal-oil and mackerel, new leather, roasted coffee and pickle brine, rose the holiday fragrance of cedar and oranges. "makes me think of when i was a kid," said a drummer who had been joking with the men around the stove, trying to kill time while he waited for the train that was to take him home for christmas. "there's nothing like that smell of cedar and oranges to resurrect the boy in a man. it puts me straight back into knickerbockers again, among a whole grove of early christmas trees. i'll never forget the way i felt when i picked my first pair of skates off one of them. a house and lot wouldn't give me such a thrill now." "aw, i don't believe christmas is at all what it's cracked up to be," said a voice from behind the stove, in such a gloomy tone that a knowing smile passed around the circle. "bet on you, bud hines, for findin' trouble, every time," laughed the storekeeper. "why, bud, there ain't no screw loose in christmas, is there?" "well, there just is!" snapped the man, resenting the laugh. "it comes too often for one thing. i just wish it had happened on leap-year, the twenty-ninth of february. it would be a heap less expensive having it just once in four years. seems to me we're always treading on its heels. my old woman hardly gets done knitting tidies for one christmas till she's hard at it for another. "anyhow, christmas never measures up to what you think it's a-going to--not by a jug-full. sure as you get your heart set on a patent nail-puller or a pair of fur gloves--something that'll do _you_ some good--your wife gives you a carpet sweeper, or an alarm-clock that rattles you out an hour too early every morning." the drummer led the uproarious laughter that followed. they were ready to laugh at anything in this season of good cheer, and the drummer's vociferous merriment was irresistible. he slapped the speaker on the back, adding jokingly, "that's one thing job never had to put up, did he, partner! he nearly lost his reputation for politeness over the misfit advice he didn't want. but there's no telling what he'd have done with misfit christmas gifts. it would take a star actor to play the grateful for some of the things people find in their stockings. for instance, to have a fond female relative give you a shaving outfit, when you wear a full beard." "you bet your life," answered the storekeeper feelingly. "now, if santa claus wasn't a fake--" "hist!" said the drummer, with a significant glance toward a small boy, perched on a soap-box in their midst, listening open-mouthed to every word. "i've children myself, and i'd punch anybody's head who would shake their faith in santy. it's one of the rosy backgrounds of childhood, in my opinion, and i've got a heap of happiness out of it since i was a kid, too, looking back and recollecting." it was very little happiness that the boy on the soap-box was getting out of anything, that gray december afternoon. he was weighed down with a feeling of age and responsibility that bore heavily on his eight-year-old shoulders. he had long felt the strain of his position, as pattern to the house of perkins, being the oldest of five. now there was another one, and to be counted as the oldest of six pushed him almost to the verge of gray hairs. there was another reason for his tear-stained face. he had been disillusioned. only that noon, his own mother had done that for which the drummer would have punched any one's head, had it been done to his children. "we're too poor, sammy. there can't be any christmas at our house this year," she had said, fretfully, as she stopped the noisy driving of nails into the chimney, on which he contemplated hanging the fraternal stockings. to his astonished "why?" she had replied with a few blunt truths that sent him out from her presence, shorn of all his childish hopefulness as completely as samson was shorn of his strength. there had been a sorry half-hour in the hay-mow, where he snuffled over his shattered faith alone, and from whence he went out, a hardened little skeptic, to readjust himself to a cold and santa clausless world. the only glimmer of comfort he had had since was when the drummer, with a friendly wink, slipped a nickel into his hand. but even that added to his weight of responsibility. he dropped it back and forth from one little red mitten to another, with two impulses strong upon him. the first was to spend it for six striped sticks of peppermint candy, one for each stocking, and thus compel christmas to come to the house of perkins. the other was to buy one orange and go off in a corner and suck it all by himself. he felt that fate owed him that much of a reparation for his disappointment. he was in the midst of this inward debate when a new voice joined the discussion around the stove. it came from cy akers. "well, _i_ think it's downright sinful to stuff a child with such notions. you may call 'em fairy-tales all you like, but it's nothing more or less than a pack of lies. the idea of a christian payrent sitting up and telling his immortal child that a big fat man in furs will drive through the air to-night in a reindeer sleigh right over the roofs and squeeze himself down a lot of sooty chimneys, with a bag of gimcracks on his back--it's all fol-de-rol! i never could see how any intelligent young one could believe it. i never did. but that's one thing about me, as the poet says, 'if i've one pecooliar feature it's a nose that won't be led.' i never could be made to take stock in any such nonsense, even as a boy. i'll leave it to mr. asa holmes, here, if it isn't wrong to be putting such ideas into the youth of our land." the old miller ran his fingers through his short white hair and looked around. his smile was wholesome as it was genial. he was used to being called in judgment on these neighbourhood discussions, and he spoke with the air of one who felt that his words carried weight: "you're putting it pretty strong, cy," he said, with a laugh, and then a tender, reminiscent light gleamed in his old eyes. "you see it's this way with me, boys. we never heard any of these things when i was a lad. it's plain facts in a pioneer cabin, you know. father taught us about christmas in the plain words that he found set down in the gospels, and i told it the same way to my boys. when my first little grandson came back to the old house to spend christmas, i thought it was almost heathenish for his mother to have him send letters up the chimney and talk as if santa claus was some real person. i told her so one day, and asked what was going to happen when the little fellow outgrew such beliefs. "'why, father holmes,' said she,--i can hear her now, words and tones, for it set me to thinking,--'don't you see that he is all the time growing into a broader belief? it's this way.' she picked up a big apple from the table. 'once this apple was only a tiny seed-pod in the heart of a pink blossom. the beauty of the blossom was all that the world saw, at first, but gradually, as the fruit swelled and developed, the pink petals fell off, naturally and easily, and the growing fruit was left. my little son's idea of christmas is in the blossom time now. this rosy glamour of old customs and traditions that makes it so beautiful to him is taking the part of the pink petals. they will fall away by and by, of their own accord, for underneath a beautiful truth is beginning to swell to fruitage. santa claus is the spirit of christmas love and giving, personified. it is because i want to make it real and vital, something that my baby's mind can grasp and enjoy, that i incarnate it in the form of the good old saint nicholas, but i never let him lose sight of the star. it was the spirit of christmas that started the wise men on their search, and they followed the star and they found the child, and laid gifts at his feet. and when the child was grown, he, too, went out in the world and followed the star and scattered his gifts of love and healing for all the children of men. and so it has gone on ever since, that spirit of christmas, impelling us to follow and to find and to give, wherever there is a need for our gold and frankincense and myrrh. that is the larger belief my boy is growing into, from the smaller.' "and she is right," said the old man, after an impressive pause. "she raised that boy to be an own brother to santa claus, as far as good-will to men goes. it's christmas all the year round wherever _he_ is. and now when he brings his boys back to the old home and hangs their stockings up by the fire, i never say a word. sometimes when the little chaps are hunting for the marks of the reindeer hoofs in the ashes, i kneel down on the old hearthstone and hunt, too. * * * * * "a brother to santa claus!" the phrase still echoed in the heart of perkins's oldest when the group around the stove dispersed. it was that which decided the fate of the nickel, and filled the little red mittens with sticks of striped delight for six, instead of the lone orange for one. out of a conversation but dimly understood he had gathered a vague comfort. it made less difference that his patron saint was a myth, since he had learned there might be brothers in the claus family for him to fall back upon. then his fingers closed over the paper bag of peppermints, and, suddenly, with a little thrill, he felt that in some queer way he belonged to that same brotherhood. as he fumbled at the latch, the old miller, who always saw his own boyhood rise before him in that small tow-headed figure, and who somehow had divined the cause of the tear-streaks on the dirty little face, called him. "here, sonny!" it was a pair of shining new skates that dangled from the miller's hands into his. one look of rapturous delight, and two little feet were flying homeward down the frozen pike, beating time to a joy that only the overflowing heart of a child can know, when its troubles are all healed, and faith in mankind restored. and the old man, going home in the frosty twilight of the christmas eve, saw before him all the way the light of a shining star. chapter iii it was an hour past the usual time for closing the cross-roads store, but no one made a move to go. listening in the comfortable glow of the red-hot stove, to the wind whistling down the long pipe, was far pleasanter than facing its icy blasts on the way home. besides, it was the last night of the old year, and hints of forthcoming cider had been dropped by jim bowser, the storekeeper. also an odour of frying doughnuts came in from the kitchen, whenever mrs. bowser opened the door into the entry. added to the usual group of loungers was the drummer who had spent christmas eve with them. he had come in on an accommodation train, and was waiting for the midnight express. he had had the floor for some time with his stories, when suddenly in the midst of the laughter which followed one of his jokes, bud hines made himself heard. "i say, jim," he exclaimed, turning to the storekeeper, "why don't you tear off the last leaf of that calendar? we've come to the end of everything now; end of the day, end of the year, end of the century! something none of _us_ will ever experience again. it's always a mighty solemn thought to me that i'm doing a thing for the la-ast time!" jim laughed cheerfully, tilting his chair back against the counter, and thrusting his thumbs into the armholes of his vest. "i don't know as i feel any call to mourn over takin' down an old calendar when i have a prettier one to put in its place, and it's the same way with the century. there'll be a better one to begin on in the morning." "that's so," asserted cy akers. "but some people come bang up against a new year as if it was a stone wall, and down they set and count up their sins, and turn over new leaves, and load 'emselves down with so many good resolutions that they stick in the mud by the end of the first week. now i hold that if it wasn't for the almanacs, steppin' from one year to another, or from one century to another, wouldn't jar you no more than steppin' over the equator. they're only imaginary lines, and nobody would ever know where he was at, either in months or meridians, if he didn't have almanacs and the like to keep him posted. fourth of july is just as good a time to take stock and turn over a new leaf as the first of january." "maybe you take stock like a man i used to sell to down in henderson county," said the drummer. "he never kept any books, so he never knew exactly where he was 'at,' as you say. once a year he'd walk around the store with his hands in his pockets, and size up things in a general sort of way. 'bill,' he'd say to his clerk, cocking his eyes up at the shelves, 'we've got a right smart chance of canned goods left over. i reckon there's a half shelf full more than we had left last year. i know there's more bottles of ketchup.' then he'd take another turn around the room. 'bill, i disremember how many pitchforks we had in this rack. there's only two left now. nearly all the calico is sold, and (thumping the molasses barrel), this here bar'l sounds like it's purty nigh empty. take it all around, bill, we've done first-rate this year, so i don't know as it's worth while botherin' about weighin' and measurin' what's left over, so long as we're satisfied.' and maybe that's why cy makes so little of new year," added the drummer, with a sly wink at the others. "he thinks it's not worth while to weigh and measure his shortcomings when he can take stock of himself in a general sort of a way, and always be perfectly satisfied with himself." there was a laugh at cy's expense, and bud hines began again. "what worries me is, what's been prophesied about the new century. one would think we've had enough famines and plagues and wars and rumours of wars in this here old one to do for awhile, but from what folks say, it ain't goin' to hold a candle to the trouble we'll see in the next one." "troubles is seasonin'. ''simmons ain't good till they are frostbit,'" quoted cy. "then accordin' to bud's tell, he ought to be the best seasoned persimmon on the bough," chuckled the storekeeper. "no, that fellow that was here this afternoon goes ahead of bud," insisted cy, turning to the drummer. "i wish you could have heard him, pardner. he came in to get a postal order for some money he wanted to send in a letter, and he nearly wiped up the earth with poor old bowser, because there was a two-cent war tax to pay on it. "'whose war?' says he. ''tain't none of _my_ makin',' says he, 'and i'll be switched if i'll pay taxes on a thing i've been dead set against from the start. it's highway robbery,' says he, 'to load the country down with a war debt in times like these. it's kill yourself to keep yourself these days, and as my uncle josh used to say after the mexican war, "it's tough luck when people are savin' and scrimpin' at the spigot for the government to be drawin' off at the bung."' "bowser here just looked him over as if he'd been a freak at a side-show, and said bowser, in a dry sort of way, he guessed, 'when it came to the pinch, the spigot wouldn't feel that a two-cent stamp was a killin' big leakage.' "the fellow at that threw the coppers down on the counter, mad as a hornet. 'it's the principle of the thing,' says he. 'uncle sam had no business to bite off more'n he could chew and then call on me to help. what's the war done for this country, anyhow?' "he was swinging his arms like a stump speaker at a barbecue, by this time. 'what's it done?' says he. 'why it's sent the soldiers back from cuba with an itch as bad as the smallpox, and as ketchin' to them citizens that wanted peace, as to them that clamoured for war. i know what i'm talkin' about, for my hired man like to 'uv died with it, and he hadn't favoured the war any more than a spring lamb. and what's it doin' for us, now?' says he. 'sendin' the poor fellows back from the philippines by the ship-load, crazy as june-bugs. i know what i'm talkin' about. that happened to one of my wife's cousins. what was it ever begun for,' says he, 'tell me that!' "peck here, behind the stove, sung out like a fog-horn, '_remember the maine!_' peck knew what a blow the fellow had made at an indignation meeting when the news first came. no tellin' what would have happened then if a little darky hadn't put his head in at the door and yelled, 'say, mistah, yo' mules is done backed yo' wagon in de ditch!' he tore out to tend to them, or we might have had another spanish war right here among bowser's goods and chattels." "no danger," said peck, dryly, "he isn't the kind of a fellow to fight for principle. it's only when his pocketbook is touched he wants to lick somebody. he's the stingiest man i ever knew, and i've known some mighty mean men in my time." "what's the matter with you all to-night?" said the drummer. "you're the most pessimistic crowd i've struck in an age. this is the tune you've been giving me from the minute i lifted the latch." and beating time with foot and hands in old plantation style, the drummer began forthwith to sing in a deep bass voice that wakened the little bowsers above: "ole satan is loose an' a-bummin'! de wheels er distruckshin is a-hummin.' oh, come 'long, sinner, ef you comin'!" the door into the entry opened a crack and mrs. bowser's forefinger beckoned. "here's good-bye to the old and good luck to the new," cried jim, jumping up to take the big pitcher of cider that she passed through the opening. "and here's to mrs. bowser," cried the drummer, taking the new tin cup filled for him with the sparkling cider, and helping himself to a hot doughnut from the huge panful which she brought in. "it's a pretty good sort of world, after all, that gives you cakes as crisp and sugary as these. 'speak well of the bridge that carries you over' is my motto, so don't let another fellow cheep to-night, unless he can say something good of the poor old century or the men who've lived in it!" "mr. holmes! mr. asa holmes!" cried several voices. the old miller, who had been silent all evening, straightened himself up in his chair and drew his hand over his eyes. "i feel as if i were parting with an old comrade, to-night," he said. "the century had only fifteen years the start of me, and it's a long way we've travelled together. i've been sitting here, thinking how much we've lived through. listen, boys." it was a brief series of pictures he drew for them, against the background of his early pioneer days. they saw him, a little lad, trudging more than a mile on a winter morning to borrow a kettle of hot coals, because the fire had gone out on his own hearthstone, and it was before the days of matches. they saw him huddled with the other little ones around his mother's knee when the wolves howled in the night outside the door, and only the light of a tallow-dip flickered through the darkness of the little cabin. they saw the struggle of a strong life against the limitations of the wilderness, and realised what the battle must have been oftentimes, against sudden disease and accident and death, with the nearest doctor a three days' journey distant, and no smoke from any neighbour's chimney rising anywhere on all the wide horizon. while he talked, a heavy freight train rumbled by outside; the wind whistled through the telegraph wires. the jingle of a telephone bell interrupted his reminiscences. the old man looked up with a smile. "see what we have come to," he said, "from such a past to a time when i can say 'hello,' across a continent. cables and cross-ties and telegraph poles have annihilated distance. the century and i came in on an ox-cart; we are going out on a streak of lightning. "but that's not the greatest thing," he said, pausing, while the listening faces grew still more thoughtful. "think of the hospitals! the homes! the universities! the social settlements! the free libraries! the humane efforts everywhere to give humanity an uplift! when i think of all this century has accomplished, of the heroic lives it has produced, i haven't a word to say about its mistakes and failures. after all, how do we know that the things we cry out against _are_ mistakes? "this war may be a samson's riddle that we are not wise enough to read. those who shall come after us may be able to say '_out of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness!_'" somewhere in an upper room a clock struck twelve, and deep silence fell on the little company as they waited for the solemn passing of the century. it was no going out as of some decrepit lear tottering from his throne. perhaps no man there could have put it in words, but each one felt that its majestic leave-taking was like the hoary old apostle's: "i have fought a good fight, i have finished my course, i have kept the faith." chapter iv for some occult reason, the successful merchant in small towns and villages is the confidant, if not father-confessor, of a large number of his patronesses. it may be that his flattering air of personal interest, assumed for purely business purposes, loosens not only the purse-strings but the spring that works the panorama of private affairs. or it may be an idiosyncrasy of some classes of the mind feminine, to make no distinction between a bargain counter and a confessional. whatever the cause, many an honest merchant can testify that it is no uncommon thing for a woman to air her domestic troubles while she buys a skirt braid, or to drag out her family skeleton with the sample of sewing silk she wishes to match. the cross-roads had had its share of confidences, although as a rule the women who disposed of their butter and eggs in trade to bowser were of the patient sort, grown silent under the repressing influence of secluded farm life. still, bowser, quick to see and keen to judge, had gained a remarkable insight into neighbourhood affairs in fifteen years' dealings with his public. "all things come to him who waits" if he wears an air of habitual interest and has a sympathetic way of saying "ah! indeed!" it was with almost the certainty of foreknowledge that bowser counted his probable patrons as he spread out his valentines on the morning of the fourteenth of february. he had selected his comic ones with a view to the feud that existed between the hillock and bond families, well knowing that a heavy cross-fire of ugly caricatures and insulting rhymes would be kept up all day by the younger members of those warring households. it was with professional satisfaction he smiled over the picture of a fat man with a donkey's head, which he was as sure would be sent by pete hillock to old man bond, as if he had heard pete's penny dropping into the cash-drawer. "nothing like supplying the demand," he chuckled. it was with more than professional interest that he arranged the lace-paper valentines in the show-case, for the little embossed cupids had a strong ally in this rustic haberdasher, whose match-making propensities had helped many a little romance to a happy issue. drawing on his fund of private information, acquired in his rôle of confidant to the neighbourhood gossips, he set out his stock of plump red hearts, forget-me-nots, and doves; and with each addition to the festal array he nodded his head knowingly over the particular courtship it was designed to speed, or the lovers' quarrel that he hoped might be ended thereby. * * * * * there had been two weeks of "february thaw." melting snow had made the mud hub-deep in places. there was a velvety balminess in the touch of the warm wind, and faint, elusive odours, prophetic of spring, rose from the moist earth and sap-quickened trees. the door of the cross-road store stood open, and behind it, at the post-office desk, sat marion holmes, the old miller's granddaughter. just out of college and just into society, she had come to spend lent in the old place that had welcomed her every summer during her childhood. the group around the stove stared covertly at the pretty girl in the tailor-made gown, failing to recognise in the tall, stylish figure any trace of the miller's "little polly," who used to dangle her feet from the counter and munch peppermint drops, while she lisped nursery rhymes for their edification. she had come for the letters herself, she told bowser, because she was expecting a whole bag full, and her grandfather's rheumatism kept him at home. installed in the post-office chair, behind the railing that enclosed the sanctum of pigeon-holes, she amused herself by watching the customers while she waited for the mail-train. "it's like looking into a kaleidoscope," she told bowser in one of the pauses of trade. "every one who comes in gives me a different point of view and combination of opinions. now, those valentines! i was thinking what old-fashioned things those little lace-paper affairs are, and wondering how anybody could possibly get up any thrills over them, when in walked miss anastasia dill. prim and gentle as ever, isn't she? still getting her styles from _godey's lady's books_ of the early sixties; she must draw on their antiquated love stories for her sentiment, too, for she seemed lost in admiration of those hearts and darts. what _do_ you suppose is miss anastasia's idea of a lover?" marion rattled on with all of a débutante's reckless enthusiasm for any subject under discussion. "wouldn't he be as odd and old-fashioned as the lace valentines themselves? she'd call him a _suitor_, wouldn't she? i wonder if she ever had one." then bowser, piecing together the fragmentary gossip of fifteen years, told marion all he knew of miss anastasia's gentle romance; and marion, idly clasping and unclasping the little yale pin on her jacket, gained another peep into the kaleidoscope of human experiences. "i have read of such devotion to a memory," she said when the story was done, "but i never met it in the flesh. what a pity he died while he was on such a high pedestal in her imagination. if he had lived she would have discovered that there are no such paragons, and all the other sons of adam needn't have suffered by comparison. so she's an old maid simply because she put her ideal of a lover so high in the clouds nobody could live up to it! dear old miss anastasia!" bowser pulled his beard. "such couples make me think of these here lamps with double wicks," he said. "they hardly ever burn along together evenly. one wick is sure to flare up higher than the other; you either have to keep turning it down and get along with a half light or let it smoke the chimney--maybe crack it--and make things generally uncomfortable. but here comes somebody, miss marion, who's burned along pretty steady, and that through three administrations. it's her brag that she's had three husbands and treated them just alike, even to the matter of tombstones. 'not a pound difference in the weight nor a dollar in the price,' she always says." the newcomer was a fat, wheezy woman, spattered with mud from the hem of her skirt to the crown of her big crape bonnet, which had tipped on one side with the jolting of the wagon. "well, jim bowser!" she exclaimed, catching sight of the valentines. "ef you ain't got out them silly, sentimental fol-de-rols again! my nephew, jason potter,--that's my second husband's sister's son, you know,--spent seventy-five cents last year to buy one of them silly things to send to his girl; and i says to him, 'jason,' says i, 'ef _i'd_ been lib meadows, that would 'uv cooked your goose with _me_! any man simple enough to waste his substance so, wouldn't make a good provider.' i ought to know--i've been a wife three times." this, like all other of mrs. power's conversational roads, led back to the three tombstones, and started a flow of good-natured badinage on the subject of matrimony, which continued long after she had taken her noisy departure. "well!" exclaimed bud hines, as the big crape bonnet went jolting down the road, "i guess there's three good men gone that could tell why heaven is heaven." "why?" asked cy akers. "because there's no marryin' or givin' in marriage there." "bud speaks feelingly!" said cy, winking at the others. "he'd better get a job on a newspaper to write side talks with henpecked husbands." "shouldn't think _you'd_ want to hear any extrys or supplements," retorted bud. "you get enough in your own daily editions." * * * * * "st. valentine has been generous with my little polly," said the old miller, looking up fondly at the tall, graceful girl, coming into his room, her face aglow and her arms full of packages. "but what's the good of it all, grandfather?" answered marion. "i've been looking into cupid's kaleidoscope through other people's eyes this afternoon, and nothing is rose-coloured as i thought. everything is horrid. 'marriage is a failure,' and sentiment is a silly thing that people make flippant jokes about, or else break their hearts with, like mr. bowser's double-wick lamps, that flare up and crack their chimneys. i've come to the conclusion that st. valentine has outlived his generation." she broke the string which bound one of the boxes that she had dropped on the table, and took out a great dewy bunch of sweet violets. as their fragrance filled the room, the old man looked around as if half expecting to see some familiar presence; then dropped his white head with a sigh, and gazed into the embers on the hearth, lost in a tender reverie. presently he said, "i wish you would hand me that box on my wardrobe shelf, little girl." as marion opened the wardrobe door, something hanging there made her give a little start of surprise. it was an old familiar gray dress, with the creases still in the bent sleeves just as they had been left when the tired arms last slipped out of them. that was ten years ago; and marion, standing there with a mist gathering in her eyes, recalled the day her grandfather had refused to let any one fold it away. it had hung there all those years, the tangible reminder of the strong, sweet presence that had left its imprint on every part of the household. "it is like my life since she slipped out of it," the old man had whispered, smoothing the empty sleeve with his stiff old fingers. "like my heart--set to her ways at every turn, and left just as she rounded it out--but now--so empty!" he lifted an old dog-eared school-book from the box that marion brought him, a queer little "geography and atlas of the heavens," in use over fifty years ago. inside was a tiny slip of paper, time-yellowed and worn. the ink was faded, until the words written in an unformed girlish hand were barely legible: "true as grapes grow on a vine, i will be your valentine." "i had put a letter into her murray's grammar," he explained, holding up another little book. "here is the page, just at the conjugation of the verb 'to love.' you see i was a big, shy, overgrown boy that lost my tongue whenever i looked at her, although she wasn't fifteen then, and only reached my shoulder. this valentine was the answer that she slipped into my atlas of the heavens. i thought the sky itself had never held such a star. we walked home across the woodland together that day, never saying a word. it was the last of the february thaw, and the birds were twittering as if it were really spring. just such a day as this. all of a sudden, right at my feet, i saw something smiling up at me, blue as the blue of my polly's eyes. i stooped and brushed away the leaves, and there were two little violets. "as i gave them to her i wanted to say, 'there will always be violets in my heart for you, my polly,' but i couldn't speak a word. i know she understood, for long years after--when she was dead--i found them here. she had pinned them on the page where my letter had lain, here on the conjugation that says, 'we love,' and she had added the word '_for ever_.'" a tear dropped on the dead violets as the old man reverently closed the book, and sat gazing again into the dying embers. there was a tremulous smile on his face. was it backward over the hills of their youth he was wandering, or ahead to those heights of hope, where love shall "put on immortality?" marion laid her warm cheek against her violets, still fragrant with the sweetness of their fresh, unfaded youth. then taking a cluster from the great dewy bunch, she fastened it at her throat with the little yale pin. chapter v trade was dull at the cross-roads. jim bowser, his hands thrust into his pockets and his lips puckered to a whistle, stood looking through the dingy glass of his front door. march was coming in with a snow-storm, and all he could see in any direction was a blinding fall of white flakes. there were only three men behind the stove that afternoon, and one of them was absorbed in a newspaper. conversation flagged, and from time to time bud hines yawned audibly. "this is getting to be mighty monotonous," remarked the storekeeper, glancing from the falling snow to the silent group by the stove. "march always is," answered bud hines. "the other months have some holiday in 'em; something to brighten 'em up, if it's no more than a family birthday. but to me, march is as dull and uninteresting as a mud road." "there's the inauguration this year," suggested cy akers, looking up from his newspaper. "that's a big event. this paper is full of it." "well, now you've hit it!" exclaimed bud, with withering scorn, as he bit off another chew of tobacco. "that is exciting! just about as interesting as watching a man take his second helping of pie. i wouldn't go across the road to see it. now in a monarchy, where death makes the changes, it can't get to be a cut and dried affair that takes place every four years. they make a grand occasion of it, too, with their pomp and ceremony. look at what england's just seen. it's the sight of a lifetime to bury a queen and crown a king. but what do we see when we change presidents? one man sliding into a chair and another sliding out, same as when the barber calls 'next!' humph!" cy akers rubbed his chin. "fuss and feathers! that's all it amounts to," he exclaimed. "i'm down on monopolies, and in my opinion it's the worst kind of monopoly to let one family crowd out everybody else in the king business. i like a country where every man in it has a show. not that i'd _be_ president, if they offered me double the salary, but it is worth a whole lot to me to feel that in case i did want the office, i've as good a right to it as any man living. and talk about sights--i say it's the sight of a lifetime to see a man step out from his place among the people, anywhere he happens to be when they call his name, take his turn at ruling as if he'd been born to it, and then step back as if nothing had happened." bud smiled derisively. "you only see that on paper, my boy. men don't step quietly into offices in this country. they run for 'em till they are red in the face, and it's the best runner that gets there, not the best man. monopoly in the king business keeps out the rabble, any how, and it gives a country a good deal more dignity to be ruled by a dynasty than by tom, dick, and harry." "well, there's no strings tied to you," said cy, testily, taking up his newspaper again. "when people don't like the way things are run on this side of the water, there's nothing to hinder emigration." there was a stamping of snowy feet outside the door, and a big, burly fellow blustered in, whom they hailed as henry bicking. he was not popular at the cross-roads, having the unenviable reputation of being a "born tease," but any diversion was welcome on such a dull day. in the catalogue of queer characters which every neighbourhood possesses, the autocrat, bore, and crank may take precedence of all others alphabetically, but the one that heads the list in disagreeableness is that infliction on society known as the "born tease." one can forgive the teasing propensity universally found in boys, as he would condone the playful destructiveness of puppyhood; something requiring only temporary forbearance. but when that trait refuses to be put away with childish things it makes of the man it dominates a sort of human mosquito. he regards every one in reach his lawful prey, from babies to octogenarians, and while he does not always sting, the persistency of his annoying attacks becomes exasperating beyond endurance. the same motive that made henry bicking pull cats' whiskers out by the roots when he was a boy, led him to keep his children in a turmoil, and his sensitive little wife in tears half the time. he had scarcely seated himself by the stove when he was afforded opportunity for his usual pastime by the entrance of half a dozen children, who came tumbling in on their way home from school to warm. he began with a series of those inane questions by which grown people have made themselves largely responsible for the pertness of the younger generation. if children of this day have departed from that delectable state wherein they were seen and not heard, the fault is due far more to their elders than to them. often they have been made self-conscious, and forced into saucy self-assertion by the teasing questions that are asked merely to provoke amusing replies. henry bicking's quizzing had an element of cruelty in it. his was the kind that pinches his victims' ears, that tickles to the verge of agony, that threatens all sorts of disagreeable things, for the sake of seeing little faces blanch with fright, or eyes fill with tears of pain. "come here, woodpecker," he began, reaching for a child whose red hair was the grief of his existence. but the boy deftly eluded him, and the little fellow standing next in line, drying his snowball-soaked mittens, became the victim. he was dragged unwillingly to his tormentor's knee. "what are you going to be when you're a man?" was demanded, when the first questions had elicited the fact that the child's name was sammy perkins, and that he was eight years old. but perkins's oldest, having no knowledge of the grammar of life beyond its present tense indicative, hung his head and held his tongue at mention of its future potential. "if you don't tell me you sha'n't have your mittens!" bicking dangled them tantalisingly out of reach, until, after an agonising and unsuccessful scramble, the child was forced into a tearful reply. then he began again: "which are you for, democrats or republicans?" "ain't for neither." "well, you're the littlest mugwump i ever did see. mugwumps ain't got any right to wear mittens. i've a notion to pitch 'em in the stove." "oh, _don't_!" begged the child. "_please_, mister! i'm not a mugwump!" the tragic earnestness of the child as he disclaimed all right to the term of reproach which he could not understand, yet repudiated because of its obnoxious sound, amused the man hugely. he threw back his head and laughed. "tell me who you holler for!" he continued, catching him up and holding him head downward a moment. then goaded by more teasing questions and a threatening swing of his red mittens toward the stove door, perkins's oldest was at last led to take a bold stand on his party platform, and publicly declare his political preference. but it was in a shaking voice and between frightened sobs. "m-ma, she's for mckinley, an' p-pap, he's for b-bryan, so i jus' holler for uncle sam!" "good enough for you, sonny," laughed the storekeeper. "that's true blue americanism. stick to uncle sam and never mind the parties. they've had new blades put on their old handles, and new handles put on those old blades again, till none of 'em are what we started out with. we keep on calling them 'genuine barlows,' but it's precious little of the original barlows we're hanging on to nowadays." * * * * * it was a woman's voice that interrupted the conversation. mrs. teddy mahone had come in for some tea. "arrah, misther bicking! give the bye his mitts! you're worrse than a cat with a mouse." the loud voice with its rich irish brogue drew cy akers's attention from his newspaper. "by the way, bud," he exclaimed, raising his voice so that mrs. mahone could not fail to hear, "you were complaining about march being so dull and commonplace without any holidays. you've forgotten st. patrick's day." "no, i haven't. st. patrick is nothing to me. there's no reason i should take any interest in him." "and did you hear that, mrs. mahone," asked henry bicking, anxious to start a war of words. "oh, oi heard it, indade oi did!" she answered with a solemn shake of the head. "it grieves the hearrt of me to hear such ingratichude. there's niver a sowl in all ameriky but has cause to be grateful for what he's done for this counthry." "what's he ever done?" asked bud, skeptically. there was a twinkle in mrs. mahone's eyes as she answered: "it was this way. a gude while back whin it was at the beginnin' iv things, ameriky said to herself wan day, 'it's a graand pudding oi'll be afther makin' meself, by a new resait oi've just thought iv.' so she dips into this counthry for wan set iv immygrants, an' into another counthry for another batch, and after a bit a foine mess she had iv 'em. dutch an' frinch an' eyetalian, rooshian, spaniards an' haythen chinee, all stirred up in wan an' the same pudding-bag. "'somethin's lackin',' siz she, afther awhile, makin' a wry face. "'it's the spice,' siz st. pathrick, 'ye lift out iv it, an' the leaven. ye'll have to make parsinal application to meself for it, for oi'm the only wan knowin' the saicret of where it's to be found.' "'then give me some,' siz she, an' st. pathrick, not loikin' to lave a leddy in trouble, reached out from the auld sod and handed her a fair shprinklin' of them as would act as both spice an' leaven. "'they'll saison the whole lot,' siz he, 'an' there's light-heartedness enough among them to raise the entoire heavy mass in your whole united pudding-bag.' "'thanks,' siz she, stirrin' us in. 'it's the makin' of the dish, sorr, and oi'm etarnally obliged to ye, sorr. oi'll be afther puttin' the name of st. pathrick in me own family calendar, and ivery year on that day, it's the pick iv the land that'll take pride in addin' to me own shtars an' shtripes the wearin' o' the green.' "ye see, misther hines, ye may think ye're under no parsinal obligation to him, but down-hearted as ye are by nature, what wud ye have been had ye niver coom in conthact with the leaven of st. pathrick at all, sorr? oi ask ye that." * * * * * late that night bowser pushed his ledger aside with a yawn, and got down from his high stool to close the store. as he counted the meagre contents of the cash drawer, he reviewed the day, whose minutes had been as monotonous in passing as the falling of the snowflakes outside. it had left nothing behind it to distinguish it from a hundred other days. the same old faces! the same kind of jokes! the same round of commonplace duties! a spirit of unrest seized him, that made him chafe against such dreary monotony. when he went to the door to put up the shutters, the beauty of the night held him a moment, and he stood looking across the wide fields, lying white in moonlight and snow. far down the road a lamp gleamed from the window of an upper room in the old miller's house, where anxious vigil had been kept beside him for hours. the crisis was passed now. only a little while before, the doctor had stopped by to say that their old friend would live. down the track a gleaming switch-light marked the place where a wreck had been narrowly averted that morning. "and no telling how many other misfortunes we've escaped to-day," mused bowser. "maybe if a light could be swung out for each one, folks would see that the dull gray days when nothing happens are the ones to be most thankful for, after all." chapter vi april sunshine of mid-afternoon poured in through the open door of the cross-roads. the usual group of loungers had gathered around the rusty stove. there was no fire in it; the day was too warm for that, but force of habit made them draw their chairs about it in a circle, as if this common centre were the hub, from which radiated the spokes of all neighbourly intercourse. the little schoolmistress was under discussion. her short reign in district no. 3 had furnished a topic of conversation as inexhaustible as the weather, for her régime was attended by startling changes. luckily for her, the young ideas enjoyed being taught to shoot at wide variance from the targets set up by parental practice and tradition, else the tales told out of school might have aroused more adverse criticism than they did. "you can't take much stock in her new-fangled notions," was the unanimous opinion at the cross-roads. she had "put the cart before the horse" when she laid the time-honoured alphabet on the shelf, and gave the primer class a whole word at a mouthful, before it had cut a single orthographic tooth on such primeval syllables as a-b ab. "look at my willie," exclaimed one of the district fathers. "beating around the bush with talk about a picture cow, and a real cow, and a word cow, and not knowing whether b comes after w or x. at his age i could say the alphabet forwards or backwards as fast as tongue could go without a slip." "she's done _one_ sensible thing," admitted cy akers. "they tell me she's put her foot down on the scholars playing april fool tricks this year." "i don't see why," said henry bicking. "it has been one of the customs in this district since the schoolhouse was built. what's the harm if the children do take one day in the year for a little foolishness? let them have their fun, i say." "but they've carried it too far," was the answer. "it's scandalous they should be allowed to abuse people's rights and feelings and property as they have done the last few years. first of april doesn't justify such cutting up any more than the first of august." "she's got scripture on her side," said squire dobbs. "you know solomon says, 'as a mad man who casteth firebrands, arrows, and death, so is the man that deceiveth his neighbour and saith, am i not in sport?'" "she can't stamp out such a deep-rooted custom in one day," protested bicking. "you can bet on the little school-ma'am every time," laughed bowser. "my daughter milly says they didn't have regular lessons yesterday afternoon. she had them put their books in their desks. "said they'd been studying about wise men all their lives, now they'd study about fools awhile; the fools of proverbs and the fools of history. "she read some stories, too, about a cruel disappointment and the troubles brought about by some thoughtless jokes on the first of april. mighty interesting stories, milly said. you could have heard a pin drop, and some of the girls cried. then she drew a picture on the blackboard of a court jester, in cap and bells, and asked if they wouldn't like a change this year. instead of everybody acting the fool and doing silly things they'd all be ashamed of if they'd only stop to think, wouldn't they rather she'd appoint just one scholar to play the fool for all of them, as the old kings used to do. "they agreed to that, quick enough, thinking what fun they'd have teasing the one chosen to be it. then she said she'd appoint the first one this morning who showed himself most deserving of the office. milly says from the way she smiled when she said it, they're all sure she means to choose the first one who plays an april fool joke. she'd put it so strong to 'em how silly it was, that there ain't a child in school you could hire to run the risk of being appointed fool for the day. so i think she's coming out ahead as usual." "after all," said bud hines, "there's some lessons to be got out of those old tricks we used to play. for instance, the pocketbook tied to a string. seems to me that everything in life worth having has a string tied to it, and just as i am about to pick it up, fate snatches it out of my hands." "don't you believe it, buddy," said bowser, cheerfully; "you take notice those pocketbooks on strings are always empty ones, and they don't belong to us, so we have no business grabbing for them or feeling disappointed because we can't get something for nothing." but bud waved aside the interruption mechanically. "then there's the _gifts_ with strings tied to 'em," he continued. "my wife has a rich aunt who is always sending her presents, and writing, 'understand this is for _you_, louisy. you're too generous, and i don't want anybody but your own deserving self to wear this.' now out in the country here, my wife doesn't have occasion to wear handsome clothes like them once a year, while they'd be the very thing for clara may, off at normal school. but not a feather or a ribbon can the child touch because her great-aunt bought them expressly for her ma. goodness knows she'd have a thousand times more pleasure in seeing clara may enjoy them, than knowing they were lying away in bureau drawers doing nobody any good. when she takes 'em out at house-cleaning times i say, 'ma,' says i, 'deliver me from gifts with strings tied to 'em. i'd rather have a ten-cent bandanna, all mine, to have and to hold or to give away as pleased me most, than the finest things your aunt honigford's money could buy, if i had to account to her every time i turned around in them.' "when i give anything i _give_ it, and don't expect to come back, spying around ten years afterward to see if it's worn out, or cracked, or faded, or broken. that's my doctrine." * * * * * marion holmes, driving along the country road in the old miller's antiquated chaise, drew rein in front of a low picket gate, overhung by mammoth snowball bushes. down the path, between the rows of budding lilacs and japonicas, came an old gentleman in a quaintly cut, long-tailed coat. he was stepping along nimbly, although he leaned hard on his gold-headed cane. "'a man he was to all the country dear,'" quoted marion softly to herself as the minister's benign face smiled a greeting through his big square-bowed spectacles. "i know he must have been goldsmith's friend, and i wish i dared ask him how long he lived in the deserted village." but all she called out to him as he stopped with a courtly bow, under the snowball bushes, was a cheery good morning and an invitation to take a seat beside her if he wanted to drive to the cross-roads store. "thank you, miss polly," he answered, "that is my destination. i am on my way there for a text." "for a what?" exclaimed marion in surprise, turning the wheel for him to step in beside her. "for a text for my easter sermon," he explained as they drove on in the warm april sunshine. "ah, i see, miss polly, you have not discovered the school of philosophers that centres around the cross-roads store. well, it's not to be wondered at; few people do. i spent a winter in rome, when i was younger, and one of my favourite walks was up on the pincian hill. the band plays in the afternoons, you know, and tourists flock to see the queen drive by. there is a charming view from the summit--the dome of st. peters against the blue italian sky, the old yellow tiber crawling along under its bridges from ruin to ruin, and the immortal city itself, climbing up its historic hills. and on the pincio one meets everybody,--soldiers and courtiers, flower girls and friars, monks in robes of every order, and pilgrims from all parts of the world. "the first time i was on the hill, as i wandered among the shrubbery and flowers, i noticed a row of moss-grown pedestals set along each side of the drive for quite a distance. each pedestal bore the weather-beaten bust of some old sage or philosopher or hero. "they made no more impression on my mind then, than so many fence-posts, but later i found a workman repairing the statuary one day. he had put a new nose on the mutilated face of an old philosopher, and that fresh white nasal appendage, standing out jauntily in the middle of the ancient gray visage, was so ludicrous i could not help smiling whenever i passed it. i began to feel acquainted with the old fellow, as day after day that nose forced my attention. sometimes, coming upon him suddenly, the only familiar face in a city full of strangers, i felt that he was an old friend to whom i should take off my hat. then it became so that i rarely passed him without recalling some of his wise sayings that i had read at college. many a time he and his row of stony-eyed companions were an inspiration to me in that way. "it was so that i met these men at the cross-roads. they scarcely claimed my attention at first. then one day i heard one of them give utterance to a time-worn truth in such an original way that i stopped to talk to him. "trite as it was, he had hewn it himself out of the actual experiences of his own life. it was the result of his own keen observation of human nature. set as it was in his homely, uncouth dialect, it impressed me with startling force. then i listened to his companions, and found that they, too, were sometimes worthy of pedestals. unconsciously to themselves they have often given me suggestions for my sermons. ah, it's a pity that the backwoods has no pincio on which to give its philosophers to posterity!" * * * * * half an hour later as they drove homeward, marion glanced at her companion. "no text this time," she laughed, breaking the reverie into which the old minister had fallen. "your sages said nothing but 'good morning, sir,' and there wasn't a single suggestion of easter in the whole store, except the packages of egg dyes, and some impossible little chocolate rabbits. oh, yes,--those two little boys playing on the doorstep. tommy bowser had evidently taken time by the forelock and sampled his father's dyes, for he had a whole hatful of coloured eggs, and was teaching that little perkins boy how to play 'bust.' he was an apt scholar, for while i watched he won five of tommy's eggs and never cracked his own. you should have seen them." "oh, i saw them," said the minister, with a smile. "it was those same little lads who suggested the text for my easter sermon." marion gave a gasp of astonishment. "would you mind telling me _how_?" she exclaimed. "it came about very naturally. there they stood with their hands full of the easter eggs, with never a thought of what they symbolised--the breaking shell--the rising of this little embryo earth-existence to the free full-winged life of the resurrection. they were too intent on their little game, on their small winnings and losings, to have a thought for higher things. as i watched them it occurred to me how typical it was of all the children of men, and instantly that text from luke flashed into my mind: '_their eyes were holden._' do you remember? it was when the two disciples went down to emmaus. i often picture it," mused the old man after a little pause. "the green of the olive groves, the red and white of the blossoming almond-trees, the late afternoon sunshine, and those two discouraged fishermen trudging along the dusty road. they were turning away from a lost cause and a buried hope, too absorbed in their overwhelming grief to see that it was the risen lord himself who walked beside them. not till the end of their journey did they know why it was that their hearts had burned within them as he talked with them by the way. their eyes were holden. "how typical that is, too, miss polly. sometimes we go on to the end of life, missing the comfort and help that we might have had at every step, because we look up at our lord only through eyes of clay, and hold communion with him as with a stranger. yes, i shall certainly make that the subject of my easter sermon, miss polly. thank you for helping me discover it." that next sunday as marion sat in church beside the old miller, her gaze wandered from the lilies in the chancel to the faces of the waiting congregation. bud hines was there and bowser, cy akers, and even perkins's oldest, whose game of "bust" had suggested the helpful sermon of the morning. marion studied the serious, weather-beaten faces with new interest. "it is not in spiritual things alone that our eyes are holden," she said to herself. "i have been looking at only the commonplace exterior of these people. it takes a man like the old minister to recognise unpedestalled virtues and to set them on the pincio they deserve." chapter vii the old saying that "there are always two sides to a story" has worn a deep rut into the popular mind. it has been handed down to us so often with an air of virtuous rebuke, that we have come to regard the individual who insists on his two-sided theory as the acme of all that is broad-minded and tolerant. but in point of fact, if two sides is all he sees, he is only one remove from the bigot whose mental myopia limits him to a single narrow facet. even such a thing as a may-day picnic is polyhedral. the little schoolmistress, who was the chief promoter of the one at the cross-roads, would have called it a parallelopiped, if she had been there that morning, to have seen the different expressions portrayed on the faces of six people who were interested in it. the business side of the picnic appealed to bowser. as he bustled around, dusting off cases of tinned goods that he had long doubted his ability to dispose of, and climbed to the top shelves for last summer's shop-worn cans of sardines and salmon, as he sliced cheese, and counted out the little leathery lemons that time had shrivelled, his smile was as bland as the may morning itself. one could plainly see that he regarded this picnic as a special dispensation of providence, to help him work off his old stock. there were no loungers in the store. field and garden claimed even the idlest, and only the old miller, who had long ago earned his holiday, sat in the sun on the porch outside, with his chair tipped back against the wall. at intervals a warm breath from the apple orchard, in bloom across the road, touched his white hair in passing, and stirred his memory until he sat oblivious of his surroundings. he was wholly unmindful of the gala stir about him, save when polly recalled his wandering thoughts. she, keenly alive to every sensation of the present, stood beside him with her hand on his shoulder, while she waited for her picnic basket to be filled. "isn't it an ideal may-day, grandfather?" she exclaimed. "it gives me a real englishy feeling of skylarks and cuckoos and cowslips, of primroses and village greens. i think it is dear of the little school-ma'am to resurrect the old may-pole dance, and give the children some idea of 'merrie old england' other than the dates and dust of its ancient history." unconsciously beating time with light fingertips on the old man's shoulder, she began to hum half under her breath: "'and then my heart with rapture thrills, and dances with the daffodills-o-dills- and dances with the daffodils!'" suddenly she broke off with a girlish giggle of enjoyment. "listen, grandfather. there's little cora bowser up-stairs, rehearsing her speech while she dresses. isn't it delicious to be behind the scenes!" through an open bedroom window, a high-pitched, affected little voice came shrilly down to them: "'if you're _wa_-king, call me _early_! call me _early_, mother dear!'" "now, cora," interrupted the maternal critic, "you went and forgot to make your bow; and how many times have i told you about turning your toes out? you'll have to begin all over again." then followed several beginnings, each brought to a stop by other impatient criticisms. there were so many pauses in the rehearsal and reminders to pay attention to manners, commas, and refractory ribbons, that when cora was finally allowed to proceed, it was in a tearful voice punctuated with sobs, that she declared, "'to-morrow will be the ha-happiest day of all the g-glad new year.'" "'uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,'" quoted the old miller with a smile, as mrs. bowser's parting injunction reached their ears. "now, cora, for goodness' sake, don't you forget for one minute this whole enduring day, that them daisies on your crown came off your teacher's best hat, and have to be put back on. if you move around much to the picnic you might lose some of 'em. best keep pretty quiet anyway, or your sash will come unpinned, and the crimp will all get out of your hair. wish i'd thought to iron them plaits before i unbraided 'em. they'd have been lots frizzier." it was a very stiffly starched, precise little queen o' the may who came down the steep back stairs into the store. she stepped like a careful peacock, fearing to ruffle a feather of her unrivalled splendour. her straight flaxen hair, usually as limp as a string, stood out in much crimped profusion from under her gilt paper crown. polly could not decide whether the pucker on the little forehead came from anxiety concerning the borrowed daisies which starred her crown, or the fact that it was too tightly skewered to the royal head by a relentless hat-pin. one of the picnic wagons was waiting at the door, and as bowser lifted her in among her envious and admiring schoolmates, polly saw with sympathetic insight which of its many sides the picnic parallelopiped was presenting to the child in that proud moment. the feeling of supreme importance that it bestowed is a joy not permitted to all, and rarely does it come to any mortal more than once in a lifetime. but for every haman, no matter how resplendent, sits an unmoved mordecai in the king's gate. so to this little sheba of the cross-roads there was one who bowed not down. perkins's oldest, on the front seat beside the driver, had no eyes for her. he scarcely looked in her direction. his glances were all centred on the baskets which bowser was packing in around his feet. he smelled pickles and pies and ham sandwiches. he knew of sundry tarts and dressed eggs in his own basket, and wild rumours had reached his ears that miss polly intended to stand treat to the extent of bowser's entire stock of bananas and candy. aside from hopes of a surreptitious swim in the creek and a wild day in the woods, his ideas of a picnic were purely prandial. across the road, miss anastasia dill, peeping through the blinds, watched the wagon rattle off with its merry load. long after the laughing voices had passed beyond her hearing, she still stood there, one slender hand holding back the curtain, and the other shading her faded blue eyes, as she gazed absently after them. it was the sunshine of another may-day she was looking into. presently with a little start she realised that she was not out in the cool green woods with a may-basket in her hands, brimming over with anemones. she was all alone in her stuffy little parlour, with its hair-cloth furniture and depressing crayon portraits. and the canary was chirping loudly for water, and the breakfast cups were still unwashed. but for once, heedless of her duties, even unmindful of the fact that she had left the shutters open, and the hot sun was streaming across her cherished store carpet, she drew a chair up to the marble-topped centre table, and deliberately sat down. there was a pile of old-fashioned daguerreotypes in front of her. she opened them one by one, and then took up another that lay by itself on a blue beaded mat. so the face it dimly pictured held a sacred place, apart, in her memory. when her eyes had grown misty with long gazing, she lifted a book from its place beside the family bible. it was bound in red leather, and it had a quaint wreath of embossed roses around the gilt letters of its title, "the album of the heart." it was an autograph album, and as she slowly turned the pages she remembered that every hand that had traced a sentiment or a signature therein had once upon a time gathered anemones with her in some one of those other may-days. then she turned through the pages again. of all that circle of early friends not one was left to give her a hand-clasp. she had friends in plenty, but the old ones--the early ones--the roots of whose growth had twined with hers in the intimacy known only to childhood, were all gone. the may-day picnic brought only a throb of pain to gentle miss anastasia, for to her it was but the lonely echo of a "voice that was still." bud hines watched the wagon drive away with far different emotions. he had happened to come into the store for a new hoe, as the gay party started. "it's all foolishness," he grumbled to the miller, "to lose a whole day's schooling while they go gallivanting around the country for nothing. they'll ride ten miles to find a place to eat their dinner in, and pass by twenty on the way nicer than the one they finally pick out. they'd better be doing sums in school, or grubbing weeds out of the garden, instead of playing 'frog in the meadow' around a fool british may-pole." he looked around inquiringly as if he expected his practical listener to agree with him. but all the sympathy he got from the old miller was one of the innumerable proverbs he seemed to keep continually on tap. "'all work and no play makes jack a dull boy,' bud. life is apt to be little but sums and grubbing for the youngsters by and by, so let them make the most of their may-days now." * * * * * the sequels of picnics are also polyhedral. miss anastasia, lingering at her front gate in the early twilight, that she might enjoy to the last moment the orchard odours that filled all the balcony outdoors, heard the rattle of returning wheels. she had had a pleasant day, despite the tearful retrospection of the morning, for she had attended the great social function of the neighbourhood, the monthly missionary tea. it had brought immeasurable cheer, and now she was returning with a comfortable conviction that she was to be envied far above any of her neighbours. the consciousness of having on her best gown, of being the mistress of the trim little home to which she was going, of freedom from a hundred harassing cares that she had heard discussed that afternoon, all combined to make her supremely contented with her lot. "poor children," she sighed, as the tired, dirty little picnickers were lifted from the wagon across the road. "they look as if the game hadn't been worth the candle. i'm glad that i've outgrown such things." perkins's oldest, having soaked long in the cold creek, and sampled every dinner-basket with reckless abandon till he could sample no more, sat doubled up in the straw of the wagon-bed. he was white about the mouth, and had he been called upon to debate the time-worn question, "resolved, that there is more pleasure in pursuit than in possession," the tarts and sandwiches of that day's picnic would have furnished several dozen indisputable arguments for the affirmative. the dishevelled little queen sat beside him, tired out by her day's wild frolic, with starch and frizzes all gone. as she was lifted over the wheel, and put down on the doorstep, a limp little bunch of woe, miss anastasia heard her bewailing her fate. she had lost the stars from her crown, the borrowed daisies that must be reckoned for on the morrow. the amused listener smiled to herself under cover of the twilight, as she heard bowser's awkward attempts at consolation, for all the comfort that he could muster was an old saw learned from the miller: "never mind, cora, pa's mighty sorry for his little girl. but you know: "'when a man buys meat he buys bone, and when he buys land he buys stone. you must take the bad with the good.'" chapter viii there is something in the air of june that stirs even insentient things with a longing to blossom. staid old universities blaze out with the gala colours of commencement week, when the month of roses is ushered in, and on every college campus the social life of the student year comes to flower in the crowning exercises of class-day. one wonders sometimes if the roots, burrowing underground in order to fill the bush overhead with myriads of roses, have any share in the thrill of success at having produced such a wealth of sweetness and beauty. but there need be no surmise about college florescence. faculties may beam with complacency on their yearly cluster of full-blown graduates, the very walls of the gray old universities may thrill as they echo the applause of admiring audiences, but the greatest pride is not felt within the college town itself where the student life centres. it is back in the roots that have made college life possible. back in some parental existence that daily sinks itself farther into the commonplace in order that some son or daughter may blossom into the culture of arts and belles-lettres. the jacqueminot that flaunts its glory over the garden wall may not sweeten life for the fibres that lift it, but the valedictorian who flaunts his diploma and degree in the classic halls of some sea-board college may be glorifying the air of some little backwoods village a thousand miles inland. even the cross-roads are bound with a network of such far-reaching roots to the commencements of harvard and yale. it was cy akers's boy who came home this june, a little lifted up, perhaps, by the honours he had won; thoroughly impressed with the magnitude of his own knowledge and the meagreness of other peoples', but honestly glad at first to get back to the old home and neighbours. the family pride in him was colossal. old cy encouraged his visits to the cross-roads store, inventing excuses for going which he considered the acme of subtle diplomacy. but his motives were as transparent as a child's. illiterate himself, he wanted his neighbours to see what college had done for his boy in the way of raising him head and shoulders above them all. and the boy was good-naturedly compliant. he was as willing to show off mentally as he had been to lend a hand in the wheat harvest, and demonstrate what football training had done for him in the way of developing muscle. like perkins's oldest, his education had begun with the primer of the cross-roads. he could remember the time when he, too, had ignorantly believed this to be the only store in the universe, and wondered if there were enough people living to consume all its contents. now he smiled to himself when he looked around the stuffy little room and saw the same old butter firkins crowding the--apparently--same old calico and crockery, and looked up at the half-dozen hams still swinging sociably from the low rafters. time had been, too, when he thought the men who gossiped around its rusty stove on saturday afternoons knew everything. like perkins's oldest, he had unquestioningly formulated the creed of his boyhood from their conversations, and he smiled again when he recalled how he had been warped in those early days by their prejudices and short-sighted opinions. the smile extended outwardly when he walked into their midst to find them repeating the same old saws about the weather, and the way the country was going to the dogs. yet in his salad days these time-honoured prognostications had seemed to him the wisdom of seers and sages. probably it was the thought that he had travelled far beyond the narrow confines of the cross-roads that gave his conversation a patronising tone. but the cross-roads refused to be patronised. he learned that on the day of his arrival. it was the first lesson of a valuable post-graduate course. that a man away from home may be mister robert harrison hamilton akers, with all the a. b.'s and ll. d.'s after his name that an educational institution can bestow; but as soon as he sets foot again on his native heath, where he has gone through the vicissitudes of boyhood, he is shorn of titles and degrees as completely as samson was shorn of his locks, and his strength straightway falls from him. he is nobody but bobby akers, and everybody remembers when he robbed birds' nests, and stole grapes, and played hooky, and was a little freckle-faced, snub-nosed neighbourhood terror. a man cannot maintain his importance long in the face of such reminiscences. no amount of university culture is going to lay the ghost of youthful indiscretions, and he might as well put his patronising proclivities in his pocket. they will not be tolerated by those who have patted him on the head when he wore roundabouts. * * * * * it was saturday afternoon, but it was also the and of the wheat-harvest, and the men were afield who usually gathered on the cross-roads porch to round up the week over their pipes and plugs of chewing tobacco. only three chairs were tilted back against the wall, and on these, with their heels caught over the front rungs, sat bowser, the old miller, and robert akers. the whirr of reaping machines came faintly up from the fields and near by, where several acres of waving yellow grain still stood uncut, a bob-white whistled cheerily. no one was talking. "knee-deep in june" would have voiced the thoughts of the trio, for they were "jes' a sort o' lazein' there," with their hats pulled over their eyes, enjoying to the utmost the perfect afternoon. every breeze was redolent with red clover and wild honeysuckle, and vibrant with soothing country sounds. "who is that coming up the road?" asked the miller, as a team and wagon appeared over the brow of the hill. "they wabble along like duncan smith's horses," answered the storekeeper, squinting his eyes for a better view. "yes, that's who it is. that's dunk on the top of the load. moving again, bless pete!" as the wagon creaked slowly nearer, a feather bed came into view, surmounting a motley collection of household goods, and perched upon it, high above the jangle of her jolting tins and crockery, sat mrs. duncan smith. a clock and a looking-glass lay in her lap, and, like a wise virgin, in her hands she carefully bore the family lamp. from frequent and anxious turnings of her black sunbonnet, it was evident that she was keeping her weather eye upon the chicken-coop, which was bound to the tail-board of the wagon by an ancient clothes-line. a flop-eared dog trotted along under the wagon. squeezed in between a bureau and the feather bed, two shock-headed children sat on a flour barrel, clutching each other at every lurch of the crowded van to keep from losing their balance. "howdy, dunk!" called the storekeeper, as the dusty pilgrims halted in front of the porch. "where are you bound now?" "over to the old neal place," answered the man, handing the reins to his wife, and climbing stiffly down over the wheel. going around to the back of the wagon, he unstrapped a kerosene can which swung from the pole underneath. "gimme a gallon of coal-ile, jim," he said. "i don't want to be left in the dark the first night, anyway. it takes awhile to git your bearings in a strange place, and it's mighty confusing to butt agin a half-open door where you've always been used to a plain wall, and it hurts like fire to bark your shins on a rocking-chair when you're steering straight for bed, and hain't no idee it's in the road. this time it'll be a little more so than usual," he added, handing over the can. "the house backs up agin a graveyard, you know. sort o' spooky till you git used to it." "what on earth did you move there for?" asked bowser. "they say the place is ha'nted." "to my mind the dead make better neighbours than the living," came the tart reply from the depths of the black sunbonnet. "at any rate, they mind their own business." "oh, come now, mrs. smith," began bowser, good-naturedly. "maybe you've been unfortunate in your choice of neighbours." "i've had a dozen different kinds," came the emphatic answer. "this'll make the twelfth move in eight years, so you can't say that i'm speaking from hearsay." "twelve moves in eight years!" exclaimed bowser, as the wagon went lurching and creaking on through the dust. "there's gipsy blood in that dunk smith, sure as you live. seems like that family can't be satisfied anywhere; always thinking they can better themselves by changing, and always getting out of the frying-pan into the fire. there wa'n't no well in the place where they settled when they was first married, and they had to carry water from a spring. the muscle put into packing that water up-hill those six months would have dug a cistern, but they were too short-sighted to see that. they jest played jack and jill as long as they could stand it, and then moved to a place where there was a cistern already dug. but there wa'n't any fruit on that place. if they'd have set out trees right away they'd have been eating from orchards of their own planting by this time. but they thought it was easier to move to where one was already set out. "then when they got to a place where they had both fruit and water, it was low, and needed draining. the water settled around the house, and they all had typhoid that summer. oh, they've spent enough energy packing up and moving on and settling down again in new places to have fixed the first one up to a queen's taste. they seem to be running a perpetual home-seeker's excursion. well, such a life might suit some people, but it would never do for me." "but such a life has some things in its favour," put in rob akers, always ready to debate any question that offered, for the mere pleasure of arguing. "it keeps a man from getting into a rut, and develops his ability to adapt himself to any circumstance. a man who hangs his hat on the same peg for fifty or sixty years gets to be so dependent on that peg that he would be uncomfortable if it were suddenly denied him. now dunk smith can never become such a slave to habit. then, too, moving tends to leave a man more unhampered. he gradually gets rid of everything in his possessions but the essentials. he hasn't a garret full of old claptraps, as most people have who never move from under their ancestral roof-trees. you saw for yourself, one wagon holds all his household goods and gods. "it is the same way with a man mentally. if he stays in the spot where his forefathers lived, in the same social conditions, he is apt to let his upper story accumulate a lot of worn-out theories that he has no earthly use for; all their old dusty dogmas and cob-webbed beliefs. he will hang on to them as on to the old furniture, because he happened to inherit them. if he would move once in awhile, keep up with the times, you know, he'd get rid of a lot of rubbish. it is especially true in regard to his religion. all those old superstitions, for instance, about jonah and the whale, and noah's ark and the like. "he hangs on to them, not because he cares for them himself, but because they were his father's beliefs, and he doesn't like to throw out anything the old man had a sentiment for. now, as i say, if he'd move once in awhile--do some scientific thinking and investigating on his own account--he'd throw out over half of what he holds on to now. he'd cut the most of genesis out of his bible, and let job slide as a myth. one of the finest bits of literature, to be sure, that can be found anywhere, but undoubtedly fiction. the sooner a man moves on untrammelled, i say, by those old heirlooms of opinion, the better progress he will make." "toward what?" asked the old miller, laconically. "dunk's moving next door to the graveyard." there was a twinkle in his eye, and the young collegian, who flattered himself that his speech was making a profound impression, paused with the embarrassing consciousness that he was affording amusement instead. "the last time i went east to visit my grandson," said the old man, meditatively, "his wife showed me a mahogany table in her dining-room which she said was making all her friends break the tenth commandment. it was a handsome piece of furniture, worth a small fortune. it was polished till you could see your face in it, and i thought it was the newest thing out in tables till she told me she'd rummaged it out of her great-grandmother's attic, and had it 'done over' as she called it. it had been hidden away in the dust and cobwebs for a lifetime because it had been pronounced too time-worn and battered and scratched for longer use; yet there it stood, just as beautiful and useful for this generation to spread its feasts on as it was the day it was made. every whit as substantial, and aside from any question of sentiment, a thousand times more valuable than the one that dunk smith drove past with just now. his table is modern, to be sure, but it's of cheap pine, too rickety to serve even dunk through his one short lifetime of movings. "i heard several lectures while i was there, too. one was by a man who has made a name for himself on both sides of the water as a scientist and a liberal thinker. he took up genesis, all scratched and battered as it is by critics, and showed us how it had been misunderstood and misconstrued. and by the time he'd polished up the meaning here and there, so that we could see the original grain of the wood, what it was first intended to be, it seemed like a new book, and fitted in with all the modern scientific ideas as if it had been made only yesterday. "there it stood, like the mahogany table that had been restored after people thought they had stowed it away in the attic to stay. just as firm on its legs, and as substantial for this generation to put its faith on, as it was in the days of the judges. "take an old man's word for it, robert, who has lived a long time and seen many a restless dunk smith fling out his father's old heirlooms, in his fever to move on to something new. solid mahogany, with all its dust and scratches, is better than the modern flimsy stuff, either in faith or furniture, that he is apt to pick up in its stead." chapter ix the booming of distant cannon had been sounding at intervals since midnight, ushering in the fourth, but bowser, although disturbed in his slumbers by each reverberation, did not rouse himself to any personal demonstration until dawn. then his patriotism manifested itself in a noisy tattoo with a hammer, as he made the front of his store gay with bunting, and nailed the word _welcome_ over the door, in gigantic letters of red, white, and blue. when he was done, each window wore a bristling eyebrow of stiff little flags, that gave the store an air of mild surprise. the effect was wholly unintentional on bowser's part, and, unconscious of the likeness to human eyes he had given his windows, he gazed at his work with deep satisfaction. but the expression was an appropriate one, considering all the astonishing sights the old store was to look upon that day. in the woodland across the railroad track, just beyond miss anastasia dill's little cottage, preparations were already begun for a grand barbecue. even before bowser had finished tacking up his flags, the digging of the trench had begun across the way, and the erection of a platform for the speakers. in one corner of the woodland a primitive merry-go-round had already been set in place, and the first passenger train from the city deposited an enterprising hoky-poky man, a peanut and pop-corn vender, and a lank black-bearded man with an outfit for taking tin-types. by ten o'clock the wood-lot fence was a hitching-place for all varieties of vehicles, from narrow sulkies to cavernous old carryalls. a haze of thick yellow dust, extending along the pike as far as one could see, was a constant accompaniment of fresh arrivals. each newcomer emerged from it, his sunday hat and coat powdered as thickly as the wayside weeds. smart side-bar buggies dashed up, their shining new tops completely covered with it. there was a great shaking of skirts as the girls alighted, and a great flapping of highly perfumed handkerchiefs, as the young country beaux made themselves presentable, before joining the other picnickers. slow-going farm wagons rattled along, the occupants of their jolting chairs often representing several generations, for the drawing power of a fourth of july barbecue reaches from the cradle to the grave. the unusual sight of such a crowd, scattered through the grove in gala attire, was enough of itself to produce a holiday thrill, and added to this was the smell of gunpowder from occasional outbursts of firecrackers, the chant of the hoky-poky man, and the hysterical laughter of the couples patronising the merry-go-round, as they clung giddily to the necks of the wooden ostriches and camels in the first delights of its dizzy whirl. "good as a circus, isn't it?" exclaimed robert akers, pausing beside the bench where the old miller and the minister sat watching the gay scene. "i'm having my fun walking around and taking notes. it is amusing to see how differently the affair impresses people, and what seems to make each fellow happiest. little tommy bowser, for instance, is in the seventh heaven following the hoky-poky man. he gets all that people leave in their dishes for helping to drum up a crowd of patrons. perkins's boy sticks by the merry-go-round. he has spent every cent of his own money, and had so many treats that he's spun around till he's so dizzy he's cross-eyed. one old fellow i saw back there is simply sitting on the fence grinning at everything that goes by. he's getting his enjoyment in job lots." "sit down," said the minister, sociably moving along the bench to make room beside him for the young man. "mr. holmes and i are finding our amusement in the same way, only we are not going around in search of it. we are catching at it as it drifts by." "what has happened to mrs. teddy mahone?" exclaimed rob, as a red-faced woman with an important self-conscious air hurried by. "she seems ubiquitous this morning, and as proud as a peacock over something. one would think she were the mistress of ceremonies from her manner." "or hostess, rather," said the miller. "she met me down by the fence on my arrival, and held out her hand as graciously as if she were a duchess in her own drawing-room, and i an invited guest. "'gude marnin' to yez, mr. holmes,' she said. 'i hope ye'll be afther enjyin' yerself the day. if anything intherferes wid yer comfort ye've but to shpake to mahone about it. he's been appinted _constable_ for the occasion, ye understhand. if i do say it as oughtn't, he can carry the title wid the best av 'im; him six fut two in his stockin's, an' the shtar shinin' on his wes'cut loike he'd been barn to the job.' "then she turned to greet some strangers from morristown, and i heard her introducing herself as mrs. _constable_ mahone, and repeating the same instructions she had given me, to report to her husband, in case everything was not to their liking." both listeners laughed at the miller's imitation of her brogue, and the minister quoted, with an amused smile: "'for never title yet so mean could prove, but there was eke a mind, which did that title love.' it is a pity we cannot dress more of them in 'a little brief authority.' it seems to be a means of grace to a certain class of hibernians. it has americanised the mahones, for instance. you'll find no patriots on the ground to-day more enthusiastic than mr. and mrs. constable mahone. fourth of july will be an honoured feast-day henceforth in their calendar. it is often surprising how quickly a policeman's buttons and billy will make a good citizen out of the wildest bog-trotter that ever brandished a shillalah." * * * * * later, in subsequent wanderings around the grounds, the young collegian spied the little schoolmistress helping to keep guard over the cake-table. he immediately crossed over and joined her. she was looking unusually pretty, and there was an amused gleam in her eyes as she watched the crowds, which made him feel that she was viewing the scene from his standpoint; that he had found a kindred spirit. "what incentive to patriotism do you see in all this, miss helen?" he asked, when he had induced her to turn over her guardianship of the cake-table to some one else, and join him in his tour among the boisterous picnickers. "none at all--yet," she answered. "i suppose that will come by and by with the songs and speeches. but all this foolishness seems a legitimate part of the celebration to me. you remember lowell says, 'if i put on the cap and bells, and made myself one of the court fools of king demos, it was less to make his majesty laugh than to win a passage to his royal ears for certain serious things which i had deeply at heart.' it takes a barbecue and its attendant attractions to draw a crowd like this. see what a hotch-potch it is of all nationalities. now that schneidmacher family never would have driven ten miles in this heat and dust simply to hear the band play 'hail, columbia,' and judge jackson make one of his spread-eagle speeches on the duty of the american citizen. neither would the o'gradys or any of the others who represent the foreign element in the neighbourhood. even young america himself, the type we see here, is more willing to come and bring his best girl on account of the diversions offered." "well, that may be so," was the reluctant assent, "but if this is a sample of the fourth of july observances all over the country i can't help feeling sorry for uncle sam. patriotism has sadly degenerated from the pace that patrick henry set for it." "the old miller says not," answered the little schoolmistress. "i made that same complaint last washington's birthday, when i was trying to work my school up to proper enthusiasm for the occasion. he recalled the drouth of the summer before when nearly every well and creek and pond in the township went dry. cattle died of thirst, gardens dried up like brick-kilns, and people around here were almost justified in thinking that the universe would soon be entirely devoid of water. the skies were like brass, and there was no indication of rain for weeks. but one day there was a terrific earthquake shock. it started all the old springs, and opened new ones all over this part of the country, and the water gushed out of the earth where it had been pent up all the time, only waiting for some such touch to call it forth. 'and you're afraid that patriotism is going dry in this generation,' he said to me. 'but it only takes some shock like the sinking of the _maine_, or some sudden menace to the public safety, to start a spring that will gush from plymouth rock to the golden gate. there is a deep underground vein in the american heart that no drouth can ever dry. maybe it does not come to the surface often, but it can always be depended on in time of need.'" the speakers for the day began to arrive, and rob, seeing the crowds gravitating toward the grand stand, took the little schoolmistress to the bench where the miller had stationed himself. "watch that old scotchman just in front of us," whispered the girl, "mr. sandy mcpherson. last thanksgiving there was a union service in the schoolhouse. after the sermon 'america' was sung, and that old heathen stood up and roared out through it all, at the top of his voice, every word of 'god save the queen!' wasn't that flaunting the thistle in our faces with a vengeance? i am sure that he will repeat the performance to-day. think of the dogged persistence that refuses to succumb to the fact that we have thrown off the british yoke! the very day we are celebrating that event, he'll dare to mix up our national hymn with 'god save the king.'" it was as she had predicted. as the band started with a great clash of brazen instruments, and the whole company rose to the notes of "america," sandy mcpherson's big voice, with its broad scotch burr, rolled out like a bass drum: "'thy choicest gifts in store, on _him_ be pleased to pour. long may _he_ reign.'" it drowned out every voice around him. "he ought to be choked," exclaimed rob, in righteous indignation, as they resumed their seats. "to-day of all days! the old tory has been living in this country for forty-five years, and a good living he's gotten out of it, too, for himself and family. nobody cares what he sings on his own premises, but he might have the decency to keep his mouth shut on occasions of this kind, if he can't join with us." there was a gleam of laughter in the little schoolmistress's eyes as she replied: "if the truth were known i have no doubt but that this fourth of july celebration is very like the pie in mother goose's song of sixpence, when her four and twenty blackbirds were baked in a pie. if this pie could be opened, and the birds begin to sing according to their sentiments, there would be a wonderful diversity of tunes. one would be twittering the 'marseillaise,' and another 'die wacht am rhein,' and another echoing old sandy's tune. america was in too big a hurry to serve her national pie, i am afraid. consequently she put it in half prepared, and turned it out half baked. the blackbirds should have had their voices tuned to the same key before they were allowed to become vital ingredients of such an important dish." "in other words," laughed rob, "you'd reconstruct the enfranchisement laws. make the term of probationary citizenship so long that the blackbird would have time to change his vocal chords, or even the leopard his anarchistic spots, before he would be considered fit to be incorporated in the national dish. by the way, miss helen, have you heard mrs. mahone's allegory of the united pudding bag? you and she ought to collaborate. get the storekeeper to repeat it to you sometime." "you needn't laugh," responded the little schoolmistress, a trifle tartly. "you know yourself that scores of emigrants are given the ballot before they can distinguish 'yankee doodle' from 'dixie,' and that is only typical of their ignorance in all matters regarding governmental affairs. too many people's idea of good citizenship is like the man's 'who kept his private pan just where 'twould catch most public drippings.' there is another mistaken idea loose in the land," she continued, after a moment. "that is, that a great hero must be a man who has a reputation as a great soldier. i wish i had the rewriting of all the school histories. they are better now than when i studied them, but there is still vast room for improvement. i had to learn page after page of wars. really, war and history were synonyms then as it was taught in the schools. every chapter was gory, and we were required to memorise the numbers killed, wounded, and captured in every battle, from the french and indian massacres, down to the last cannon-shot of the sixties. that is all right for government records and reference libraries, but when we give a text-book to the rising generation, the accounts of battles and the glorifying thereof would be better relegated to the foot-notes. it is loyal statesmanship that ought to be exalted in our school histories. we ought to make our heroes out of the legislators who cannot be bribed and public men who cannot be bought, and the honest private citizen who _lives_ for his country instead of dying for it." the old miller beside her applauded softly, leaning over to say, as the overture by the band came to a close with a grand clash, "if ever the blackbirds are tuned to one key, miss helen, america will know whom to thank. not the legislators, but the patriotic little schoolma'ams all over their land who are serving their country in a way her greatest generals cannot do." * * * * * all day the cross-roads store raised its bristling eyebrows of little flags, till the celebration came to a close. savoury whiffs of the barbecued meats floated across to it, vigorous hand-clapping and hearty cheers rang out to it between the impassioned words of excited orators. later there were the fireworks, and more rag-time music by the band, and renewed callings of the hoky-poky man. but before the moon came up there was a great backing of teams and scraping of turning wheels, and a gathering together of picnic-baskets and stray children. "well, it's over for another year," said bowser, welcoming the old miller, who had crossed the road and taken a chair on the porch to wait until the crowds were out of the way. "those were fine speeches we had this afternoon, but seemed to me as if they were plumb wasted on the majority of that crowd. they applauded them while they were going off, same as they did the rockets, but they forget in the next breath." as bowser spoke, a rocket whizzed up through the tree tops, and the old miller, looking up to watch the shining trail fade out, saw that the sky was full of stars. "that's the good of those speeches, bowser," he said. "'_to leave a wake, men's hearts and faces skyward turning._' i hadn't noticed that the stars were out till that rocket made me look up. the speeches may be forgotten, but they will leave a memory in their wake that give men an uplook anyhow." chapter x "guess who's come to board at the widder powers's for the month of august?" it was bowser who asked the question, and who immediately answered it himself, as every man on the porch looked up expectantly. "nobody more nor less than a _multimillionaire_! the big boot and shoe man, william a. maxwell. mrs. powers bought a bill of goods this morning as long as your arm. it's a windfall for _her_. he offered to pay regular summer-resort-hotel prices, because she's living on the old farm where he was born and raised, and he fancied getting back to it for a spell." "family coming with him?" queried cy akers, after a moment's meditation over the surprising fact that a millionaire with the world before him should elect such a place as the cross-roads in which to spend his vacation. "no, you can bet your bottom dollar they're not. and they're all abroad this summer or _he'd_ never got here. they'd had him dragged off to some fashionable watering-place with them. but when the cat's away the mice'll play, you know. mrs. powers says it is his first visit here since his mother's funeral twenty years ago, and he seems as tickled as a boy to get back. "yesterday evening he followed the man all around the place while she was getting supper. she left him setting up in the parlour, but when she went in to ask him out to the table, he was nowhere to be seen. pretty soon he came walking around the corner of the house with a pail of milk in each hand, sloshing it all over his store clothes. he'd done the milking himself, and seemed mightily set up over it." "lawzee! billy maxwell! don't i remember him?" exclaimed bud hines. "seems like 'twas only yesterday we used to sit on the same bench at school doin' our sums out of the same old book. the year old man prosser taught, we got into so much devilment that it got to be a regular thing for him to say, regular as clock-work, almost, 'i'll whip bud hines and billy maxwell after the first arithmetic class this morning.' i don't s'pose he ever thinks of those old times since he's got to be one of the four hundred. somehow i can hardly sense it, his bein' so rich. he never seemed any smarter than the rest of us. that's the way of the world, though, seesaw, one up and the other down. of course it's my luck to be the one that's down. luck always was against me." "there he is now," exclaimed the storekeeper, and every head turned to see the stranger stepping briskly along the platform in front of the depot, on his way to the telegraph office. he had the alertness of glance and motion that comes from daily contact with city corners. if there was a slight stoop in his broad shoulders, and if his closely cut hair and beard were iron gray, that seemed more the result of bearing heavy responsibilities than the token of advancing years. his immaculate linen, polished low-cut shoes, and light gray business suit would have passed unnoticed in the metropolis, but in this place, where coats and collars were in evidence only on sunday, they gave him the appearance of being on dress parade. perkins's oldest eyed him as he would a zebra or a giraffe, or some equally interesting curiosity escaped from a zoo. he had heard that his pockets were lined with gold, and that he had been known to pay as much as five dollars for a single lunch. five dollars would board a man two weeks at the cross-roads. with his mouth agape, the boy stood watching the stranger, who presently came over to the group on the porch with smiling face and cordial outstretched hand. despite his gray hair there was something almost boyish in the eagerness with which he recognised old faces and claimed old friendships. bowser's store had been built since his departure from the neighbourhood, so few of the congenial spirits accustomed to gather there were familiar to him. but bud hines and cy akers were old schoolfellows. when he would have gone up to them with old-time familiarity, he found a certain restraint in their greeting which checked his advances. if he thought he was coming back to them the same freckle-faced, unconventional country lad they had known as billy maxwell, he was mistaken. he might feel that he was the same at heart; but they looked on the outward appearance. they saw the successful man of the world who had outstripped them in the race and passed out of their lives long ago. they could not conceive of such a change as had metamorphosed the boy they remembered into the man who stood before them, without feeling that a corresponding change must have taken place in his attitude toward them. they were not conscious that this feeling was expressed in their reception of him. they laughed at his jokes, and indulged in some reminiscences, but he felt, in a dim subconscious way, that there was a barrier between them, and he could never get back to the old familiar footing. he turned away, vaguely disappointed. had he dared to dream that he would find his lost youth just as he had left it? the fields and hills were unchanged. the very trees were the same, except that they had added a few more rings to their girth, and threw a larger circling shade. but the old chums he had counted on finding had not followed the same law of growth as the trees. the shade of their sympathies had narrowed, not expanded, with the passing years, and left him outside their contracted circle. perkins's oldest, awed by reports of his fabulous wealth, could hardly find his tongue when the distinguished visitor laid a friendly hand on his embarrassed tow head, and inquired about the old swimming-hole, and the mill-dam where he used to fish. but the boy's interest grew stronger every minute as he watched him turning over the limited assortment of fishing tackle. the men he knew had outlived such frivolous sports. it was a sight to justify one's gazing open-mouthed,--a grown man deliberately preparing for a month's idleness. if the boy could have seen the jointed rods, the reels, the flies, all the expensive angler's outfit left behind in the maxwell mansion; if he could have known of the tarpon this man had caught in florida bays, and the fishing he had enjoyed in northern waters, he would have wondered still more; wondered how a man could be considered in his right mind who deliberately renounced such privileges to come and drop a common hook, on a pole of his own cutting, into the shallow pools of the cross-roads creek. after his purchases no one saw him at the store for several days, but the boy, dodging across lots, encountered him often,--a solitary figure wandering by the mill stream, or crashing through the woods with long eager strides; lying on the orchard grass sometimes with his hat pulled over his eyes; leaning over the pasture bars in the twilight, and following with wistful glance the little foot-path stretching white across the meadows. a pathetic sight to eyes wise enough to see the pathos,--a world-weary, middle-aged man in vain quest of his lost boyhood. on sunday, polly, looking across the church from her place in the miller's pew, recognised the stranger in their midst, and straightway lost the thread of the sermon in wondering at his presence. she had gone to school with his daughter, maud maxwell. she had danced many a german with his son claude. they lived on the same avenue, and passed each other daily; but this was the first time she had seen him away from the shadow of the family presence, that seemed to blot out his individuality. she had thought of him only as maud's father, a simple, good-natured nonentity in his own household. a good business man, but one who could talk nothing but leather, and whose only part in the family affairs was to furnish the funds for his wife and children to shine socially. "oh, your father's opinion doesn't count," she had heard mrs. maxwell say on more than one occasion, and the children had grown up, unconsciously copying her patronising attitude toward him. as polly studied his face now in the light of other surroundings, she saw that it was a strong, kindly one; that it was not weakness which made him yield habitually, until he had become a mere figurehead in his own establishment. it was only that his peace-loving nature hated domestic scenes, and his generosity amounted to complete self-effacement when the happiness of his family was concerned. his eyes were fixed on the chancel with a wistful reminiscent gaze, and polly read something in the careworn face that touched her sympathy. "grandfather," she said, at the close of the service, "let's be neighbourly and ask mr. maxwell home to dinner with us. he looks lonesome." she was glad afterward that she had suggested it, when she recalled his evident pleasure in the old man's company. there were chairs out under the great oak-trees in the yard, and the two sat talking all afternoon of old times, until the evening shadows began to grow long across the grass. then polly joined them again, and sat with them till the tinkle of home-going cowbells broke on the restful stillness of the country sabbath. "all the orchestras in all the operas in the world can't make music that sounds as sweet to me as that does," said mr. maxwell, raising his head from the big armchair to listen. then he dropped it again with a sigh. "it rests me so after the racket of the city. if julia would only consent, i'd sell out and come back to-morrow. but she's lost all interest in the old place. i'm country to the core, but she never was. she took to city ways like a duck to water, just as soon as she got away from the farm, and she laughs at me for preferring katydids to the whirr of electric cars." a vision rose before the old miller of a little country girl in a pink cotton gown, who long ago used to wait, bright-eyed and blushing, at the pasture bars, for billy to drive home the cows. many a time he had passed them at their trysting-place. then he recalled the superficial, ambitious woman he had met years afterward when he visited his son. he shook his head when he thought of her renouncing her social position for the simple pastoral life her husband longed to find the way back to. presently he broke the silence of their several reveries by turning to polly. "what's that piece you recited to me the other night, little girl, about old times? say it for mr. maxwell." and polly, clasping her hands in her lap, and looking away across the august meadows, purple with the royal pennons of the ironweed, began the musical old poem: "'ko-ling, ko-lang, ko-linglelingle, way down the darkening dingle the cows come slowly home. (and old-time friends and twilight plays and starry nights and sunny days come trooping up the misty ways, when the cows come home.) "'and over there on merlin hill hear the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill. and the dewdrops lie on the tangled vines, and over the poplars venus shines, and over the silent mill. "'ko-ling, ko-lang, ko-linglelingle, with ting-aling and jingle the cows come slowly home. (let down the bars, let in the train of long-gone songs and flowers and rain, for dear old times come back again, when the cows come home.)'" once as polly went on, she saw the tears spring to his eyes at the line "and mother-songs of long-gone years," and she knew that the "same sweet sound of wordless psalm, the same sweet smell of buds and balm," that had been his delight in the past, were his again as he listened. but, much to her surprise, as she finished, he rose abruptly, and began a hurried leave-taking. she understood his manner, however, when his mood was revealed to her a little later. at her grandfather's suggestion she walked down to the gate with him, to point out a short cut across the fields to mrs. powers's. outside the gate he paused, hat in hand. "miss polly," he began, as if unconsciously taking her into his confidence, "old times never come back again. seems as if the bottom had dropped out of everything. i've done my best to resurrect them, but i can't do it. i thought if i could once get back to the old place i could rest as i've not been able to rest for twenty years--that i'd have a month of perfect enjoyment. but something's the matter. "many a time when i've been off at some fashionable resort i've thought i'd give a fortune to be able to drop my hook in your grandfather's mill-stream, and feel the old thrill that i used to feel when i was a boy. i tried it the day i came--caught a little speckled trout, the kind that used to make me tingle to my finger ends, but somehow it didn't bring back the old sensation. i just looked at it a minute and put it back in the water, and threw my pole away. "even the swimming-hole down by the mill didn't measure up to the way i had remembered it. i've fairly ached for a dip into it sometimes, in the years i've been gone. seemed as if i could just get into it once, i could wash myself clear of all the cares and worries of business that pester a man so. that was a disappointment, too. the change is in me, i guess, but nothing seems the same." polly knew the reason. he had tried so long to mould his habits to fit his wife's exacting tastes, that he had succeeded better than he realised. he could not analyse his feelings enough to know that it was the absence of long accustomed comforts that made him vaguely dissatisfied with his surroundings; his luxuriously appointed bathroom, for instance; the perfect service of his carefully trained footmen. mrs. powers's noisy table, where with great clatter she urged every one "to fall to and help himself," jarred on him, although he was unconscious of what caused the irritation. as for the rank tobacco bowser furnished him when he had exhausted his own special brand of cigars with which he had stocked his satchel, it was more than flesh and blood could endure. that is, flesh and blood that had acquired the pampered taste of a millionaire whose wife is fastidious, and only allows first-class aromas in the way of the weed. but polly knew another reason that his vacation had been a failure. she divined it as the little yale pin, stuck jauntily into the front of her white dress, met the touch of her caressing fingers. the girl in the pink cotton gown was long dead, and the woman who had grown up in her stead had no part in the old scenes that he still fondly clung to, with a sentiment she ridiculed because she could not understand. _there must always be two when you turn back searching for your lost eldorado, and even the two cannot find it, unless they go hand in hand._ * * * * * next day bowser had another piece of news to impart. "mr. maxwell went home this morning. he told mrs. powers it was like taking a vacation in a graveyard, and he'd had enough. he'd have to get back to work again. so he paid her for the full month, and took the first train back to the city." "well, i'll be switched!" was bud hines's comment. "if i had as much money as he's got, i'd never bother my head about work. i'd sit down and take it easy all the rest of my born days." "i don't know," answered bowser, meditatively. "i reckon a man who's worked the way mr. maxwell has, gets such a big momentum on to himself that he can't stop, no matter how bad he wants a vacation." "he's a fool for coming back here for it," said bud hines, looking out across the fields that stretched away on every side in unbroken monotony. but miles away, in his city office, the busy millionaire was still haunted by an unsatisfied longing for those same level meadows. glimpses of the old mill-stream and the willows still rose before him in tantalising freshness, and whenever he closed his tired eyes, down twilight paths, where tinkling cowbells called, there came again the glimmer of a little pink gown, to wait for him as it had waited through all the years, beside the pasture bars. chapter xii the seat was an empty starch-box on the cross-roads porch, its occupant a barefoot boy with a torn straw hat pulled far down over his eyes. to the casual observer one of the most ordinary of sights, but to one possessed of sympathetic powers of penetration into a boy's inner consciousness there was a suggestion of the tragic. perkins's oldest had that afternoon in school been told to write a composition on september. it was to be handed in next morning. it was the hopelessness of accomplishing the fact even in æons, not to mention the limited time of a dozen short hours, that had bound him, a little prometheus, to the starch-box, with the vulture of absolute despair tearing at his vitals. two other boys had been assigned the same subject, and the three had kicked the dust up wrathfully all the way from the schoolhouse, echoing an old cry that had gone up ages before from the sons of jacob, under the lash of the egyptian, "how can we make bricks without straw?" "ain't nothin' to say 'bout september," declared riley hines, gloomily, "and i'll be dogged if i say it. i'm goin' to get my sister to write mine fer me. she'll do it ef i tease long enough, and give her something to boot." "i'll ask paw what to say," declared tommy bowser. "he won't write it for me, but he'll sort o' boost me along. then if it ain't what she wants, _i_ won't be to blame. i'll tell her paw said 'twas all right." this shifting of responsibility to paternal shoulders restored the habitual expression of cheerfulness to tommy's smudgy face, but there was no corresponding smile on sammy's. there was no help to be had in the household of perkins. that was why he was waiting on the starch-box while tommy was sent on an errand. it was in the vain hope that tommy would return and apply for his "boost" and share it with him before darkness fell. he was a practical child, not given to whimsical reflections, but as he sat there in desperate silence, he began wondering what the different customers would have to say if they were suddenly called upon, as he had been that afternoon, to write about september. mrs. powers, for instance, in her big crape bonnet, with its long wispy veil trailing down her back. he was almost startled, when, as if in answer to his thought, she uttered the word that was at the bottom of his present trouble, the subject assigned him for composition. "yes, mr. bowser, september is a month that i'm never sorry to say good-bye to. what with the onion pickle and peach preserves and the house-cleaning to tend to, i'm nearly broke down when it's over. there's so many odds and ends to see to on a farm this time of year, first in doors and then out. i tell jane it's like piecing a crazy quilt. you can't never count on what a day's going to bring forth in september. you may get a carpet up and beat, and have your stove settin' out waiting to be put up, and your furniture in a heap in the yard, and the hired man will have to go off and leave it all while he takes the cider-mill to be mended. and you in a stew all day long for fear it'll rain before he gets things under shelter. "then it's a sad time to me, too," she exclaimed with a mournful shake of the head in the black bonnet. "it was in september i lost my first and third husbands, two of the best that ever had tombstones raised to their memory, if i do say it as oughtn't. one died on the sixteenth, and his funeral was preached on the eighteenth, and the other died fifteen years later on the twenty-third, and we kept him three days, on account of waiting till his brother could get here from missouri. so you see that makes nearly a week altogether of mournful anniversaries for me every september." another breath and she had reached the three tombstones, and talking volubly on her favourite subject, she completed her purchases and went out. but her conversation had not lightened the woes of the little prometheus on the starch-box. despair still gnawed on. house-cleaning worries and onion pickle, and reminiscences of two out of three departed husbands, might furnish material for mrs. powers's composition, should the fates compel her to write one, but there was no straw of a suggestion for sammy perkins, and again he cried out inwardly as bitterly as the oppressed of old had cried out against pharaoh. a man in a long, sagging linen duster was the next comer. he squeaked back and forth in front of the counter in new high-heeled boots, and talked incessantly while he made his purchases, with a clumsy attempt at facetiousness. "put in a cake of shaving-soap, too, jim," he called, passing his hand over the black stubble on his chin. "county court begins to-morrer. reckon the lawyers will shave everything in sight when it comes to their bills, but i want to be as slick as them. i'll be settin' on the jury all week. did you ever think of it, jim, that's a mighty interesting way to earn your salt? jest set back and be entertained with the history of all the old feuds and fusses in the county, and collect your two bucks a day without ever turning your hand over. good as a show, and dead easy. "only one thing, it sort o' spiles your faith in human nature. the court stenographer said last year that in the shorthand he writes, the same mark that stands for lawyer stands for liar, too. he! he! he! isn't that a good one? you can only tell which one is meant by what comes before it, and this fellow said he'd come to believe that one always fit in the sentence as good as the other. either word was generally appropriate. you miss a lot of fun, jim, by not getting on the jury. i always look forrard to fall on that account." no help for perkins's oldest in _that_ conversation. he waited awhile longer. presently an old gentleman in a long-tailed, quaintly cut black coat, stepped up on the porch. he had a gold-headed cane under his arm, and the eyes behind the square-bowed spectacles beamed kindly on the little fellow. he stopped beside the starch-box a moment with a friendly question about school and the health of the perkins household. the boy's heart gave a jump up into his throat. the old minister knew everything. the minister could even tell him what to write in his composition if he dared but ask him. he opened his mouth to form the question, but his tongue seemed glued in its place, and the head under the torn hat drooped lower in embarrassed silence. his troubled face flushed to the roots of his tow hair, and he let the angel of opportunity pass him by unchallenged. "will you kindly give me one of those advertising almanacs, mr. bowser?" inquired the parson, when his packages of tea and sugar had been secured. "i've misplaced mine, and i want to ascertain at what hour to-morrow the moon changes." "certainly, certainly!" responded the storekeeper with obliging alacrity, rubbing his hands together, and stepping up on a chair to reach the pile on a shelf overhead. "help yourself, sir. i must answer the telephone." the parson, slowly studying the moon's phases as he stepped out of the store, did not notice that he had taken two almanacs until one fell at his feet. the boy sprang up to return it, but he waved it aside with a courtly sweep of his hand. "no, my son, i intended to take but one. keep it. they are for general distribution. you will find it full of useful information. have you ever learned anything about the signs of the zodiac? here is leo. i always take an especial interest in this sign, because i happened to be born under it. i'm the seventh son of a seventh son, born in the seventh month, and i always take it as a good omen, seven being the perfect number. you know the ancients believed a man's star largely affected his destiny. you will find some interesting historical events enumerated under each month. a good almanac is almost as interesting to study as a good dictionary, my boy. i would advise you to form a habit of referring to both of them frequently." with one of his rare, childlike smiles the good man passed on, and perkins's oldest was left with the almanac in his hands. for awhile he studied the signs of the zodiac, in puzzled awe, trying to establish a relationship between them and the man they surrounded, whose vital organs were obligingly laid open to public inspection, regardless of any personal inconvenience the display might cause him. then he turned to the historical events. there was one for each day in the month. on sunday, the first, eighteen hundred and ninety-nine, had occurred the japanese typhoon. friday, the sixth, sixteen hundred and twenty, the _mayflower_ had sailed. mahomet's birth had set apart the eleventh in five hundred and seventy. the founding of mormonism, washington's farewell, and the battle of marathon were further down the list, but it was all greek to perkins's oldest. any one of these items would have been straw for the parson. out of the _mayflower_, mahomet, mormonism, or marathon, each one of them the outgrowth of some september, he could have pressed enough literary brick to build a fair sky-scraping structure that would have been the wonder of all who gazed upon it. this time the boy looked his angel of opportunity in the face and did not recognise it as such. the gate clicked across the road and he turned his head. miss anastasia dill was going up the path, her arms full of goldenrod and white and purple asters. september was a poem to miss anastasia, but the boy looked upon goldenrod and the starry asters simply as meadow weeds. the armful of bloom brought no suggestion to him. on the morrow riley hines would hand in two pages of allusions to them, beginning with a quotation from whittier's "autumn thoughts," and ending with a couplet from pope, carefully copied by maria hines from the "exercises for parsing" in the back of her grammar. somebody's supper-horn blew in the distance, and, grown desperate by tommy's long absence and the lateness of the hour, he took his little cracked slate from the strap of books on the floor beside him, and laid it across his knees. then with a stubby pencil that squeaked dismally in its passage across the slate, he began copying bodily from the almanac the list of historical events enumerated therein, just as they stood, beginning with the japanese typhoon on the first, and ending "_volunteer_ beat _thistle_" on the thirtieth, eighteen hundred and eighty-seven. then he began to copy a few agricultural notes, inserted as side remarks for those who relied on their almanacs as guide-posts to gardening. "gather winter squashes now. they keep better when stored in a warm dry place. harvest sugar beets when the leaves turn yellowish green, etc." he was bending painfully over this task when a shadow fell across his slate, and, looking up, he saw the old miller looking over his shoulder. "doing your sums?" he asked, with a friendly smile. "let's see if you do them the way i was taught when i was a lad." he held out his hand for the slate. there had been a bond of sympathy between the two ever since christmas eve, when a certain pair of skates had changed owners, and now, although the boy's voice trembled almost out of his control, he managed to stammer out the reply that he was trying to write a composition. the old man looked from the straggling lines on the slate, then at the open almanac, then down at the boy's troubled face, and understood. drawing a chair across the porch he sat down beside him, and, catching the furtive, scared side-glance cast in his direction, he plunged at once into a story. it was about a shepherd boy who went out to fight a giant, and the king insisted on lending him his armour. but he couldn't fight in the heavy helmet and the coat of mail. the shield was in his way, and the spear more than he could lift. so he threw it aside, and going down to a little brook, chose five small pebbles, worn smooth by the running water. and with these in his hand, and only the simple sling he was accustomed to use every day, he went out against the philistine giant, and slew him in the first round. perkins's oldest wondered what the story had to do with his composition. he wasn't looking for a personal application. he had not been brought up at sunday schools and kindergartens. but all of a sudden he realised that the miller meant him; that his depending on tommy, or the customers, or the almanac, to furnish him ideas, was like going out in saul's armour, and that he could only come to failure in that, because it wouldn't fit him; that he could hit the mark the little schoolmistress had in mind for him, only with the familiar sling-shot of his own common every-day personal experiences. maybe the old miller recognised that it was a crisis in the little fellow's life, for he stayed beside him with helpful hints and questions, until the slate was full. when he carried it home in the gloaming it no longer bore the items from the almanac. there were other remarks straggling across it, not so well expressed, perhaps, but plainly original. they were to the effect that september is the month you've got to go back to school when you don't want to, 'cos it's the nicest time of all to stay out-doors, neither too hot nor too cold. there's lots of apples then, and it's the minister's birthday. he's the seventh son of a seventh son, and dick wiggins says if you're that you can pick wahoo berries in the dark of the moon and make med'cine out of them, that will cure the bone-break fever every time, when nothing else in the world will. then followed several items of information that he had discovered for himself, in his prowls through the september woods, about snakes and tree-toads, as to their habits at that season of the year. it closed with a suggestive allusion to the delights of sucking cider from the bung of a barrel through a straw. next day the little schoolmistress shook her head over the composition that riley hines handed in, and laid it aside with a hopeless sigh. she recognised too plainly the hand of maria in its construction. the sentiments expressed therein were as foreign to riley's nature as they would have been to a woodchuck's. she took up tommy bowser's. alas, four-syllabled words were not in tommy's daily vocabulary, nor were the elegant sentences under his name within the power of his composition. plainly it was the work of a plagiarist. she went through the pile slowly, and then wrote on the blackboard as she had promised, the names of the ten whose work was the best and most original. it was then that perkins's oldest had the surprise of his life, for lo! his name, like abou-ben-adhem's, "led all the rest." again the cross-roads had taught him more than the school,--to depend on the resources to which nature had adapted him, and never again to attempt to sally forth in borrowed armour, even though it be a king's. chapter xii it was cy akers who carried the news to the schoolhouse, galloping his old sorrel up to the open door just before the bell tapped for afternoon dismissal. he did not dismount, but drawing rein, leaned forward in his saddle, waiting for the little schoolmistress to step down from the desk to the doorstep. the rows of waiting children craned their necks anxiously, but only those nearest the door heard his message. "mr. asa holmes died this morning," he said. "the funeral is set for to-morrow afternoon at four, and you can announce to the children that there won't be any school. the trustees thought it would be only proper to close out of respect for him, as he was on the school board over thirty years, and has done so much for the community. he's one of the old landmarks, you might say, about the last of the old pioneers, and everybody will want to go." before she could recover from the suddenness of the announcement the rider was gone, and she was left looking out across the october fields with a lonely sense of personal loss, although her acquaintance with the old miller had extended over only two short school terms. a few minutes later the measured tramp of feet over the worn door-sill began, and forty children passed out into the mellow sunshine of the late autumn afternoon. they went quietly at first, awed by the tender, reverent words in which the little schoolmistress had given them the message to carry home. but once outside, the pent-up enthusiasm over their unexpected holiday, and the mere joy of being alive and free on such a day sent them rushing down the road pell-mell, shouting and swinging their dinner-pails as they ran. a shade of annoyance crossed the teacher's face as she stood watching from the doorstep. she wished she had cautioned them not to be so noisy, for she knew that their shouts could be plainly heard in the old house whose gables she could see through a clump of cedars, farther down the road. it was standing with closed blinds now, and she had a feeling that the laughing voices floating across to it must strike harshly across its profound silence. but presently her face brightened as she watched the children running on in the sunshine, in the joy of their emancipation. part of a poem she had read that morning came to her. she had thought when she read it that it was a beautiful way to look upon death, and now it bore a new significance, and she whispered it to herself: "'why should it be a wrench to leave this wooden bench? why not with happy shout, run home when school is out?' "that's the way the old miller has gone," she said, softly. "his lessons all learned and his tasks all done--so well done, too, that he has nothing to regret. i'm glad that i didn't stop the children. i am sure that's the way he would want them to go. dear old man! he was always a boy at heart." she turned the key in the door behind her presently, and started down the road to mrs. powers's, where she boarded. in every fence corner the sumachs flamed blood-red, and across the fields, where purple shadows trailed their royal lengths behind every shock of corn, the autumn woodlands massed their gold and crimson against the sunset sky. she walked slowly, loath to reach the place where she must go indoors. the perkins home lay in her way, and as she passed, mrs. perkins with a baby on her hip, and a child clinging to her skirts, leaned over the gate to speak to her. "isn't it sad," the woman exclaimed, grasping eagerly at this chance to discuss every incident of the death and illness, with that love for detail always to be found in country districts where happenings are few and interests are strong. "they sent for the family tuesday when he had the stroke, but he couldn't speak to them when they got here. they said he seemed to recognise miss polly, and smiled when she took his hand. she seemed to be his favourite, and they say she's taking it mighty hard--harder than any of the rest. it's a pity he couldn't have left 'em all some last message. i think it's always a comfort to remember one's dying words when as good a person as mr. holmes goes. and it's always so nice when they happen to be appropriate, so's they can be put on the tombstone afterward. i remember my aunt maria worked my grandfather's last words into a sampler, with an urn and weeping-willow-tree. she had it framed in black and hung in the parlour, and everybody who came to the house admired it. it's a pity that the miller couldn't have left some last word to each of 'em." "i don't think it was necessary," said the girl, turning away with a choke in her voice, as the eloquent face of the old man seemed to rise up before her. "his whole life speaks for him." mrs. perkins looked after the retreating figure regretfully, as the jaunty sailor hat disappeared behind a tall hedge. "i wish she hadn't been in such a hurry," she sighed, shifting the baby to the other hip. "i would have liked to ask her if she's heard who the pall-bearers are to be." at the turn in the road the little schoolmistress looked up to see miss anastasia dill leaning over her gate. she had just heard the news, and there were tears in her pale blue eyes. "and polly's wedding cards were to have been sent out this next week!" she exclaimed after their first words of greeting. "the poor child told me so herself when she was here in august on a visit. 'miss anastasia,' she said to me, 'i'm not going abroad for my honeymoon, as all my family want me to do. i'm going to bring jack back here to the old homestead where grandfather's married life began. somehow it was so ideal, so nearly perfect, that i have a feeling that maybe the mantle of that old romance will fall on our shoulders. besides, jack has never seen grandfather, and i tell him it's as much of an education to know such a grand old man as it is to go through yale. so we're coming in october. the woods will have on all their gala colours then, and i'll be the happiest bride the sun ever shone on, unless it was my grandmother polly.' and now to think," added miss anastasia, tearfully, "none of those plans can come to pass. it's bad luck to put off a wedding. oh, i feel so sorry for her!" * * * * * there is an undefined note of pathos in a country funeral that is never reached in any other. the little schoolmistress felt it as she walked up the path to the old house behind the cedars. the front porch was full of men, who, dressed in their unaccustomed best, had the uneasy appearance of having come upon a sunday in the middle of the week. their heavy boots tiptoed clumsily through the hall, with a painful effort to go silently, as one by one the neighbours passed into the old sitting-room and out again. the room across the hall had been filled with rows of chairs, and the women who came first were sitting there in a deep silence, broken only by a cough now and then, a hoarse whisper or a rustle, as some one moved to make room for a newcomer. it was a sombre assembly, for every one wore whatever black her wardrobe afforded, and many funeral occasions had left an accumulation of mourning millinery in every house in the neighbourhood. but the limp crape veils and black gloves and pall-like cashmere shawls were all congregated in the dimly lighted parlour. in the old sitting-room it was as cheerful and homelike as ever, save for the still form in the centre. through an open window the western sun streamed into the big, hospitable room, across the bright home-made rag carpet. the old clock in the corner ticked with the placid, steady stroke that had never failed or faltered, in any vicissitude of the generations for which it had marked the changes. no fire blazed on the old hearthstone that had warmed the hearts as well as the hands of the whole countryside on many a cheerful occasion. but a great bough of dogwood, laid across the shining andirons, filled the space with coral berries that glowed like live embers as the sun stole athwart them. "oh, if the old room could only speak!" thought miss anastasia, when her turn came to pass reverently in for a last look at the peaceful face. "there would be no need of man's eulogy." but man's eulogy was added presently, when the old minister came in and took his place beside the coffin of his lifelong friend and neighbour. the men outside the porch closed in around the windows to listen. the women in the back rows of chairs in the adjoining room leaned forward eagerly. those farthest away caught only a faltering sentence now and then. "a hospitality as warm as his own hearthstone, as wide as his broad acres.... no man can point to him and say he ever knowingly hurt or hindered a fellow creature.... he never measured out to any man a scant bushel. be it grain or good-will, it was ever an overflowing measure...." but those who could not hear all that was said could make the silent places eloquent with their own recollections, for he had taken a father's interest in them all, and manifested it by a score of kindly deeds, too kindly to ever be forgotten. it was a perfect autumn day, sunny and golden and still, save for the patter of dropping nuts and the dry rustle of fallen leaves. a purple haze rested on the distant horizon like the bloom on a ripened grape. down through the orchard, when the simple service was over, they carried their old friend to the family burying-ground, and, although voices had choked, and eyes overflowed before, there was neither sob nor tear, when the light of the sunset struck across the low mound, heaped with its covering of glowing autumn leaves. for if grief has no part in the sunset glory that ends the day, or in the perfect fulness of the autumn time, then it must indeed stand hushed, when a life comes both to its sunset and its harvest, in such royal fashion. * * * * * that evening at the cross-roads, bowser lighted the first fire of the season in the rusty old stove, for the night was chilly. one by one the men accustomed to gather around it dropped in and took their usual places. the event of the day was all that was spoken of. "do you remember what he said last thanksgiving, nearly a year ago?" asked bowser. "it came back to me as i stood and looked at him to-day, and if i'd never believed in immortality before, i'd 'a' had to have believed in it then. the words seemed to fairly shine out of his face. he said '_the best comes after the harvest, when the wheat goes to make up blood and muscle and brain; when it's raised to a higher order of life in man. and it's the same with me. at eighty-five, when it looks as if i'd about reached the end, i've come to believe that "the best is yet to be._"'" there was a long pause, and cy akers said, slowly, "somehow i can't feel that he is dead. seems as if he'd just gone away a while. but lord! how we're going to miss him here at the store." "no, don't say that!" exclaimed bud hines, with more emotion than he had ever been known to show before. "say, how we're going to feel him! i can't get him out of my mind. every time i turn around, most, seems to me i can hear him laugh, and say, 'don't cross your bridge till you come to it, bud.' that saying of his rings in my ears every time i get in the dumps. seems like he could set the calendar straight for us, all the year around. the winters wasn't so cold or the summers so hard to pull through, looking at life through his eyes." perkins's oldest crept up unnoticed. he added no word, but deep in his heart lay an impression that all the years to come could never erase; the remembrance of a kindly old man who had given him a new gospel, in that one phrase, "a brother to santa claus;" who had taught him to go out against his philistines with simple directness of aim and whatever lay at hand; who had left behind him the philosophy of a cheerful optimist, and the example of a sweet simple life, unswerving in its loyalty to duty and to truth. * * * * * over in the old homestead, polly, standing in the firelight, fair and slender in her black gown, looked up at the tall young fellow beside her, and placed two little books in his hands. the old house was not her only heritage. the little atlas of the heavens was hers also. standing there in the room where the beloved presence seemed to have left its benediction, polly told the story of the love that had outlived death. then across the yellowed page of the old grammar where the faded violets lay, two hands met in the same sure clasp that had joined the souls of those older lovers, who somewhere beyond the stars were still repeating the old conjugation--"we love--_for ever_!" the end. l. c. page & company's announcement list of new fiction =haunters of the silences.= by charles g. d. roberts, author of "red fox," "the watchers of the trails," etc. cloth, one volume, with many drawings by charles livingston bull, four of which are in full color $2.00 the stories in mr. roberts's new collection are the strongest and best he has ever written. he has largely taken for his subjects those animals rarely met with in books, whose lives are spent "in the silences," where they are the supreme rulers. mr. roberts has written of them sympathetically, as always, but with fine regard for the scientific truth. 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to death, the sailors and fishers and other humbler folk, while their leaders claimed friendship alike with southern planters and new england merchants,--with whom it is said they frequently divided their spoils. the times were stern and the colonists were hardy, but they loved as truly and tenderly as in more peaceful days. thus, while the hero's adventures with pirates and his search for their hidden treasure is a record of desperate encounters and daring deeds, his love-story and his winning of sweet mary vane is in delightful contrast. =the rome express.= by major arthur griffiths, author of "the passenger from calais," etc. cloth decorative, with a colored frontispiece by a. o. scott $1.25 a mysterious murder on a flying express train, a wily italian, a charming woman caught in the meshes of circumstantial evidence, a chivalrous englishman, and a police force with a keen nose for the wrong clue, are the ingredients from which major griffiths has concocted a clever, up-to-date 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mr. morrison's recent books, "the green diamond" and "the red triangle," has led to an imperative demand for the reissue of "the chronicles of martin hewitt," which has been out of print for a number of years. it will be remembered that martin hewitt is the detective in "the red triangle," of whom the _new york tribune_ said: "better than sherlock holmes." his adventures in the london slums were of such a nature that the _philadelphia north american_ said: "the reader who has a grain of fancy or imagination may be defied to lay this book down once he has begun it until the last word is reached." =mystery island.= by edward h. hurst. cloth decorative, with a colored frontispiece $1.50 a hunting camp on a swampy island in the florida everglades furnishes the background for this present-day tale. by the murder of one of their number, the secret of egress from the island is lost, and the campers find themselves marooned. cut off from civilization, conventional veneer soon wears away. love, hate, and revenge spring up, and after the sterner passions have had their sway the man and the woman are left alone to fulfil their own destiny. while there is much that is unusual in the plot and its development, mr. hurst has handled his subject with fine delicacy, and the tale of their love on the beautiful little island is told with deep sympathy and feeling. =the flying cloud.= by morley roberts, author of "the promotion of the admiral," "rachel marr," "the idlers," etc. cloth decorative, with a colored frontispiece $1.50 mr. roberts's new book is much more than a ripping good sea story such as might be expected from the author of "the promotion of the admiral." in "the flying cloud" the waters and the winds are gods personified. their every mood and phase are described in words of telling force. there is no world but the waste of waters. mr. roberts glories and exults in the mystery, the passion, the strength of the elements, as did the viking chroniclers of old. he understands them and loves them and interprets them as no other writer has heretofore done. the book is too big for conventional phrases. it needs mr. roberts's own richness of imagery and masterly expression to describe adequately the word-pictures in this epic of wind and waves. selections from l. c. page and company's list of fiction works of robert neilson stephens _each one vol., library 12mo, cloth decorative_ $1.50 =the flight of georgiana= a romance of the days of the young pretender. illustrated by h. c. edwards. "a love-story in the highest degree, a dashing story, and a remarkably well finished piece of work."--_chicago record-herald._ =the bright face of danger= being an account of some adventures of henri de launay, son of the sieur de la tournoire. illustrated by h. c. edwards. "mr. stephens has fairly outdone himself. we thank him heartily. the story is nothing if not spirited and entertaining, rational and convincing."--_boston transcript._ =the mystery of murray davenport= (40th thousand.) "this is easily the best thing that mr. stephens has yet done. those familiar with his other novels can best judge the measure of this praise, which is generous."--_buffalo news._ =captain ravenshaw= or, the maid of cheapside. (52d thousand.) a romance of elizabethan london. illustrations by howard pyle and other artists. not since the absorbing adventures of d'artagnan have we had anything so good in the blended vein of romance and comedy. =the continental dragoon= a romance of philipse manor house in 1778. (53d thousand.) illustrated by h. c. edwards. a stirring romance of the revolution, with its scene laid on neutral territory. =philip winwood= (70th thousand.) a sketch of the domestic history of an american captain in the war of independence, embracing events that occurred between and during the years 1763 and 1785 in new york and london. illustrated by e. w. d. hamilton. =an enemy to the king= (70th thousand.) from the "recently discovered memoirs of the sieur de la tournoire." illustrated by h. de m. young. an historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing the adventures of a young french nobleman at the court of henry iii., and on the field with henry iv. =the road to paris= a story of adventure. (35th thousand.) illustrated by h. c. edwards. an historical romance of the eighteenth century, being an account of the life of an american gentleman adventurer of jacobite ancestry. =a gentleman player= his adventures on a secret mission for queen elizabeth. (48th thousand.) illustrated by frank t. merrill. the story of a young gentleman who joins shakespeare's company of players, and becomes a friend and protégé of the great poet. works of charles g. d. roberts =red fox= the story of his adventurous career in the ringwaak wilds, and of his final triumph over the enemies of his kind. with fifty illustrations, including frontispiece in color and cover design by charles livingston bull. square quarto, cloth decorative $2.00 "infinitely more wholesome reading than the average tale of sport, since it gives a glimpse of the hunt from the point of view of the hunted."--_boston transcript._ "true in substance but fascinating as fiction. it will interest old and young, city-bound and free-footed, those who know animals and those who do not."--_chicago record-herald._ "a brilliant chapter in natural history."--_philadelphia north american._ =the kindred of the wild= a book of animal life. with fifty-one full-page plates and many decorations from drawings by charles livingston bull. square quarto, decorative cover $2.00 "is in many ways the most brilliant collection of animal stories that has appeared; well named and well done."--_john burroughs._ =the watchers of the trails= a companion volume to "the kindred of the wild." with forty-eight full-page plates and many decorations from drawings by charles livingston bull. square quarto, decorative cover $2.00 "mr. roberts has written a most interesting series of tales free from the vices of the stories regarding animals of many other writers, accurate in their facts and admirably and dramatically told."--_chicago news._ "these stories are exquisite in their refinement, and yet robust in their appreciation of some of the rougher phases of woodcraft. among the many writers about animals, mr. roberts occupies an enviable place."--_the outlook._ "this is a book full of delight. an additional charm lies in mr. bull's faithful and graphic illustrations, which in fashion all their own tell the story of the wild life, illuminating and supplementing the pen pictures of the author."--_literary digest._ =earth's enigmas= a new edition of mr. roberts's first volume of fiction, published in 1892, and out of print for several years, with the addition of three new stories, and ten illustrations by charles livingston bull. library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover $1.50 "it will rank high among collections of short stories. in 'earth's enigmas' is a wider range of subject than in the 'kindred of the wild.'"--_review from advance sheets of the illustrated edition by tiffany blake in the chicago evening post._ =barbara ladd= with four illustrations by frank verbeck. library 12mo, gilt top $1.50 "from the opening chapter to the final page mr. roberts lures us on by his rapt devotion to the changing aspects of nature and by his keen and sympathetic analysis of human character"--_boston transcript._ =cameron of lochiel= translated from the french of philippe aubert de gaspé, with frontispiece in color by h. c. edwards. library 12mo, cloth decorative $1.50 "professor roberts deserves the thanks of his reader for giving a wider audience an opportunity to enjoy this striking bit of french canadian literature."--_brooklyn eagle._ "it is not often in these days of sensational and philosophical novels that one picks up a book that so touches the heart."--_boston transcript._ =the prisoner of mademoiselle= with frontispiece by frank t. merrill. library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top $1.50 a tale of acadia,--a land which is the author's heart's delight,--of a valiant young lieutenant and a winsome maiden, who first captures and then captivates. "this is the kind of a story that makes one grow younger, more innocent, more light-hearted. its literary quality is impeccable. it is not every day that such a heroine blossoms into even temporary existence, and the very name of the story bears a breath of charm."--_chicago record-herald._ =the heart of the ancient wood= with six illustrations by james l. weston. library 12mo, decorative cover $1.50 "one of the most fascinating novels of recent days."--_boston journal._ "a classic twentieth-century romance."--_new york commercial advertiser._ =the forge in the forest= being the narrative of the acadian ranger, jean de mer, seigneur de briart, and how he crossed the black abbé, and of his adventures in a strange fellowship. illustrated by henry sandham, r. c. a. library 12mo, cloth, gilt top $1.50 a story of pure love and heroic adventure. =by the marshes of minas= library 12mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated $1.50 most of these romances are in the author's lighter and more playful vein; each is a unit of absorbing interest and exquisite workmanship. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page 80, "threatenin" changed to "threatening" (and a threatening swing) page 177, "fastidous" changed to "fastidious" (is fastidious, and only) the man who found himself _by h. de vere stacpoole_ the beach of dreams the ghost girl the man who lost himself the gold trail sea plunder the pearl fishers the presentation the new optimism poppyland the poems of françois villon _translated by h. de vere stacpoole_ the man who found himself (uncle simon) _by_ margaret and h. de vere stacpoole new york john lane company mcmxx copyright, 1920, by street & smith copyright, 1920, by john lane company contents part i chapter page i. simon 9 ii. mudd 12 iii. dr. oppenshaw 20 iv. dr. oppenshaw--_continued_ 30 v. i will not be him 34 vi. tidd and renshaw 42 vii. the wallet 46 part ii i. the soul's awakening 51 ii. moxon and mudd 60 iii. simon's old-fashioned night in town 73 part iii i. the last sovereign 87 ii. uncle simon 105 iii. the hundred-pound note 121 iv. the hundred-pound note--_continued_ 129 v. the home of the nightingales 144 vi. the flight of the dragonfly 154 vii. nine hundred pounds 164 iii. pall mall place 173 ix. julia 181 part iv i. the garden-party 191 ii. horn 200 iii. julia--_continued_ 209 iv. horn--_continued_ 216 v. tidd _versus_ renshaw 221 vi. what happened to simon 234 vii. tidd _versus_ brownlow 238 viii. in the arbour 240 ix. chapter the last 243 part i the man who found himself chapter i simon king charles street lies in westminster; you turn a corner and find yourself in charles street as one might turn a corner and find oneself in history. the cheap, the nasty, and the new vanish, and fine old comfortable houses of red brick, darkened by weather and fog, take you into their keeping, tell you that queen anne is not dead, amuse you with pictures of sedan chairs and running footmen and discharge you at the other end into the twentieth century from whence you came. simon pettigrew lived at no. 12, where his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather had lived before him--lawyers all of them. so respected, so rooted in the soil of the courts as to be less a family of lawyers than a minor english institution. divorce your mind entirely from all petty matters of litigation in connection with the pettigrews, simon or any of his forebears would have appeared just as readily in their shirt-sleeves in fleet street as in county or police court for or against the defendant; they were old family lawyers and they had a fair proportion of the old english families in their keeping--deed-boxes stuffed with papers, secrets to make one's hair curl. to the general public this great and potent firm was almost unknown, yet pettigrew and pettigrew had cut off enough heirs to furnish material for a dozen braddon novels, had smothered numerous screaming tragedies in high life and buried them at dead of night, and all without a wrinkle on the brow of the placid old firm that drove its curricle through the reigns of the georges, took snuff in the days of palmerston, and in the days of edward rex still refused to employ the typewriter. simon, the last of the firm, unmarried and without near relation, was at the time of this story turned sixty--a clean-shaven, bright-eyed, old-fashioned type of man, sedate, famed for his cellar, and a member of the athenæum. a man you never, never would have imagined to possess such a thing as a past. never would have imagined to have been filled with that semi-diabolical, semi-angelical joy of life which leads to the follies of youth. all the same, simon, between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-two, had raked the town vigorously more than viciously, haunted evans' supper-rooms, fallen madly in love with an actress, enjoyed life as only the young can enjoy life in the gorgeous, dazzling, deceitful country of youth. driving in hansom cabs was then a pleasure! new clothes and outrageous shirts and ties a delight, actresses goddesses. then, one day his actress turned out an actress, and the following night he came out of the cocoa tree owing a gambling debt of a thousand pounds that he could not pay. his father paid on his promising to turn over a new leaf, which he did. but his youth was checked, his brightness eclipsed, and arm-in-arm with common sense he set out on the long journey that led him at last to the high position of a joyless, loveless, desolate, wealthy solicitor of sixty--respected, very much respected. in fact, less a man than a firm. yet there still remained to him as a legacy of his youth, a very pretty wit of his own, an irresponsible turn of talk when he gave himself away--as at dinner-parties. chapter ii mudd mudd was simon's factotum, butler, and minister of inferior affairs. mudd was sixty-five and a bit; he had been in the services of the pettigrew family forty-five years, and had grown up, so to say, side by side with simon. for the last twenty years every morning mudd had brought up his master's tea, drawn up his blinds and set out his clothes--seven thousand times or thereabouts, allowing for holidays and illnesses. he was a clean-shaven old man, with rounded shoulders and a way that had become blunt with long use; he only "sirred" simon in the presence of guests and servants, and had an open way of speaking on matters of everyday affairs verging on the conjugal in its occasional frankness. this morning, the third of june, mudd, having drawn up his master's blinds and set out his boots and shaving things, vanished and returned with his clothes, brushed and folded, and a jug of shaving water which he placed on the wash-handstand. "the arms will be out of this old coat if you go on wearing it much longer," grumbled mudd, as he placed the things on a chair. "it's been in wear nearly a year and a half; you're heavy on the left elbow--it's the desk does it." "i'll see," said simon. he knew quite well the suggestion that lay in the tone and the words of mudd, but a visit to his tailors was almost on a par with a visit to his dentists, and new clothes were an abhorrence. it took him a fortnight to get used to a new coat, and as to being shabby, why, a decent shabbiness was part of his personality and, vaguely perhaps, of his pride in life. he could afford to be shabby. mudd having vanished, simon rose and began his toilet, tubbing in a tin bath--a flat victorian tin bath--and shaving with a razor taken from a case of seven, each marked with a day of the week. this razor was marked "tuesday." having carefully dried "tuesday" and put it back between "monday" and "wednesday," simon closed the case with the care and precision that marked all his actions, finished dressing, and looked out of the window to see what sort of day it was. a peep of glorious blue sky caught across the roofs of the opposite houses informed him, leaving him unenthusiastic, and then, having wound up his watch, he came downstairs to the jacobean dining-room, where tea, toast, frizzled bacon, and a well-aired _times_ were awaiting him. at a quarter to ten precisely mudd opened the hall door, verified the fact that the brougham was in waiting and informed his master, helped him into his overcoat--a light summer overcoat--and closed the carriage door on him. a little after ten simon reached old serjeants' inn and entered his office. brownlow, the chief clerk, had just arrived, and simon, nodding to him, passed into his private room, where his letters were laid out, hung up his hat and coat, and set to business. it was a sight to watch his face as he read letter after letter, laying each in order under a marble paper-weight. one might have fancied oneself watching law at work, in seclusion and unadorned with robes. he did not need glasses--his eyes were still the eyes of a young man. having finished his letters, he rang for his stenographer and began dictating replies, sending out now and again for brownlow to consult upon details; then, this business finished and alone again, he sat resting for a moment, leaning back in his chair and trimming his nails with the little penknife that lay on the table. it was his custom at twelve o'clock precisely to have a glass of old brown sherry. it was a custom of the firm; andrew pettigrew had done the same in his day and had handed on the habit to his son. if a favoured client were present the client would be asked to have a glass, and the bottle and two glasses were kept in the john tann safe in the corner of the room. ye gods! fancy in your modern solicitor's office a wine-bottle in the principal safe and the solicitor asking a client to "have a drink"! yet the green-seal sherry, famous amidst the _cognoscenti_, and the safe and the atmosphere of the room and the other-day figure of simon, all were in keeping, part of a unique and georgian whole, like the component parts of a toby jug. the old silver-faced clock on the mantel, having placed its finger on midday, set up its silvery lisp, and simon, rousing himself from his reverie, rose, drew a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the safe. then he stood looking at what was to be seen inside. the safe contained two deed-boxes, one on top of the other, on the iron fire-and-burglar-proof floor, and by the deed-boxes stood the sherry bottle and the cut-glass satellite wine-glasses, whilst upon the topmost deed-box reposed a black leather wallet. simon's eyes were fixed on the wallet, the thing seemed to hold him spellbound; one might have fancied him gazing into the devilish-diamond eyes of a coiled snake. the wallet had not been there when he closed the safe last; there had been nothing in the safe but the boxes, the bottle and the glasses, and of the safe there were but two keys, one at the bank, one in his pocket. the manager of cumber's bank, a bald-headed magnate with side-whiskers, even if he had means of access to the safe, could not have been the author of this little trick, simply because the key at the bank was out of his reach, being safely locked away in the pettigrew private deed-chest, and the key of the pettigrew private deed-chest was on the same bunch as that now hanging from the safe door. the lock was unpickable. yet the look on simon's face was less that of surprise at the thing found than terror of the thing seen. brownlow's head on a charger could not have affected him much more. then, stretching out his hand, he took the wallet, brought it to the table and opened it. it contained bank-notes, beautiful, new, crisp bank of england notes; but the joy of the ordinary man in discovering a great unexpected wad of bank-notes was not apparent in the face of simon, unless beads of perspiration are indications of joy. he turned to the sherry-bottle, filled two glasses with a shaky hand and drained them; then he turned again to the notes. he sat down and, pushing the wallet aside, began to count them. began to count them feverishly, as though the result of the tally were a matter of vast importance. there were four notes of a thousand, the rest were hundreds and a few tens. ten thousand pounds, that was the total. he put the notes back in the case, buckled it, jumped up like a released spring, flung the wallet on top of the deed-box and closed the safe with a snap. then he stood, hands in pockets, examining the pattern of the turkey carpet. at this moment a knock came to the door and a junior clerk appeared. "what the devil do you want?" asked simon. the clerk stated his case. a mr. smith had called, craving an interview. "ask mr. brownlow to see him," replied simon; "but ask mr. brownlow to step in here first." in a moment brownlow appeared. "brownlow," said simon, "look up dr. oppenshaw's telephone number and ask him can he give me ten minutes' interview before luncheon. say it is most urgently important. 110a, harley street, is his address--and, see here, have a taxicab called--that's all." whilst brownlow was away on his mission simon put on his overcoat, put on his hat, blew his nose lustily in the red bandanna handkerchief that was part of his personality, opened the safe and took another peep at the wallet, as if to make sure that the fairy hand that had placed it there had not spirited it away again, and was in the act of locking the safe when the senior clerk entered to say that dr. oppenshaw would be visible at a quarter to one, and that morgan, the office-boy, had procured the cab. brownlow, though he managed to conceal his feelings, was disturbed by the manner of his chief and by the telephone message to the doctor; by the whole affair, in fact, for simon never left the office till the stroke of one, when the brougham called to take him to simpson's in the strand for luncheon. was simon ill? he ventured to put the question and nearly had his head snapped off. ill! no, of course he wasn't ill, never better in his life; what on earth put that idea into brownlow's head? then the testy one departed in search of the taxi, and brownlow returned to his room and his duties. chapter iii dr. oppenshaw just as rabbit-burrows on the arizona plain give shelter to a mixed tenantry, a rabbit, an owl, and a snake often occupying the same hole, so the harley street houses are, as a rule, divided up between dentists, oculists, surgeons, and physicians, so that under the same roof you can, if you are so minded, have your teeth extracted, your lungs percussed, your eyes put right, and your surgical ailment seen to, each on a different floor. number 110a, harley street, however, contained only one occupant--dr. otto oppenshaw. dr. oppenshaw had no need of a sharer in his rent burdens; a neurologist in the most nerve-ridden city of europe, he was making an income of some twenty-five thousand a year. people were turned away from his door as from a theatre where a wildly successful play is running. the main craving of fashionable neurotics, a craving beyond, though often inspired by the craving for, the opium alkaloids and cocaine, was to see oppenshaw. yet he was not much to see: a little bald man like a turnip, with the manners of a butcher, and gold-rimmed spectacles. dukes inspired with the desire to see oppenshaw had to wait their turn often behind tradesmen, yet he was at simon pettigrew's command. simon was his sometime lawyer. it was half-past twelve, or maybe a bit more, when the taxi drew up at 110a and the lawyer, after a sharp legal discussion over tuppence with the driver, mounted the steps and pressed the bell. the door was at once opened by a pale-faced man in black, who conducted the visitor to the waiting-room, where a single patient was seated reading a last year's volume of _punch_ and not seeming to realise the jokes. this person was called out presently, and then came simon's turn. oppenshaw got up from his desk and came forward to meet him. "i'm sorry to bother you," said simon, when they had exchanged greetings. "it's a difficult matter i have come to consult you about, and an important one, else i would not have cut into your time like this." "state your case," said the other jovially, retaking his seat and pointing out a chair. "that's the devil of it," replied simon; "it's a case that lies out of the jurisdiction of common sense and common knowledge. look at me. do i look as though i were a dreamer or creature of fancies?" "you certainly don't," said oppenshaw frankly. "yet what i have to tell you disgusts me--will disgust you." "i'm used to that, i'm used to that," said the other. "nothing you can say will alarm, disgust, or leave me incredulous." "well, here it is," said the patient, plunging into the matter as a man into cold water. "a year ago--a year and four weeks, for it was on the third of may--i went down to my office one morning and transacted my business as usual. at twelve o'clock i--er--had occasion to open my safe, a safe of which i alone possess the key. on the top of a deed-box in that safe i found a brown-paper parcel tied with red tape. i was astonished, for i had put no parcel in." "you might have forgotten," said oppenshaw. "i never forget," replied simon. "go on," said oppenshaw. "i opened the parcel. it contained bank-notes to the amount of ten thousand pounds." "h'm--h'm." "ten thousand pounds. i could not believe my eyes. i sent for my chief clerk, brownlow. he could not believe his eyes, and i fear he even doubted the statement of the whole case. now listen. i determined to go to my bank, cumber's, and make enquiries as to my balance, ridden by the seemingly absurd idea that i myself had drawn this amount and forgotten the fact. i may say at once this was the truth, i _had_ drawn it, unknown to myself. well, that was the third of may, and when and where do you think i found myself next?" "go on," said oppenshaw. "in paris on the third of june." "ah--ah." "everything between those dates was a blank." "your case is not absolutely common," said oppenshaw. "rare, but not without precedent--read the papers. why, only yesterday a woman was found on a seat at brighton. she had left london a week ago; the interval was to her a complete blank, yet she had travelled about and lived like an ordinary mortal in possession of her ordinary senses." "wait a bit," said simon. "i was not found on a seat in paris. i found myself in a gorgeously-furnished sitting-room of the bristol hotel, and i was dressed in clothes that might have suited a young man--a fool of twenty, and i very soon found that i had been acting--acting like a fool. of the ten thousand only five thousand remained." "five thousand in a month," said oppenshaw. "well, you paid the price of your temporary youth. tell me," said he, "and be quite frank. what were you like when you were young? i mean in mind and conduct?" simon moved wearily. "i was a fool for a while," said he. "then i suddenly checked myself and became sensible." oppenshaw rapped twice with his fingers on his desk as if in triumph over his own perception. "that clears matters," said he. "you were undoubtedly suffering from lethmann's disease." "good lord!" said simon. "what's that?" "it's a form of aberration--most interesting. you have heard of double personalities, of which a great deal of nonsense has been written? well, lethmann's disease is just this: a man, say, of twenty, suddenly checked in the course of his youth, becomes practically another person. you, for instance, became, or fancied you became, another person; you suddenly 'checked yourself and became sensible,' as you put it, but you did not destroy that old foolish self. nothing is destructible in mind as long as the brain-tissue is normal; you put it in prison, and after the lapse of many years, owing, perhaps, to some slight declension in brain power, it broke out, dominated you, and lived again. youth must be served. "it would have been perhaps better for you to have let your youth run its course and expend itself normally. you have paid the price of your own will-power. i am very much interested in this. tell me as faithfully as you can what you did in paris, or at least what you gathered that you did. when you came to, did you remember your actions during the month of aberration?" "when i came to," said simon, speaking almost with his teeth set, "i was like a person stunned. then i remembered, bit by bit, what i had been doing, but it was like vaguely remembering what another man had been doing." "right," said oppenshaw, "that tallies with your case. go on." "i had been doing foolish things. i had been living, so to say, on the surface of life, without a thought of anything but pleasure, without the slightest recollection of myself as i am. i had been doing things that i might have done at twenty--extravagant follies; yet i believe not any really vicious acts. i had been drinking too much champagne, for one thing, and there were several ladies.... good lord! oppenshaw, i'd blush to confess it to anyone else, but i'd been going on like a boy, picking flowers at fontainebleau--writing verses to one of these hussies. i could remember that. me!--verses about blue skies and streams and things! me! it's horrible!" "used you to write verses when you were young?" "yes," said simon, "i believe i used to make that sort of fool of myself." "you were full of the joy of living?" "i suppose so." "you see, everything tallies. yes, without any manner of doubt it's a case of lethmann's disease rounded and complete. now, tell me, when you came to, you could remember all your actions in paris; how far back did that memory go?" "i could remember dimly right back to when i was leaving the office in old serjeants' inn with the bundle of bank-notes to go to the bank. then all of a sudden it would seem i forgot all about my past and became, as you insist, myself at twenty. i went to the charing cross hotel, where i had already, it would seem, hired rooms for myself, and where i had directed new clothes to be sent, and then i went to paris." "this is most important," said oppenshaw. "you had already hired rooms for yourself and ordered clothes. those acts must have been committed before the great change came on you, and of course without your knowledge." "they must. also the act of drawing the ten thousand from the bank." "the concealed other self must have been working like a mole in the dark for some days at least," said oppenshaw, "utterly without your knowledge." "utterly." "then having prepared in a vague sort of way a means for enjoying itself, it burst out; it was like a butterfly coming out of a chrysalis--excuse the simile." "something like that." "so far so good. well, now, when you came to your old self in paris, what did you do?" "i came back to london, of course." "but surely your sudden disappearance must have caused alarm? why, it would have been in the papers." "not a bit," said simon grimly. "my other self, as you call it, had prepared for that. it seems the night before the thing happened i told mudd--you know mudd, the butler--that i might be called away suddenly and be absent a considerable time, that i would buy clothes and nightshirts and things, if that was so, at the place i was going to, and that he was to tell the office if i went away, and to tell brownlow to carry on. infernal, isn't it?" "infernally ingenious," said oppenshaw; "but if you had ever studied the subject of duplex personality you would not be surprised. i have seen a young religious girl make most complex preparations for a journey as a missionary to china, utterly without her own knowledge. we caught her at the station, fortunately, just in time--but how did you find out that you gave mudd those instructions?" "the whole way back from paris," said simon, "i was preparing to meet all sorts of enquiry and bother as to my absence. then, when i reached home, mudd did not seem to think it out of the way; he told me he had followed my directions and notified the office when i did not return, and told them that i might be some time away. then i got out of him what i had said about the clothes and so on." "tell me," said oppenshaw suddenly, "why did you come to me to-day to tell me all this?" "because," said simon, "on opening my safe this morning i found in a wallet on the top of the deed-box another bundle of notes for exactly the same amount." chapter iv dr. oppenshaw--_continued_ oppenshaw whistled. "a bundle of notes amounting to ten thousand pounds," said simon; "exactly the same amount." oppenshaw looked at his nails carefully without speaking. simon watched him. "tell me," said simon, "is this confounded disease, or whatever it is, recurrent?" "you mean is there any fear that your old self--or, rather, your young self--is preparing for another outbreak?" "precisely." "that this drawing of another ten thousand, unknown to yourself, is only the first act in a similar drama, or shall we say comedy?" "yes." "well, i can't say for certain, for the disease, or the ailment, if you like the term better, has not been long enough before the eyes of science to make quite definite statements. but, as far as i can judge, i'm afraid it is." simon swallowed. "leaving aside the fact of the similarity of the action and the amount of money drawn, we have the similarity in time. it is true that last year it was in may you started the business." "the third of may, a month's difference," said simon. "true, but it is less a question of a month more or less than of season. last early may and april end were abnormally fine. i remember that, for i had to go to switzerland. this may has been wretched. then during the last week we have had this burst of splendid weather--weather that makes me feel young again." "it doesn't me," said simon. "no, but it has evidently--at least probably--had that effect on your other 'me.' the something that urges the return of the swallow has acted in your subconsciousness with the coming of springlike weather just as last year." "damn swallows!" cried simon, rising up and pacing the floor. "suppose this thing lets me in for another five thousand, and lord knows what else? oppenshaw," wheeling suddenly, "is nothing to be done? how can i stop it?" "well," said oppenshaw, "quite frankly, i think that the best means is the exercise of your own will-power. you might, of course, take the notes back to the bank and instruct them not to allow you to draw any more money for, say, a month--but that would be unpleasant." "impossible!" "you might, again, put yourself under restraint. i could do that for you." "put myself in a mad-house?" "no, no--a nursing home." "never!" "you might, again, instruct your butler to follow you and, as a matter of fact, keep his eye on you for the next month." "mudd!" "yes." "sooner die. never could look him in the face again." "have you any near and trustworthy relatives?" "only a nephew, utterly wild and untrustworthy; a chap i've cut out of my will and had to stop his allowance." "and you are not married--that's a pity. a wife----" "hang wives!" cried simon. "what's the good of talking of the impracticable?" "well, there we are," continued oppenshaw, perfectly unruffled. "i have suggested everything; there is only will left. the greatest friend of a man is his will. determine in your own mind that this change will _not_ take place. i believe that will be your safest plan. the others i have suggested are all impossible to your sense of _amour propre_, and, besides that, there is the grave objection that they savour of force. it might have bad consequences to use force to what would be practically the subconscious mind. your will is quite different. will can never unbalance mind. in fact, as a famous english neurologist has put it, 'most cases of mental disturbances are due to an inflated ego--a deflated will.'" "oh, my will's all right," said simon. "well, then, use it and don't trouble. say to yourself definitely--'this shall not be.'" "and that money in the safe?" "leave it there; dare your other self to take it. to remove it and place it in other keeping would be a weakness." "thanks," said simon. "i grasp what you mean." he took out his purse and laid five guineas on the desk. oppenshaw did not seem to see the money. he accompanied his patient to the door. it was half-past one. chapter v i will not be him out in harley street simon walked hurriedly and without goal. it was getting past luncheon-time; he had forgotten the fact. oppenshaw was one of those men who carry conviction. you will have noticed in life that quite a lot of people don't convince; they may be good, they may be earnest, but they don't convince. selling a full-grown dog in the world's market, they have little chance against a convincing competitor selling a pup. oppenshaw's twenty-five thousand a year came, in good part, from this quality. he had convinced simon of the fact that inside simon lay youth that was once simon--youth that, though unseen and unknown to the world, could still dominate its container even to the extent of meddling with his bank balance. that for simon was at this moment the main fact in the situation. it was sufficiently bad that this old imperious youth should be able to make him act foolishly, but that was nothing to the fact that it was able to tamper with his money. simon's money was the solid ground under his feet, and he recognised, now, that it was everything to him--everything. he could have sacrificed at a pinch all else; he could have sacrificed mudd, his furniture, his old prints, his cellar, but his money was even more than the ground under his feet--it was himself. suppose this disease were to recur often and at shorter intervals, or become chronic? he calculated furiously that at the rate of five thousand a month his fortune would last, roughly, a year and a half. he saw his securities being sold, his property in hertfordshire, his furniture, his pictures. he had a remedy, it is true: to put himself under restraint. a nice sort of remedy! in weymouth street, the home of nursing homes and doctors, into which he had wandered, his mind tension became so acute that the impulse came on him to hurry back to oppenshaw in the vague hope that something else might be done--some operation, for instance. he knew little of medicine and less of surgery, but he had heard of people being operated on for brain mischief, and he remembered, now, having read of an old admiral who had lost consciousness owing to an injury at the battle of the nile, and had remained unconscious till an operation cured him some months later. he was saved from bothering oppenshaw again by an instinctive feeling that it would be useless. you cannot extract the follies of youth by an operation. he went on trending towards oxford street, but still without object. what made his position worse was his instinct as a solicitor. for forty years he had, amongst other work, been engaged in tying up youth so that it could not get at property, extracting youth from pitfalls it had tumbled into whilst carrying property in its arms. the very words "youth" and "property," innocent in themselves, were obnoxious to simon when combined. he had always held that no young man ought to inherit till he was twenty-five, and, heaven knows, that opinion had a firm basis in experience. he had always in law looked askance on youth and its doings. in practice he had been tolerant enough, though, indeed, youth comes little in the way of a hard-working and prominent elderly solicitor, but in law, and he was mostly law, he had little tolerance, no respect. and here was youth with _his_ property in its arms, or what was, perhaps, even worse, the imminent dread of that unholy alliance. in oxford street he stopped at a shop window and inspected ladies' blouses--that was his condition of mind; jewellers' windows held him, not by the excellence of their goods, but by the necessity to turn his back to the crowd and think--think--think. his mind was in a turmoil, and he could no more control his thoughts than he could have controlled the traffic; the wares of the merchants exposed to view seemed to do the thinking. gold alberts only held his eye to explain that his lands in hertfordshire flung on the market in the present state of agriculture would not fetch a tithe of their worth, but that his green-seal sherry and all the treasures of his cellar would bring half the west end to their sale--old pettigrew's cellar. other things in other shops spoke to him in a like manner, and then he found himself at oxford circus with the sudden consciousness that _this_ was not fighting lethmann's disease by the exercise of will. his will had, in fact, been in abeyance, his imagination master of him. but a refuge in the middle of oxford circus was not exactly the place for the re-equipment of will-power; the effort nearly cost him his life from a motor-lorry as he crossed. then, when he had reached the other side and could resume work free of danger, he found that he had apparently no will to re-equip. he found himself repeating over and over the words, "i will not be him--i will not be him." that seemed all right for a moment, and he would have satisfied himself that his will-power was working splendidly, had not a sudden cold doubt sprung up in his heart as to whether the proper formula ought not to be, "he will not be me." ah! that was the crux of the business. it was quite easy to determine, "i will not be him," but when it came to the declaration, "he will not be me," simon found that he had no will-power in the matter. it was quite easy to determine that he would not do foolish things, impossible to determine that another should not do them. then it came to his mind like a flash that the other one was not a personality so much as a combination of foolish actions, old desires, and alien motives let loose on the world without governance. he turned mechanically into verreys' and had a chop. at simpson's in the strand he always had a chop or a cut from the saddle, or a cut from the sirloin--like the razors, the daily menus following one another in rotation. this was a chop day, just as it was a "tuesday" day, and habit prevented him from forgetting the fact. the chop and a half-bottle of st. estéphe made him feel a stronger man. he suddenly became cheerful and valiant. "if worst comes to worst," said he to himself, "i _can put_ myself under restraint; nobody need know. yes, begad! i have always that. i can put myself under surveillance. why, dash it! i can tie up my money so that i can't touch it; it's quite easy." the chop and st. estéphe, hauling him out of the slough of despond, told him this. it was a sure way of escape from losing his money. he had furiously rejected the idea at oppenshaw's, but at oppenshaw's his property had not had time to talk fully to him, but in that awful journey from harley street to verreys' he had walked arm-in-arm with his property chattering on one side and dumb bankruptcy on the other. restraint would have been almost as odious as bankruptcy to him, yet now, as a sure means of escape from the other, it seemed almost a pleasant prospect. he left verreys' and walked along feeling brighter and better. he turned into the athenæum. it was turning-in time at the athenæum, and the big armchairs were full of somnolent ones, bald heads drooping, whiskers hidden by the sheets of the _times_. here he met sir ralph puttick, hon. physician to his majesty, stiff, urbane, stately, seeming ever supported on either side by a lion and a unicorn. sir ralph and simon were known one to the other and had much in common, including anti-socialism. in armchairs, they talked of lloyd george--at least, sir ralph did, simon had other considerations on his mind. leaning forward in his chair, he suddenly asked, apropos of nothing: "did you ever hear of a disease called lethmann's disease?" now sir ralph was chest and heart, nothing else. he was also nettled at "shop" being suddenly thrust upon him by a damned attorney, for simon was "simon pettigrew, quite a character, one of our old-fashioned, first-class english lawyers," when sir ralph was in a good temper and happened to consider simon; nettled, simon was a "damned attorney." "never," said sir ralph. "what disease did you say?" "lethmann's. it's a new disease, it seems." another horrid blunder, as though the lion and unicorn man were only acquainted with old diseases--out of date, in fact. "never," replied the other. "there's no such thing. who told you about it?" "i read about it," said simon. he tried to give a picture of the symptoms and failed to convince, but he managed to irritate. the semi-royal one listened with a specious appearance of attention and even interest; then, the other having finished, he opened his batteries. simon left the club with the feeling that he had been put upon the stand beside charlatans, quacks, and the purveyor of crank theories; also that he had been snubbed. chapter vi tidd and renshaw did he mind? not a bit; he enjoyed it. if sir ralph had kicked him out of the athenæum for airing false science there he would have enjoyed it. he would have enjoyed anything casting odium and discredit on the theory of double personality in the form of lethmann's disease. for now his hunted soul, that had taken momentary refuge in the thought of nursing homes and restraint, had left that burrow and was taking refuge in doubt. the whole thing was surely absurd. the affair of last year _must_ have been a temporary aberration due to overwork, despite the fact that he had, indeed, drawn another ten thousand unconsciously from the bank; it was patently foolish to think that a man could be under the dominion of a story-book disease. he had read dr. jekyll and mr. hyde--that wild fiction! why, if this thing were true, it would be a fiction just as wild. oceans of comfort suddenly came to him. it gave him a new grip on the situation, pointing out that the whole of this business as suggested by oppenshaw was on a level with a "silly sensational story," that is to say with the impossible--therefore impossible. he made one grave mistake--the mistake of reckoning dr. jekyll and mr. hyde as a "silly sensational story." anyhow, he got comfort from what he considered fact, and at dinner that night he was so restored that he was able to grumble because the mutton "was done to rags." he dined alone. as he had not returned to the office in the afternoon, brownlow had sent some papers relative to a law case then pending for his consideration. it often happened that simon took business home with him, or, if he were not able to attend at the office, important papers would be sent to his house. to-night, according to custom, he retired to his library, drank his coffee, spread open the documents, and, comfortably seated in a huge leathern armchair, plunged into work. it was a difficult case, the case of tidd _v._ renshaw, complicated by all sorts of cross-issues and currents. in its dry legal jargon it involved the title to london house property, the credit of a woman, the happiness of a family, and a few other things, all absolutely of no account to simon, engaged on the law of the case, and to whom the human beings involved were simply as the chessmen in the hands of the player; and necessarily, for a lawyer who allowed human considerations to colour his view would be an untrustworthy lawyer. at ten o'clock simon, suddenly laying the documents on the floor beside him, rose up, rang the bell, and stood on the hearthrug with his hands linked behind him. mudd appeared. "mudd," said simon, "i may be called away to-morrow and be absent some time. if i am not at the office when the brougham comes to fetch me for luncheon, you can notify the office that i have been called away. you needn't bother about packing things for me; i will buy anything i want where i am going." "i could easily pack a bag for you," said mudd, "and you could take it with you to the office." "i want no bag. i have given you your directions," said simon, and mudd went off grumbling and snubbed. then the lawyer sat down and plunged into law again, folding up the documents at eleven o'clock and putting them carefully in his bureau. then he switched off the electric light, examined the hall door to see that it was properly bolted, and went up to bed carrying the case of tidd _v._ renshaw with him as a nightcap. it hung about his intellect like a penumbra as he undressed, warding off, or partly warding off, thoughts about oppenshaw and his own condition that were trying to get into his mind. then he popped into bed, and, still pursuing tidd _v._ renshaw through the labyrinths of the law, and holding tight on to their tails, fell asleep. chapter vii the wallet he awoke to mudd drawing the blinds and to another perfect day--a summer morning, luxurious and warm, beautiful even in london. he had lost clutch of tidd and renshaw in the land of sleep, but he had found his strength and self-confidence again. the terror of lethmann's disease had vanished; the thing was absurd, he had been frightened by a bogey. oppenshaw was a clever man, but he was a specialist, always thinking of nerve diseases, living in an atmosphere of them. sir ralph puttick, on the contrary, was a man of solid understanding and wider views--a sane man. so he told himself as he took "wednesday" from its case and shaved himself. then he came down to the same frizzled bacon and the same aired _times_, put on the same overcoat and hat, and got into the same old brougham and started for the office. he went into his room, where his usual morning letters were laid out for him. but he did not take off his coat and hat. he had come to a determination. oppenshaw had told him to leave the wallet where it was and not take the notes back to the bank, as that would be a weakness. sir ralph puttick was telling him now that oppenshaw was a fool. the real weakness would be to follow the advice of oppenshaw. to follow that advice would be to play with this business and confess that there was reality in it; besides, with those notes in the safe behind him he could never do his morning's work. no; back those notes should go to the bank. he opened the safe, and there was the wallet seated like an evil genius on the deed-box. he took it out and put it under his arm, locked the safe and left the room. in the outer office all the clerks were busy, and brownlow was in his room with the door shut. simon, with the wallet under his arm, walked out and passed through the precincts of old serjeants' inn to fleet street, where a waft of warm summer, yet springlike, wind met him in the face. part ii chapter i the soul's awakening he raised his head, sniffed as if inhaling something, and quickened his step. what a glorious day it was; even fleet street had a touch of youth about it. a flower-woman and her wares caught his eye; he bought a bunch of late violets and, with his hat tilted back, dived in his trousers' pocket and produced a handful of silver. he gave her a shilling and, without asking for change, walked on, the violets in his buttonhole. he was making west like a homing pigeon. he walked like a man in a hurry but with no purpose, his glance skimmed things and seemed to rest only on things coloured or pleasant to look on, his eyes showed no speculation. he seemed like a person with no more past than a dreamer. the present seemed to him everything--just as it is to the dreamer. in the strand he stopped here and there to glance at the contents of shops; neckties attracted him. then fuller's drew him in by its colour. he had a vanilla-and-strawberry ice and chatted to the girls, who did not receive his advances, however, with much favour. then he came to romanos'; it attracted him, and he went in. gilded youths were drinking at the bar, and a cocktail being mixed by the bar-tender fascinated simon by its colour; he had one like it, chatted to the man, paid, and walked out. it was now eleven. still walking gaily and lightly, as one walks in a happy dream, he reached the charing cross hotel, asked the porter to show him the rooms he had reserved, and enquired if his luggage had come. the luggage had come and was deposited in the bedroom of the suite: two large brand-new portmanteaux and a hat-box, also a band-box from lincoln bennett's. the portmanteaux and hat-box were locked, but in the band-box were the keys, gummed up in an envelope; there was also a straw hat in the band-box--a boater. the porter, having unstrapped the portmanteaux, departed with a tip, and our gentleman began to unpack swiftly and with the eagerness of a child going to a party. o youth! what a star thou art, yet what a folly! and yet can all wisdom give one the pleasure of one's first ball-dress, of the young man's brand-new suit? and there were brand-new suits and to spare, check tweed, blue serge, boating flannels; shoes, too, and boots from the burlington arcade, ties and socks from beale and inman's. it was like a trousseau. as he unpacked he whistled. whistled a tune that was young in the sixties--"champagne charley," no less. then he dressed, vigorously digging his head into a striped shirt, donning a purple tie, purple socks, and a grey tweed suit of excellent cut. all his movements were feverish, light, rapid. he did not seem to notice the details of the room around him; he seemed skimming along the surface of things in a hurry to get to some goal of pleasure. flushed and bright-eyed, he scarcely looked fifty now, yet, despite this reduction in age, his general get-up had a touch of the raffish. purple socks and ties are a bit off at fifty; a straw "boater" does not reduce the effect, nor do tan shoes. but simon was quite satisfied with himself. still whistling, he bundled his old things away in a drawer and left the other things lying about for the servants to put away, and sat down on the side of the bed with the wallet in his hands. he opened it and turned the notes out on the quilt. the gorgeous bundle to "bust" or do what he liked with held him in its thrall as he turned over the contents, not counting the amount, but just reviewing the notes and the huge sums on most of them. heavens! what a delight even in a dream! to be young and absolutely free from all restraint, free from all ties, unconscious of relatives, unconscious of everything but immediate surroundings, with virginal appetites and desires and countless sovereigns to meet them with. dangling his heels, and with his straw hat beside him, he gloated on his treasure; then, picking out three ten-pound notes and putting the remainder in the wallet, he locked the wallet away in his portmanteau and put the key under the wardrobe. then, leaving his room, he came downstairs with his straw hat on the back of his head and a smile for a pretty chambermaid who passed him coming up. the girl laughed and glanced back, but whether she was laughing at or with him it would be hard to say. chambermaids have strange tastes. it was in the hall that he met moxon, senior partner in plunder's, the great bill-discounting firm; a tall man, serious of face and manner. "why, god bless my soul, pettigrew!" cried moxon, "i scarcely knew you." "you have the advantage of me, old cock," replied simon airily, "for i'm ---if i ever met you before." "my mistake," said moxon. it was pettigrew's face and voice, but all the rest was not pettigrew, and the discounter of bills hurried off, feeling as though he had come across the uncanny--which he had. simon paused at the office, holding a lady clerk in light conversation about the weather and turning upon her that sprightly wit already mentioned. she was busy and stiff, and the weather and his wit didn't seem to interest her. then he asked for change of a ten-pound note, and she gave it to him in sovereigns; then he asked for change of a sovereign--she gave it to him; then he asked, with a grin, for change of a shilling. she was outraged now; that which ought to have made her laugh seemed to incense her. do what he could, he couldn't warm her. she was colder than the ice-cream girls. what the devil was the matter with them all? she slapped the change for the shilling down and turned away to her books. tilting his hat further back, he rapped with a penny on the ledge. she got up. "well, what is it now?" "can you change me a penny, please?" said simon. "mrs. jones!" called the girl. a stout lady manageress in black appeared. "i don't know what this gentleman means." the manageress raised her eyebrows at the jester. "i asked the young lady for change of a penny. can you let me have two halfpence for a penny, please?" the manageress opened the till and gave the change. the gay one departed, chuckling. he had had the best of the girl, silly creature, that could not take a joke in good part--but he had enjoyed himself. moving in the line of least resistance towards the phantom of pleasure, he made for the hotel entrance and the sunlight showing through the door, bought a cigar at the kiosk outside, and then bundled into a taxi. "where to, sir?" asked the driver. "first bar," replied simon. "first decent one, and look sharp." the surly driver--heavens, how the old hansom cabby of the sixties would have hailed such a fare, and with what joy!--closed the door without a word and started winding up the engine. he had difficulties, and as he went on winding the occupant put his head out of the window and addressed the station policeman who was looking on. "has the chap a licence for a barrel-organ?" asked simon. "if he hasn't, ask him to drive on." he shut the window. they started, and stopped at a bar in leicester square. simon paid and entered. it was a long bar, a glittering, loathsome, noxious place where, behind a long counter, six barmaids were serving all sorts of men with all sorts of drinks. simon seemed to find it all right. puffing his cigar, he ordered a brandy cold--a brandy cold! and sipping his brandy cold, he took stock of the men around. even his innocence and newness--despite the crave for companionship now on him--recognised that there were undesirables, and as for the bar girls, they were frozen images--for him. they were laughing and changing words with all sorts of young men--counter-jumpers and horsey men--but for him they had nothing but brandy cold and monosyllables. he was beginning to get irritated with woman; but the sunlight outside and two cold brandies inside restored his happy humour, and the idea of lunch was now moving before him, luring him on. thinking thus, he was advancing not towards luncheon but towards fate. at piccadilly circus there was a crowd round an omnibus. there generally are crowds round omnibuses just here, but this was a special crowd, having for its core an irate bus conductor and a pretty girl. oh, such a pretty girl! spring itself, dark-haired, dark-eyed, well dressed, but with just that touch which tells of want of affluence. she fascinated simon as a flower fascinates a bee. "but, sir, i tell you i have lost my purse; some pocket-picker has taken it. i shall be pleased to tell you where i live and reward you if you come for the money. my name is cerise rossignol." this, with just a trace of foreign accent. "i've been done twice this week by that game," said the brutal conductor, speaking, however, the truth. "come, search in your glove, you'll find it." simon broke in. "how much?" said he. "tuppence," said the conductor. then the gods that preside over youth might have observed this new andromeda, released at the charge of tuppence, wandering off with her saviour and turning to him a face filled with gratitude. they were going in the direction of leicester square. chapter ii moxon and mudd now, moxon had come up that morning from framlingham in kent, where he was taking a holiday, to transact some business. amongst other things he had to see simon pettigrew on a question about some bills. the apparition he had encountered in the hall of the charing cross hotel pursued him to plunder's office, where he first went, and, when he left plunder's for luncheon at prosser's, in chancery lane, it still pursued him. though he knew it could not be pettigrew, some uneasy spirit in his subconsciousness kept insisting that it was pettigrew. at two o'clock he called at old serjeants' inn. he saw brownlow, who had just returned from lunch. no, mr. pettigrew was not in. he had gone out that morning early and had not returned. "i must see him," said moxon. "when do you think he will be in?" brownlow couldn't say. "would he be at his house, do you think?" "hardly," said brownlow; "he might have gone home, but i think it's improbable." "i must see him," said moxon again. "it's extraordinary. why, i wrote to him telling him i was coming this afternoon and he knows the importance of my business." "mr. pettigrew hasn't opened his morning letters yet," said brownlow. "good lord!" said moxon. then, after a pause: "will you telephone to his house to see?" "mr. pettigrew has no telephone," said brownlow; "he dislikes them, except in business." moxon remembered this and other old-fashioned traits in pettigrew; the remembrance did not ease his irritation. "then i'll go to his house myself," said he. when he arrived at king charles street, mudd opened the door. mudd and moxon were mutually known one to the other, moxon having often dined there. "is your master in, mudd?" asked moxon. "no, sir," answered mudd; "he's not at home, and mayn't be at home for some time." "what do you mean?" "he left me directions that if he wasn't at the office when the brougham called to take him to luncheon i was to tell the office he was called away; the coachman has just come back to say he wasn't there, so i am sending him back to the office to tell them." "called away! for how long?" "well, it might be a month," said mudd, remembering. "extraordinary!" said moxon. "well, i can't help it, and i can't wait; i must take my business elsewhere. i thought i saw mr. pettigrew in the charing cross hotel, but he was dressed differently and seemed strange. well, this is a great nuisance, but it can't be helped, i suppose.... a month...." off he went in a huff. mudd watched him as he went, then he closed the hall door. then he sat down on one of the hall chairs. "dressed differently and seemed strange." it only wanted those words to start alarm in the mind of mudd. the affair of a year ago had always perplexed him, and now this! "seemed strange." could it be?... h'm.... he got up and went downstairs. "why, what's the matter with you, mr. mudd?" asked the cook-housekeeper. "why, you're all of a shake." "it's my stomach," said mudd. he took a glass of ginger wine, then he fetched his hat. "i'm going out to get the air," said mudd. "i mayn't be back for some time; don't bother about me if i aren't, and be sure to lock up the plate." "god bless my soul, what's the matter with the man?" murmured the astonished housekeeper as mudd vanished. "blest if he isn't getting as queer as his master!" out in the street mudd paused to blow his nose in a bandanna handkerchief just like simon's. then, as though this act had started his mechanism, off he went, hailed an omnibus in the next street, and got off at charing cross. he entered the charing cross hotel. "is a mr. pettigrew here?" asked mudd of the hall porter. the hail porter grinned. "yes, there's a mr. pettigrew staying here, but he's out." "well, i'm his servant," said mudd. "staying here with him?" asked the porter. "yes. i've followed him on. what's the number of his room?" "the office will know," replied the other. "well, just go to the office and get his key," said mudd, "and send a messenger boy to no. 12, king charles street--that's our address--to tell mrs. jukes, the housekeeper, i won't be able to get back to-night maybe. here's a shilling for him--but show me his room first." mudd carried conviction. the hall porter went to the office. "key of mr. pettigrew's room," said he; "his servant has just come." the superior damsel detached herself from book-keeping, looked up the number and gave the key. mudd took it and went up in the lift. he opened the door of the room and went in. the place had not been tidied, clothes lay everywhere. mudd, like a cat in a strange house, looked around. then he shut the door. then he took up a coat and looked at the maker's name on the tab. "holland and woolson"--simon's tailors! then he examined all the garments. such garments! boating flannels, serge suits! then the shoes, the patent leather boots. he opened the chest of drawers and found the bundle of discarded clothes--the old coat with the left elbow "going," and the rest. he held them up, examined them, folded them and put them back. then he sat down to recover himself, blew his nose, wondered whether he or simon were crazy, and then, rising up, began to fold and put away the new things in the wardrobe and chest-of-drawers. he noticed that one of the portmanteaux was locked. yet there was something in it that slid up and down as he tilted and lowered it. having looked round the room once again, he went downstairs, gave up the key, made arrangements for his room, and started out. he made for sackville street. meyer, the foreman of holland and woolson's, was known to him. he had sometimes called regarding simon's clothes with directions for this or that. "that blue serge suit you've just sent for mr. pettigrew don't quite rightly fit, mr. meyer," said the cunning mudd. "i had the coat done up in a parcel to bring back to you for the sleeves to be shortened half an inch, but i forgot it; only remembered i'd forgot it at your door." "we'll send for it," said meyer. "right," said mudd. then, "no--on second thoughts, i'll fetch it myself when i have a moment to spare, for we're going from home for a few days. mr. pettigrew has had a good lot of clothes lately, mr. meyer." "he has," said meyer, with a twinkle in his eye; "suits and suits, almost as if he were going to be married." "married!" cried the other. "what put that into your head, mr. meyer? he's not a marrying man. why, i've never seen him as much as glance an eye at a female." "oh, it was only my joke," said meyer. now, in mudd's soul there had lain for years an uneasiness, a crumpled rose-leaf of thought that touched him sometimes as he turned at night in bed. it was the fear that some day simon might ruin mudd's life with a mistress. he couldn't stand a mistress. he had always sworn that to himself; the experience of fellow butlers whose lives were made loathsome by mistresses would have been enough without his own deep-rooted antipathy to females, except as spectacular objects. mrs. jukes was a relation of his, and he could stand her; the maid-servants were automata beneath his notice--but a mistress! mad alarm filled his mind, for his heart told him that the words of meyer had foundation in probability. that affair of last year, when simon had departed and returned in new strange clothes, might have been the courting, this the real thing? he left the tailor's, called a taxi and drove to the office. brownlow was in. "what is it, mudd?" asked brownlow, as the latter was shown into his room. "did you get my message, mr. brownlow?" asked mudd. "yes." "oh, that's all right," said mudd. "i just thought i'd call and ask. the master told me to send the message; he's going away for a bit. wants a change, too. i think he's been overworking lately, mr. brownlow." "he's always overworking," said brownlow. "i think he's been suffering from brain-fag, mudd; he's very reticent about himself, but i'm glad he saw a doctor." "saw a doctor! why, he never told me." "didn't he? well, he did--dr. oppenshaw, of harley street. this is between you and me. try and make him rest more, mudd." "i will," said mudd. "he wants rest. i've been uneasy about him a long while. what's the doctor's number in harley street, mr. brownlow?" "110a," said brownlow, picking the number out of his marvellous memory; "but don't let mr. pettigrew know i told you. he's very touchy about himself." "i won't." off he went. "faithful old servitor," thought brownlow. the faithful old servitor got into a taxi. "110a, harley street," said he to the driver; "and drive quick and i'll give you an extra tuppence." oppenshaw was in. when he was informed that pettigrew's servant had called to see him, he turned over a duchess he was engaged on, gave her a harmless prescription, bowed her out and rang the bell. mudd was shown in. "i've come to ask----" said mudd. "sit down," said oppenshaw. "i've come to speak----" "i know; about your master. how is he?" "well, i've come to ask you, sir; he's at the charing cross hotel at present." "has he gone there to live?" "well, he's there." "i saw him some time ago about the state of his health, and, frankly, mr. mudd, it's serious." mudd nodded. "tell me," said oppenshaw, "has he been buying new clothes?" "heaps; no end," said mudd. "and such clothes--things he's never worn before." "so? well, it's fortunate you found him. what is his conversation like? have you talked to him much?" "i haven't seen him yet," mudd explained. "well, stay close to him, and be very careful. he is suffering from a form of mental upset. you must cross him as little as possible, use persuasion, gentle persuasion. the thing will run its course. it mustn't be suddenly checked." "is he mad?" asked the other. "no, but he is not himself--or rather, he is himself--in a different way; but a sudden check might make him mad. you have heard of people walking in their sleep--well, this is something akin to that. you know it is highly dangerous to awaken a sleep-walker suddenly. well, it's just the same with mr. pettigrew; it might imbalance his mind for good." "what am i to do?" "just keep watch on him." "but suppose he don't know me?" "he won't know you, but if you are kind to him he will accept you into his environment, and then you will link on to his mental state." "he's out now, and god knows where, or doing what," said mudd; "but i'll be on the watch for him coming in--if he ever comes." "oh, he will come home right enough." "is there any fear of those women getting hold of him?" asked mudd, returning to his old dread. "that's just what there is--every fear; but you must be very careful not to interpose your will violently. get gently between, gently between. you understand me. suggestion does a lot in these cases. another thing, you must treat him as one treats a boy. you must imagine to yourself that your master is only twenty, for that, in truth, is what he is. he has gone back to a younger state--or rather, a younger state has come to meet him, having lain dormant, just as a wisdom tooth lies dormant, then grows." "oh, lord!" said mudd. "i never did think i'd live to see this day." "oh, it might be worse." "i don't see." "well, from what i can make out of his youth, it was not a vicious one, only foolish; had he been vicious when young he might be terrible now." "the first solicitor in london," said mudd in a dreary voice. "well, he's not the first solicitor in london to make a fool of himself, nor will he be the last. cheer up and keep your eyes open and do your duty; no man can do more than that." "shall i send for you, doctor, if he gets worse?" "well," said oppenshaw; "from what you tell me he couldn't be much worse. oh no, don't bother to send--unless, of course, the thing took a different course, and he were to become violent without reason; but that won't happen, you can take my word for it." mudd departed. he walked all the way back to the charing cross hotel, but instead of entering, he suddenly took a taxi, and returned to charles street. here he packed some things in a handbag, and having again given directions to mrs. jukes to lock up the plate, he told her he might be some time gone. "i'm going with the master on some law business," said mudd. "make sure and bolt the front door--and lock up the plate." it was the third or fourth time he had given her these instructions. "he's out of his mind," said mrs. jukes, as she watched him go. she wasn't far wrong. mudd had been used to a rut--a rut forty years deep. his light and pleasant duties carried him easily through the day. of evenings when simon was dining out he would join a social circle in the private room of a highly respectable tavern close by, smoke his pipe, drink two hot gins, and depart for home at ten-thirty. when simon was in he could smoke his pipe and read his paper in his own private room. he had five hundred pounds laid by in the bank--no stocks and shares for mudd--and he would vary his evening amusements by counting the toll of his money. it is easy to be seen that this jolt out of the rut was, literally, a jolt. at the charing cross hotel he found the room allotted to him, deposited his things and, disdaining the servants' quarters, went out to a tavern to read the paper. he reckoned simon might not return till late, and he reckoned right. chapter iii simon's old-fashioned night in town madame rossignol was a charming old lady of sixty, a production of france--no other country could have produced her. she lived in duke street, leicester square, supporting herself and her daughter cerise by translating english books into french. cerise did millinery. madame combined absolute innocence with absolute instinct. she knew all about things; her innocence was not ignorance, it was purity--rising above a knowledge of the world, and disdaining to look at evil. she was dreadfully poor. her love for cerise was like a disease always preying upon her. should she die, what would happen to cerise? behold these together clasped in each other's arms. set in the shabby sitting-room, it might have been a scene at the port st. martin. "oh, mother," murmured the girl, "is he not good!" "he is more than good," said madame. "most surely the _bon dieu_ sent him to be your guardian angel." "is he not charming?" went on cerise, unlinking herself from the maternal embrace and touching her hair into order again with a little laugh. "so different from the leaden-faced english, so gay and yet so--so----" "there is a something--i do not know what--about him," said the old lady; "something of romance. is it not like a little tale of madame perichon's or a little play of monsieur baree? might he not just have come in as in one of those? you go out, lose your purse, are lost. i sit waiting for you at your non-return in this wilderness of london; you return, but not alone. with you comes the marquis de grandcourt, who bows and says, 'madame, i return you your daughter; i ask in return your friendship. i am alone, like you; let us then be friends.' i reply, 'monsieur, you behold our poverty, but you cannot behold our hearts or the gratitude in my mind.' what a little story!" "and how he laughed, and said, 'hang monee!'" cut in cerise. "what means that 'hang monee!' maman? and how he pulled out all the gold pieces like a boy, saying, 'i am rich!'--just as a little boy might say, 'i am rich! i am rich!' no bourgeois could have done that without offending, without giving one a shiver of the skin." "you have said it," replied madame. "a little boy--a great and good man, yet a little boy. he is not in his first youth, but there are people, like pierre pan, who never lose youth. it is so; i have seen it." "simon pattigrew," murmured cerise, with a little laugh. a knock came to the door and a little maid-of-all-work, and down at heel, entered with a huge bouquet, one of those bouquets youth flings at _prima donnas_. simon, after leaving the rossignols, had struck a flower shop--this was the result. a piece of paper accompanied the bouquet, and on the paper, written in a handwriting that hitherto had only appeared on letters of business and documents of law, were the words: "from your friend." simon, having struck the flower shop, might have struck a fruit shop and a bonnet shop, only that the joy of love, the love that comes at first sight, the love of dreams, made him incapable of any more business--even the business of buying presents for his fascinator. it was now five o'clock, and, pursuing his way west, he found piccadilly. he passed girls without looking at them--he saw only the vision of cerise. she led him as far as st. george's hospital, as though leading him away from the temptations of the west, but the gloomy prospect of knightsbridge headed him off, and, turning, he came back. big houses, signs of wealth and prosperity, seemed to hold him in a charm, just as he was held by all things pretty, coloured, or dazzling. a glittering restaurant drew him in presently, and here he had a jovial dinner; all alone, it is true, but with plenty to look at. he had also a half-bottle of champagne and a maraschino. he had already consumed that day a cocktail coloured, two glasses of brandy-and-water cold and a half-bottle of champagne. his ordinary consumption of alcohol was moderate. a glass of green-seal sherry at twelve, and a half-bottle of st. estéphe at lunch, and, shall we say, a small whisky-and-soda at dinner, or, if dining out or with guests, a couple of glasses of pommery. and to-day he had been drinking restaurant champagne "_tres sec_"--and two half-bottles of it! the excess was beginning to tell. it told in the slight flush on his cheeks, which, strange to say, did not make him look younger; it told in the tip he gave the waiter, and in the way he put on his hat. he had bought a walking-stick during his peregrinations, a dandy stick with a tassel--the passing fashion had just come in--and with this under his arm he left the café in search of pleasures new. the west end was now ablaze, and the theatres filling. simon, like poe's man of the crowd, kept with the crowd; a blaze of lights attracted him as a lamp a moth. the pallaceum sucked him in. here, in a blue haze of tobacco-smoke and to the tune of a band, he sat for awhile watching the show, roaring with laughter at the comic turns, pleased with the conjuring business, and fascinated--despite cerise--with the girl in tights who did acrobatic tricks aided by two poodles and a monkey. then he found the bar, and there he stood adding fuel to pleasure, his stick under his arm, his hat tilted back, a new cigar in his mouth, and a smile on his face--a smile with a suggestion of fixity. alas! if cerise could have seen the marquis de grandcourt now!--or was it madame who raised him to the peerage of france? if she could have been by to just raise her eyebrows at him! yet she was there, in a way, for the ladies of the _foyer_ who glanced at him not unkindly, taken perhaps by his _bonhomie_, and smiling demeanour and atmosphere of wealth and enjoyment, found no response. yet he found momentary acquaintances, of a sort. a couple of university men up in town for a lark seemed to find him part of the lark; they all drank together, exchanged views, and then the university men vanished, giving place to a gentleman in a very polished hat, with diamond studs, and a face like a hawk, who suggested "fizz," a small bottle of which was consumed mostly by the hawk, who then vanished, leaving simon to pay. simon ordered another, paid for it, forgot it, and found himself in the entrance hall calling in a loud voice for a hansom. a taxi was procured for him and the door opened. he got inside and said, "wait a moment--one moment." then he began paying half-crowns to the commissionaire who had opened the taxi door for him. "that's for your trouble," said simon. "that's for your trouble. that's for your trouble. where am i? oh yes--shut that confounded door, will you, and tell the chap to drive on!" "where to, sir?" oppenshaw would have been interested in the fact that champagne beyond a certain amount had the effect of wakening simon's remote past. he answered: "evans'." consultation outside. "evans's? which evans's? there ain't no such 'otel, there ain't no such bar. ask him which evans's?" "which evanses did you say, sir?" asked the commissionaire, putting his head in. "the driver don't know which you mean. where does it lay?" he got a chuck under the chin that nearly drove his head to the roof of the taxi. then simon's head popped out of the window. it looked up and down the street. "where's that chap that put his head through the window?" asked simon. a small crowd and a policeman drew round. "what is it, sir?" asked the policeman. simon seemed calculating the distance with a view to the bonneting of the enquirer. then he seemed to find the distance too far. "tell him to drive me to the argyle rooms," said he. then he vanished. another council outside, the commissionaire presiding. "take him to the leicester 'otel. why, lord bless me! the argyle rooms has been closed this forty years. take him round about and let him have a snooze." the taximan started with the full intention of robbery--not by force, but by strategy. robbery on the dock. it was not theatre turning-out time yet, and he would have the chance of earning a few dishonest shillings. he turned every corner he could, for every time a taxi turns a corner the "clock" increases in speed. he drove here and there, but he never reached the leicester 'otel, for in full moon street, the home of bishops and earls, the noise inside the vehicle made him halt. he opened the door and simon burst out, radiant with humour and now much steadier on his legs. "how much?" said simon, and then, without waiting for a reply, thrust half a handful of coppers and silver into the fist of the taximan, hit him a slap on the top of his flat cap that made him see stars, and walked off. the man did not pursue, he was counting his takings: eleven-and-fivepence, no less. "crazy," said he; then he started his engine and went off, utterly unconscious of the fact that he had entertained and driven something worthy to be preserved in the british museum--a real live reveller of the sixties. the full moon was shining on full moon street, an old street that still preserves in front of its houses the sockets for the torches of the linkmen. it does not require much imagination to see phantom sedan chairs in full moon street on a night like this, or the watchman on his rounds, and to-night the old street--if old streets have memories--must surely have stirred in its dreams, for, as simon went on his way, the night began suddenly to be filled with cat-calls. a lady airing a pom whisked her treasure into the house as simon passed, and shut the door with a bang; such a bang that the knocker gave a jump and simon a hint. ten yards further on he went up steps, paused before a hall door that, in daylight, would have been green, and took the knocker. just a few turns of his wrist and the knocker was his, a glorious brass knocker, weighing half a pound. no other young man in london that night could have done the business like that or shown such dexterity in an art lost as the art of pinchbeck-making. he collected two more knockers in that street, retaining only one as a trophy. he threw the others into an area, pulled the house doorbell violently, and ran. in berkeley square he was just beginning to deal with another knocker, when the door opened to an elderly woman of the housekeeper type and a dachshund. "what do you want?" asked the housekeeper. "does the duke of cu-cu-cumberland live here?" hiccupped simon. "no, sir, he does not." "sorry--sorry--sorry," said simon. "my mistake--entirely my mistake. very sorry to trouble you indeed. what a pretty little dog! what's his name?" he was entirely affable now, and, forgetful of knockers, wished to strike up a friendship, a desire unshared evidently by the lady. "i think you had better go away," said she, recognising a gentleman and mourning the fact. he considered this proposition deeply for a moment. "that's all very well," said he, "but where am i to go? that's the question." "you had better go home." this seemed slightly to irritate him. "_i'm_ not going home--_this_ time of night--not likely." he began to descend the steps as if to get away from admonition. "not me; you can go home yourself." off he went. he walked three times round berkeley square. he met a constable, enquired where that street ended and when, found sympathy in return for half-crowns, and was mothered into a straighter street. half-way down the straighter street he remembered he hadn't shown the sympathetic constable his door-knocker, but the policeman, fortunately, had passed out of sight. then he stood for awhile remembering cerise. her vision had suddenly appeared before him; it threw him into deep melancholy--profound melancholy. he went on till the lights and noise of piccadilly restored him. then, further on, he entered a flaming doorway through which came the music of a band. part iii chapter i the last sovereign on the morning of the fourth of june, the same morning on which simon had broken like a butterfly from his chrysalis of long-moulded custom and stiff routine, mr. bobby ravenshaw, nephew and only near relation of simon pettigrew, awoke in his chambers in pactolus mansions, piccadilly, yawned, rang for his tea, and, picking up the book he had put beside him on dropping to sleep, began to read. the book was _monte cristo_. now pactolus mansions, piccadilly, sounds a very grand address, and, as a matter of fact, it is a grand address, but the address is grander than the place. for one thing, it is not in piccadilly, the approach is up a dubious side street; the word "pactolus" bears little relationship to it, nor the word "mansions," and the rents are moderate. downstairs there is a restaurant and a lounge with cosy corners. people take chambers in pactolus mansions and vanish. the fact is never reported to the society for psychical research, the levitation being always accountable for by solid reasons. to stop them from vanishing before their rent is paid they have to pay their rent in advance. no credit is given under any circumstances. this seems hard, yet there are the compensating advantages that the rent is low, the service good, and the address taking. bobby ravenshaw had chosen to live in pactolus mansions because it was the cheapest place he could get near the gayest place in town. bobby was an orphan, an oxford man without a degree, and with a taste for literature and fine clothes. absolutely irresponsible. five hundred a year, derived from simon, of whose only sister he was the son, and an instinct for bridge that was worth another two hundred and fifty supported bobby in a lame sort of way, assisted by friends, confiding tailors and bootmakers, and a genial moneylender who was also a cigar merchant. bobby had started in life a year or two ago with cleverness of no mean order and the backing of money, but fate had dealt him out two bad cards: a nature that was charming and irresponsible, and good looks. girls worshipped bobby, and if his talents had only cast him on the stage their worship might have helped. as it was, it hindered, for bobby was a literary man, and no girl has ever bought a book on the strength of the good looks of the author. his tea having arrived, bobby drank it, finished the chapter in _monte cristo_ and then rose and dressed. he was leaving pactolus mansions that day for the very good reason that, if he wished to stay beyond twelve o'clock, he would have to pay a month's rent in advance, and he only had thirty shillings. uncle simon had "foreclosed." that was bobby's expression, a month ago. for a month bobby had watched the sands running down; no more money to come in and all the time money running out. absolutely unalarmed, and only noticing the fact as he might have noticed a change in the weather, he had made no provision, trusting to chance, to bridge that betrayed him, and to friends. literature could not help. he had got into a wrong groove as far as moneymaking went. little articles for literary papers of limited circulation and a really cultivated taste are not the immediate means to financial support in a world that devours its fictional literature like ham sandwiches, forgotten as soon as eaten--and only fictional literature pays. he was thinking more of _monte cristo_ than of his own position as he dressed. the fact that he had to look out for other rooms worried him as an uncomfortable business to be performed, but not much. if he couldn't get other rooms that day he could always stay with tozer. tozer was an oxford man with chambers in the albany--chambers always open to bobby at any hour. a sure stand-by in trouble. then, having dressed, he took his hat and stick and the sovereign and half-sovereign lying on the mantel, tipped the servant the half-sovereign, and ordered that his things should be packed and his luggage taken to the office to be left till he called for it. "i'm going to the country," said bobby, "and i'll send my address for letters to be forwarded." then he started. he called first at the albany. tozer, the son of a big, defunct manchester cotton merchant, was a man of some twenty-three years, red-haired, with a taste for the good things of life, a taste for boxing, a taste for music, and a hard common sense that never deserted him even in his gayest and most frivolous moods. his chambers were newly furnished, the walls of the sitting-room adorned with old prints, mostly proofs before letter; boxing gloves and single-sticks hinted of themselves, and a violoncello stood in the corner. he was at breakfast when bobby arrived. tozer rang for another cup and plate. "tozer," said bobby, "i'm bust." "aren't surprised to hear it," replied tozer. "try these kippers." "one single sovereign in the world, my boy, and i'm hunting for new rooms." "what's the matter with your old rooms? have they kicked you out?" bobby explained. "good lord!" said tozer. "you've cut the ground from under your feet, staying at a place like that." "it's not all my fault, it's my relative. i always boasted to him that i paid my rent in advance; he took it as a sign of wisdom." "what made him go back on you?" "a girl." "which way?" "well, it was this way. i was staying with the huntingdons, you know, the warwickshire lot." "i know--bridge and brandy crowd." "oh, they're all right. well, i was staying with them when i met her." "what's her name?" "alice carruthers." "heave ahead." "i got engaged to her; she hadn't a penny." "just like you." "and her people haven't a penny, and i wrote like a fool telling the relative. he gave me the option of cutting her off or being cut off. it seems her people were the real obstacle. he wrote quite libellous things about them. i refused." "of course." "and he cut me off. well, the funny thing was she cut me off a week later, and she's engaged now to a chap called harkness." "well, why don't you tell the relative and make it up?" "tell him she'd fired me! besides, it's no use, he'd just go on to other things--what he calls extravagances and irresponsibilities." "i see." "that's just how it is." "look here, bobby," said tozer, "you've just got to cut all this nonsense and get to work. you've been making a fool of yourself." "i have," said bobby, helping himself to marmalade. "there's no use saying, 'i have,' and then forgetting. i know you. you're a good sort, bobby, but you are in the wrong set; you couldn't keep the pace. you've loads of cleverness and you're going to rot. work!" "how?" "write," said tozer, who believed in bobby and hated to see him going to waste. "write. i've always been urging you to settle down and write." "i made five pounds ten last year writing," said bobby. "i know--articles on old french poetry and so on. you've got to write fiction. you can do it. that little story you wrote for tillson's was ripping." "the devil of it is," said bobby, "i can't find plots. i can write all right if i have only something to write about, but i can't find plots." "that's rubbish, and pure laziness. can't find plots, with your experience of london and life! you've got to find plots, and find them sharp; it's the only trade open to you. you can do it, and it pays. now look here, b. r. i'll finance you----" "thanks awfully," said bobby, helping himself to a cigarette from a box on a little table near by. "reserve your thanks. i'm not going to finance a slacker, which you are at present, but a hard-working literary man, which you will be when i have done with you. i will give you a room here on the strict conditions that you keep early hours five days a week." "yes." "that you give up bridge." "yes." "and fooling after girls." "yes." "and this day set out and find a plot for a good, honest, payable piece of fiction, novel length. i'm not going to let you off with short-story writing." "yes." "i know a good publisher, and i will assure you that the thing shall be published in the best form, that i will back the advertising and pushing--see? and i will promise you that, however the thing turns out, you shall have two hundred pounds. you will get all profits if it is a success, understand me?" "yes." "you shall have five pounds a week pocket-money whilst you are writing, to be repaid out of profits if the profits exceed two hundred, not to be repaid if they don't." "i don't like taking money for nothing," said bobby. "you won't get it, only for hard work. besides, it's for my amusement and interest. i believe in you, and i want to see my belief justified. you need never bother about taking money from me. first, i have plenty; secondly, i never give it without a _quid pro quo_, the trading instinct is too strong in me." "well," said bobby, "it's jolly good of you, and i'll pay you the lot back, if----" tozer was lighting a cigarette; he flung the match down impatiently. "if! you'll do nothing if you begin with an 'if.' now, make up your mind quick without any 'ifs.' will you, or won't you?" "i will," said bobby, suddenly catching on to the idea and taking fire. "i believe i can do it if----" "if!" shouted tozer. "i _will_ do it. i'll find a plot. i'll dig in my brains right away--i'll hunt round." "off with you, then," said tozer, "and send your luggage here and come back to-night with your plot. you can work in your bedroom and you can have all your meals here--i forgot to include that. now i'm going to have a tune on the 'cello." bobby departed with a light heart. his position, before calling on tozer, had really begun to weigh on him. tozer had given him even more than the promise of financial support, he had given him the backing of his common sense. he had "jawed" him mildly, and bobby felt all the better for it. it was like a tonic. his high spirits as he descended the stairs increased with every step taken. bobby was no sponge. bridge and the relative had kept him going, and he had always managed to meet his debts, with the exception, perhaps, of a tradesman or two; nor would he have taken this favour from any other man than tozer, and perhaps not even from tozer had it not been accompanied by the "jawing." so he set out, light of heart, young, good-looking, well-dressed, yet with only a sovereign, to hunt through the summer landscape of london for the plot for a novel. why, he was the plot for a novel, or at least the beginning of one, had he known! he did not, but he had an intimate knowledge of tozer's fictional proclivities and a fine understanding of exactly what tozer wanted. bones, ribs, and vertebra, construction--or, in other words, story. tozer could not be fubbed off with fine writing, with long introspective chapters dealing with the boyhood of the author, with sham psychology masquerading as fiction; nor, indeed, could bobby have supplied the two latter features. tozer wanted action, people moving on their feet under the dominion of the author's purpose, through situations, towards a definite goal. out in vigo street, and despite the aura of inspiration around the bodley head, bobby's high spirits came slightly under eclipse; it all at once seemed to him that he had undertaken a task. in cork street, as he stood for a moment looking at the rare editions exposed in the windows of elkin mathews, this feeling grew and put on horns. a task to bobby meant a thing disagreeable to do, and the elegant volumes of minor poets, copies of the yellow book, and vellum-bound editions of belles lettres were saying to him, "you've got to write a novel, my boy, a good mudie novel, the sort of novel the tozers of life will pay for; no little essays written with the little finger turned up. no modern verses like your 'harmonies and discords,' that cost you twenty-five pounds to produce and sold sixteen copies of itself, according to last returns. you have got to be the harmonious blacksmith now; get into your apron, get under your spreading chestnut-tree, and produce." in bond street he met lord billy tottenham, a fellow oxonian, who met his death in a mud-hole in flanders the other year. lord billy, with a boyish, smug, but immovable face adorned with a tortoiseshell-rimmed eyeglass. "hello, bobby!" said billy. "hello, billy!" said bobby. "what's wrong with you?" asked billy. "broke to the world, my dear chap." "what was the horse?" asked billy. "'twasn't a horse--a girl, mostly." "well, you're not the first chap that's been broke by a girl," said billy. "walk along a bit--but it might have been worse." "how so?" "she might have married you." "maybe; but the worst of it is i've got to work--tuck up my sleeves and work." "what at?" "novel-writing." "well, that's easy enough," said billy cheerfully. "you can easily get some literary cove to do the writing and stick your name to it, and we'll all buy your books, my boy, we'll all buy your books; not that i ever read books much, but i'll buy 'em if you write 'em. come into jubber's." arm-in-arm they entered long's hotel, where billy resided, and over a mutual whisky-and-soda they forgot books and discussed horses; they lunched together and discussed dogs, girls, and mutual friends. it was like old times again, but over the liqueurs and over the cigarette-smoke suddenly appeared to bobby the vision of tozer. he said good-bye to the affluent one, and departed. "i've got to work," said bobby. his momentary lapse from the direction of the target only served to pull him together, and it seemed, now, as though the luncheon and the lapse had made things easier. he told himself if he hadn't brains enough to scare up some sort of plot for a six-shilling novel he had better drown himself. if he couldn't do what hundreds of people with half his knowledge of the world and ability were doing he would be a mug of the very first water. if anything depressed him it was the horrible and futile assurance of billy that "his friends would buy his books." he went to pactolus mansions and ordered his luggage to be sent to the albany, then he changed his sovereign and bought a cigar, then an omnibus gave him an inspiration. he would get on top of an omnibus and in that cool and airy position do a bit of thinking. it was not an original idea; he had read, or heard, of a famous author who thought out his plots on the tops of omnibuses--but it was an idea. he clambered on to the top of an eastward-going bus, and, behind a fat lady with bugles on her bonnet, tried to compose his mind. why not make a story about--billy? people liked reading of the aristocracy, and billy was a character in his way and had many stories attached to him. he could start the book grandly, simply out of remembered visions of lord william tottenham in his gayest moods. l. w. t. emptying bottles of cliquot into a grand piano at oxford. oxford--ay, grander and grander--the book should begin at oxford with a fresh and vigorous picture of university life. tozer would come in, and a host of others; then, after oxford, there was the rub. the story that had begun so brightly suddenly ceased. a character and a situation do not make a story. they had reached the bank--as if by derision, when he told himself this. he got off the omnibus and got on a westward-bound one harking back to the land he knew. he remembered the expression, "racking one's brains to find a plot." he knew the meaning of it now. at piccadilly circus, where all the things meet, a lanky, wild-looking, red-haired girl in a picture hat and a fit of abstraction--that was the impression she gave--caught his eye. in a moment he was after her. here was salvation. julia delyse, the last catch-on, whose books were selling by the hundred thousand. he had met her at the three arts ball and once since. she had called him bobby the second time. he had flirted with her, as he flirted with everything with skirts on, and forgotten her. she was very modern; modern enough to raise the hair on a grandmother's scalp. her looks were to match. "hello," said he. "hello, bobby," said julia. "you are just the person i want to see," said bobby. "how's that?" said julia. "i'm in a fix." "what sort of fix?" "i've got to write a novel." "what's the hurry?" asked julia. "money," said bobby. "make money?" "yes." "if you write for money you're lost," said julia. "i'm lost anyway," replied bobby. "where are you going to?" "home; my flat's close by. come and have some tea." "i don't mind. well now, see here; i've got to do it and i can't find anything to write about." "with all london before you?" "i know, but when i start to think it all gets behind me. i want you to start me with some idea; you're full of ideas and you know the ropes." they had reached the flat, and the lady with ideas ushered him in. the sitting-room was in a scheme of black with japanese effects; she offered cigarettes, lit one herself, and tea was brought in. then the hypnotism began. the fact that she was a "famous authoress" would not have mattered a button to bobby yesterday; to-day, on his new strange road, it lent her a charm that completed the fascination of her wondrous eyes. they seemed wild in the street, but when she looked at one intensively they were wonderful. plots were forgotten, and in the twilight bobby's full, musical voice might have been heard discussing literature--with long pauses. "dear old thing.... is that cushion comfy?... oh, bother the girl and the tea-things!... just put your head so--so...." he had been hooked twenty times by girls and pulled off the hook by parents or been thrown back by the fisherwoman on inspecting his bank balance, but he had never been hooked like this before, for julia had no parents to speak of; she was above bank balances, and her grip was of iron where passion was concerned, and publishers. her publishers could have told you that by the way she gripped her rights when they tried to cheat her of them, for, despite her wondrous eyes and wild air and the fact that she was a genius, she was practical as well as tenacious in hold. then, at the end of the _séance_, bobby found himself leaving the flat a semi-tied-up man. he couldn't remember whether he had proposed to her or she to him, or whether either of them had proposed or actually accepted, but there was a tie between them, a tie slight enough and not binding in any court; less an engagement than an attachment formed, so he told himself. he remembered in the street, however, that a tie between him and an authoress was not what tozer wanted; he had received no plot or even literary hint. had he retained his clear senses during the _séance_, and had he possessed a knowledge of julia delyse's brilliant and cynical books, he might have wondered where the brilliancy and cynicism came from. in love, julia was absolutely unliterary--and a bit heavy--clinging, as it were. the momentary idea of running back to ask for the forgotten plot, as for a hat left behind, was dispelled by this sudden feeling that she was heavy. under the fascination of her eyes and in that weird room she seemed light; in st. james's street, where he now was, she seemed heavy. and he would have to go on with the attachment for awhile or be a brute. that recognition, with the remembrance of tozer and a recognition of his failure in his search for the one essential thing, depressed him for a moment. then he determined to forget about everything and go and have dinner. in other words, failing in his search for the thing he wanted, he stopped searching, leaving the matter in the hands of blind chance. chapter ii uncle simon or fate, if you like it better, for it was fated that bobby should find that day the thing he was in search of. he dined at a little club he patronised in a street off st. james's street, met a friend named foulkes, and adjourned to the alhambra, foulkes insisting on doing all the paying. they left the alhambra at half-past ten. "i must be getting back to the albany," said bobby. "i'm sharing rooms with a chap, and he's an early bird." "oh, let him wait," said foulkes. "come along for ten minutes to the stage club." they went to the stage club. then, the place being empty and little amusement to be found there, they departed, foulkes declaring his determination to see bobby part of the way home. passing a large entrance hall blazing with light and filled with the noise of a distant band, foulkes stopped. "come in here for a moment," said he. in they went. the place was gay--very gay. little marble-topped tables stood about; french waiters running from table to table and serving guests--ladies and gentlemen. at a long glittering bar many men were standing, and a red hungarian band was discoursing scarlet music. foulkes took a table and ordered refreshment. the place was horrid. one could not tell exactly what there was about it that went counter to all the finer feelings and the sense of home, simplicity, and happiness. bobby, rather depressed, felt this, but foulkes, a man of tougher fibre, seemed quite happy. "what ails you, ravenshaw?" asked foulkes. "nothing," said bobby. "no, i won't have any more to drink. i've work to do----" then he stopped and stared before him with eyes wide. "what is it now?" asked foulkes. "good lord!" said bobby. "look at that chap at the bar!" "which one?" "the one with the straw hat on the back of his head. it can't be--but it is--it's the relative." "the one you told me of that fired you out and cut you off with a shilling?" "yes. uncle simon. no, it's not, it can't be. it is, though, in a straw _hat_." "and squiffy," said foulkes. bobby got up and, leaving the other, strolled to the bar casually. the man at the bar was toying with a glass of soda-water supplied to him on sufferance. bobby got close to him. yes, that was the right hand with the white scar--got when a young man "hunting"--and the seal ring. the last time bobby had met uncle simon was in the office in old serjeants' inn. uncle simon, seated at his desk-table with his back to the big john tann safe, had been in bitter mood; not angry, but stern. bobby seated before him, hat in hand, had offered no apologies or exculpations for his conduct with girls, for his stupid engagement, for his idleness. he had many bad faults, but he never denied them, nor did he seek to minimise them by explanations and lies. "i tried to float you," had said uncle simon, as though bobby were a company. "i have failed. well, i have done my duty, and i clearly see that i will not be doing my duty by continuing as i have done; the allowance i have made you is ended. you will now have to swim for yourself. i should never have put money in your hands; i quite see that." "i can make my own living," said bobby. "i am not without gratitude for what you have done----" "and a nice way you have shown your gratitude," said the other, "tangling yourself like that--gaming, frequenting bars." so the interview had ended. frequenting bars! "uncle simon!" said bobby half-nervously, touching the other on the arm. uncle simon swung slowly round. bobby might have been king canute for all uncle simon knew. he had got beyond the stage where the word "uncle" from a stranger would have aroused ire or surprise. "h'are you?" said simon. "have a drink?" yes, it was uncle simon right enough, and bobby, in all his life, had never received such a shock as that which came to him now with the full recognition of the fact. st. paul's cathedral turned into a gambling-shop, the bishop of london dressed as a clown, would have been nothing to this. he was horrified. he came to the swift conclusion that uncle simon had come to smash somehow, and gone mad. a vague idea flew through his mind that his respected relative was dressed like this as a disguise to avoid creditors, but he had sense enough not to ask questions. "i don't mind," said he; "i'll have a small soda." "small grandmother," said the other; then, nodding to the bar-tender, "'nother same as mine." "what have you been doing?" asked bobby vaguely, as he took the glass. "roun' the town--roun' the town," replied the other. "gl'd to meet you. what've you been doin'?" "oh, i've just been going round the town." "roun' the town, that's the way--roun' the town," replied the other. "roun' an' roun' and roun' the town." foulkes broke into this intellectual discussion. "i'm off," said foulkes. "stay a minit," said uncle simon. "what'll you have?" "nothing, thanks," said foulkes. "come on," said bobby, taking the arm of his relative. "w'ere to?" asked the other, hanging back slightly. "oh, we'll go round the town--round and round. come on." then to foulkes, "get a taxi, quick!" foulkes vanished towards the door. then simon, falling in with the round-the-town idea, arm-in-arm, the pair threaded their way between the tables, the cynosure of all eyes, simon exhibiting dispositions to stop and chat with seated and absolute strangers, bobby perspiring and blushing. all the lectures on fast living he had ever endured were nothing to this; the shame of folly, for the first time in his life, appeared definitely before him, and the relief of the street and the waiting taxi beyond words. they bundled simon in. "no. 12, king charles street, westminster," said bobby to the driver. uncle simon's head and bust appeared at the door of the vehicle, the address given by bobby seeming to have paralysed the round-the-town idea in his mind. "ch'ing cross hotel," said he. "wach you mean givin' wrong address? i'm staying ch'ing cross hotel." "well, let's go to charles street _first_," agreed bobby. "no--ch'ing cross hotel--luggage waitin' there." bobby paused. could it be possible that this was the truth? it couldn't be stranger than the truth before him. "all right," said he. "charing cross hotel, driver." he said good-bye to foulkes, got in, and shut the door. uncle simon seemed asleep. the charing cross hotel was only a very short distance away, and when they got there bobby, leaving the sleeping one undisturbed, hopped out to make enquiries as to whether a mr. pettigrew was staying there; if not, he could go on to charles street. in the hall he found the night porter and mudd. "good heavens! mr. robert, what are you doing here?" said mudd. bobby took mudd aside. "what's the matter with my uncle, mudd?" asked bobby in a tragic half-whisper. "matter!" said mudd, wildly alarmed. "what's he been a-doing of?" "i've got him in a cab outside," said bobby. "oh, thank god!" said mudd. "he's not hurt, is he?" "no; only three sheets in the wind." mudd broke away for the door, followed by the other. simon was still asleep. they got him out, and between them they brought him in, bobby paying the fare with the last of his sovereign. arrived at the room, mudd turned on the electric light, and then, between them, they got the reveller to bed. folding his coat, mudd, searching in the pockets, found a brass door-knocker. "good lord!" murmured mudd. "he's been a-takin' of knockers." he hid the knocker in a drawer and proceeded. two pounds ten was all the money to be found in the clothes, but simon had retained his watch and chain by a miracle. bobby was astonished at simon's pyjamas, taken out of a drawer by mudd; blue and yellow striped silk, no less. "he'll be all right now, and i'll have another look at him," said mudd. "come down, mr. robert." "mudd," said bobby, when they were in the hall again, "what is it?" "he's gone," said mudd; "gone in the head." "mad?" "no, not mad; it's a temporary abrogation. some of them new diseases, the doctor says. it's his youth come back on him, grown like a wisdom tooth. yesterday he was as right as you or me; this morning he started off for the office as right as myself. it must have struck him sudden. same thing happened last year and he got over it. it took a month, though." "good heavens!" said bobby. "i met him in a bar, by chance. if he's going on like this for a month you'll have your work cut out for you, mudd." "there's no name to it," said mudd. "mr. robert, this has to be kept close in the family and away from the office; you've got to help with him." "i'll do my best," said bobby unenthusiastically, "but, hang it, mudd, i've got my living to make now. i've no time to hang about bars and places, and if to-night's a sample----" "we've got to get him away to the country or somewhere," said mudd, "else it means ruin to the business and lord knows what all. it's got to be done, mr. robert, and you've got to help, being the only relative." "couldn't that doctor man take care of him?" "not he," said mudd; "he's given me instructions. the master is just to be let alone in reason; any thwarting or checking might send him clean off. he's got to be led, not driven." bobby whistled softly and between his teeth. he couldn't desert uncle simon. he never remembered that uncle simon had deserted him for just such conduct, or even less, for bobby, stupid as he was, had rarely descended to the position he had found uncle simon in a little while ago. bobby was young, generous, forgetful and easy to forgive, so the fact that the relative had deserted him and cut him off with a shilling never occurred to his open soul at this critical moment. uncle simon had to be looked after. he felt the truth of mudd's words about the office. if this thing were known it would knock the business to pieces. bobby was no fool, and he knew something of simon's responsibilities; he administered estates, he had charge of trust-money, he was the most respected solicitor in london. heavens! if this were known, what a rabbit-run for frightened clients old serjeants' inn would become within twenty-four hours! then, again, bobby was a ravenshaw. the ravenshaws were much above the pettigrews. the ravenshaws were a proud race, and the old admiral, his father, who lost all his money in patagonian bonds, was the proudest of the lot, and he had handed his pride to his son. yes, leaving even the office aside, uncle simon must be looked after. now if u. s. had been a lunatic the task would have been abominable but simple, but a man who had suddenly developed extraordinary youth, yet was, so the doctor said, sane--a man who must be just humoured and led--was a worse proposition. playing bear-leader to a young fool was an entirely different thing to being a young fool oneself. even his experience of an hour ago told bobby this; that short experience was his first sharp lesson in the disgustingness of folly. he shied at the prospect of going on with the task. but uncle simon must be looked after. he couldn't get over or under that fence. "well, i'll do what i can," said he. "i'll come round to-morrow morning. but see here, mudd, where does he get his money from?" "he's got ten thousand pounds somewhere hid," said mudd. "ten thousand what?" "pounds. ten thousand pounds somewhere hid. the doctor told me he had it. he drew the same last year and spent five in a month." "five pounds?" "five thousand, mr. robert." "five thousand in a month! i say, this is serious, mudd." "oh, lord! oh, lord!" said mudd. "don't tell me--i know--and, me, i've been working forty years for five hundred." "he couldn't have taken it out with him to-day, do you think?" "no, mr. robert, i don't think he's as far gone as that. he's always been pretty close with his money, and closeness sticks, abrogation or no abrogation; but it's not the money i'm worritin' so much about as the women." "what women?" "them that's always looking out for such as he." "well, we must coosh them off," said bobby. "you'll be here in the morning, mr. robert?" "yes, i'll be here, and, meanwhile, keep an eye on him." "oh, i'll keep an eye on him," said mudd. then the yawning night porter saw this weird conference close, mudd going off upstairs and bobby departing, a soberer and wiser young man even than when he had entered. it was late when he reached the albany. tozer was sitting up, reading a book on counterpoint. "well, what luck?" asked tozer, pleased at the other's gravity and sobriety. "i've found a plot," said bobby; "at least, the middle of one, but it's tipsy." "tipsy?" "it's my--tozer, this is a dead secret between you and me--it's my relative." "your uncle?" "yes." "what on earth do you mean?" bobby explained. tozer made some tea over a spirit lamp as he listened, then he handed the other a cup. "that's interesting," said he, as he sat down again and filled a pipe. "that's interesting." "but look here," said the other, "do you believe it? can a man get young again and forget everything and go on like this?" "i don't know," said tozer, "but i believe he can--and he seems to be doing it, don't he?" "he does; we found a knocker in his coat pocket." "i beg your pardon, a what?" "a door-knocker; he must have wrung it off a door somewhere, a big brass one, like a lion's head." "how old is he?" "uncle?" "yes." "sixty." tozer calculated. "forty years ago--yes, the young chaps about town were still ringing door-knockers then; it was going out, but i had an uncle who did it. this is interesting." then he exploded. he had never seen simon the solicitor, or his mirth might have been louder. "it's very easy to laugh," said bobby, rather huffed, "but you would not laugh if you were in my shoes--i've got to look after him." "i beg your pardon," said tozer. "now let me be serious. whatever happens, you have got a fine _ficelle_ for a story. i'm in earnest; it only wants working out." "oh, good heavens!" said bobby. "does one eat one's grandmother? and how am i to write stories tied like this?" "he'll write it for you," said tozer, "or i'm greatly mistaken, if you only hang on and give him a chance. he's begun it for you. and as for eating your grandmother, uncles aren't grandmothers, and you can change his name." "i wish to goodness i could," said bobby. "the terror i'm in is lest his name should come out in some mad escapade." "i expect he's been in the same terror of you," said tozer, "many a time." "yes, but i hadn't an office to look after and a big business." "well, you've got one now," said tozer, "and it will teach you responsibility, bobby; it will teach you responsibility." "hang responsibility!" "i know; that's what your uncle has often said, no doubt. responsibility is the only thing that steadies men, and the sense of it is the grandfather of all the other decent senses. you'll be a much better man for this, bobby, or my name is not tozer." "i wish it were ravenshaw," said bobby. then remembrance made him pause. "i ought to tell you----" said he, then he stopped. "well?" said tozer. "i promised you to stop--um--fooling after girls." "that means, i expect, that you have been doing it." "not exactly, and yet----" "go on." bobby explained. "well," said tozer, "i forgive you. it was good intent spoiled by atavism. you returned to your old self for a moment, like your uncle simon. do you know, bobby, i believe this disease of your uncle's is more prevalent than one would imagine--though of course in a less acute form. we are all of us always returning to our old selves, by fits and starts--and paying for the return. you see what you have done to-day. your uncle simon has done nothing more foolish, you both found your old selves. "lord, that old self! all the experience and wisdom of the world don't head it off, it seems to me, when it wants to return. well, you've done it, and when you write your story you can put yourself in as well as your uncle, and call the whole thing, 'a horrible warning.' good night." chapter iii the hundred-pound note uncle simon awoke consumed by thirst, but without a headache; a good constitution and years of regular life had given him a large balance to draw upon. mudd was in the room arranging things; he had just drawn up the blind. "who's that?" asked simon. "mudd," replied the other. mudd's _tout ensemble_ as a new sort of hotel servant seemed to please simon, and he accepted him at once as he accepted everything that pleased him. "give me that water-bottle," said simon. mudd gave it. simon half-drained it and handed it back. the draught seemed to act on him like the elixir vitæ. "what are you doing with those clothes?" said he. "oh, just folding them," said mudd. "well, just leave them alone," replied the other. "is there any money in the pockets?" "these aren't what you wore last night," said mudd; "there was two pounds ten in the pockets of what you had on. here it is, on the mantel." "good," said simon. "have you any more money anywhere about?" asked mudd. now simon, spendthrift in front of pleasure and heedless of money as the wind, in front of mudd seemed cautious and a bit suspicious. it was as though his subliminal mind recognised in mudd restraint and guardianship and common sense. "not a halfpenny," said he. "give me that two pounds ten." mudd, alarmed at the vigour of the other, put the money on the little table by the bed. simon was at once placated. "now put me out some clothes," said he. he seemed to have accepted mudd now as a personal servant--hired when? heaven knows when; details like that were nothing to simon. mudd, marvelling and sorrowing, put out a suit of blue serge, a blue tie, a shirt and other things of silk. there was a bathroom, off the bedroom, and, the things put out, simon arose and wandered into the bathroom, and mudd, taking his seat on a chair, listened to him tubbing and splashing--whistling, too, evidently in the gayest spirits, spirits portending another perfect day. "lead him," had said oppenshaw. why, mudd already was being led. there was something about simon, despite his irresponsibility and good humour, that would not brook a halter even if the halter were of silk. mudd recognised that. and the money! what had become of the money? the locked portmanteau might contain it, but where was the key? mudd did not even know whether his unhappy master had recognised him or not, and he dared not ask, fearing complications. but he knew that simon had accepted him as a servant, and that knowledge had to suffice. if simon had refused him, and turned him out, that would have been a tragedy indeed. simon, re-entering the bedroom, bath towel in hand, began to dress, mudd handing things which simon took as though half oblivious of the presence of the other. he seemed engaged in some happy vein of thought. dressed and smart, but unshaved, though scarcely showing the fact, simon took the two pounds ten and put it in his pocket, then he looked at mudd. his expression had changed somewhat; he seemed working out some problem in his mind. "that will do," said he; "i won't want you any more for a few minutes. i want to arrange things. you can go down and come back in a few minutes." mudd hesitated. then he went. he heard simon lock the door. he went into an adjoining corridor and walked up and down, dumbly praying that mr. robert would come--confused, agitated, wondering.... suppose simon wanted to be alone to cut his throat! the horror of this thought was dispelled by the recollection that there were no razors about; also by the remembered cheerfulness of the other. but why did he want to be alone? two minutes passed, three, five--then the intrigued one, making for the closed door, turned the handle. the door was unlocked, and simon, standing in the middle of the room, was himself again. "i've got a message i want you to take," said simon. ten minutes later mr. robert ravenshaw, entering the charing cross hotel, found mudd with his hat on, waiting for him. "thank the lord you've come, mr. robert!" said mudd. "what's the matter now?" asked bobby. "where is he?" "he's having breakfast," said mudd. "well, that's sensible, anyhow. cheer up, mudd; why, you look as if you'd swallowed a funeral." "it's the money," said mudd. then he burst out, "he told me to go from the room and come back in a minit. out i went, and he locked the door. back i came; there was he standing. 'mudd,' said he, 'i've got a message for you to take. i want you to take a bunch of flowers to a lady.' me!" "yes?" said bobby. "to a lady!" "'where's the flowers?' said i, wishing to head him off. 'you're to go and buy them,' said he. 'i have no money,' said i, wishing to head him off. 'hang money!' said he, and he puts his hand in his pocket and out he brings a hundred-pound note and a ten-pound note. and he had only two pounds ten when i left him. he's got the money in that portmanteau, that i'm sure, and he got me out of the room to get it." "evidently," said bobby. "'here's ten pounds,' said he; 'get the best bunch of flowers money can buy and tell the lady i'm coming to see her later on in the day.' "'what lady?' said i, wishing to head him off. "'this is the address,' said he, and goes to the writing-table and writes it out." he handed bobby a sheet of the hotel paper. simon's handwriting was on it, and a name and address supplied by that memory of his which clung so tenaciously to all things pleasant. "miss rossignol, 10, duke street, leicester square." bobby whistled. "did i ever dream i'd see this day?" mourned mudd. "me! sent on a message like that, by _him_!" "this is a complication," said bobby. "i say, mudd, he must have been busy yesterday--upon _my_ soul----" "question is, what am i to do?" said mudd. "i'm goin' to take no flowers to hussies." bobby thought deeply for a moment. "did he recognise you this morning?" he asked. "i don't know," said mudd, "but he made no bones. i don't believe he remembered me right, but he made no bones." "well, mudd, you'd better just swallow your feelings and take those flowers, for if you don't, and he finds out, he may fire you. where would we be then? besides, he's to be humoured, so the doctor said, didn't he?" "shall i send for the doctor right off, sir?" asked mudd, clutching at a forlorn hope. "the doctor can't stop him from fooling after girls," said bobby, "unless the doctor could put him away in a lunatic asylum; and he can't, can he, seeing he says he's not mad? besides, there's the slur, and the thing would be sure to leak out. no, mudd, just swallow your feelings and trot off and get those flowers, and, meanwhile, i'll do what i can to divert his mind. and see here, mudd, you might just see what that girl is like." "shall i tell her he's off his head and that maybe she'll have the law on her if she goes on fooling with him?" suggested mudd. "no," said the more worldly-wise bobby; "if she's the wrong sort that would only make her more keen. she'd say to herself, 'here's a queer old chap with money, half off his nut, and not under restraint; let's make hay before they lock him up.' if she's the right sort it doesn't matter; he's safe, and, right sort or wrong sort, if he found you'd been interfering he might send you about your business. no, mudd, there's nothing to be done but get the flowers and leave them, and see the lady if possible, and make notes about her. say as little as possible." "he told me to tell her he'd call later in the day." "leave that to me," said bobby. "and now, off with you." chapter iv the hundred-pound note--_continued_ mudd departed and bobby made for the coffee-room. he entered and looked around. a good many people were breakfasting in the big room, the ordinary english breakfast crowd at a big hotel; family parties, lone men and lone women, some reading letters, some papers, and all, somehow, with an air of divorcement from home. simon was there, seated at a little table on the right and enjoying himself. now, and in his right mind, simon gave bobby another shock. could it be possible that this pleasant-faced, jovial-looking gentleman, so well-dressed and _à la mode_, was uncle simon? what an improvement! so it seemed at first glance. simon looked up from his sausages--he was having sausages, saw bobby--and with his unfailing memory of pleasant things, even dimly seen, recognised him as the man of last night. "hullo," said simon, as the other came up to the table, "there you are again. had breakfast?" "no," said bobby. "i'll sit here if i may." he drew a chair to the second place that was laid and took his seat. "have sausages," said simon. "nothing beats sausages." bobby ordered sausages, though he would have preferred anything else. he didn't want to argue. "nothing beats sausages," said uncle simon again. bobby concurred. then the conversation languished, just as it may between two old friends or boon companions who have no need to keep up talk. "feeling all right this morning?" ventured bobby. "never felt better in my life," replied the other. "never felt better in my life. how did you manage to get home?" "oh, i got home all right." simon scarcely seemed to hear this comforting declaration; scrambled eggs had been placed before him. bobby, in sudden contemplation of a month of this business, almost forgot his sausages. the true horror of uncle simon appeared to him now for the first time. you see, he knew all the facts of the case. an ordinary person, unknowing, would have accepted simon as all right, but it seemed to bobby, now, that it would have been much better if his companion had been decently and honestly mad, less uncanny. he was obviously sane, though a bit divorced from things; obviously sane, and eating scrambled eggs after sausages with the abandon of a schoolboy on a holiday after a long term at a cheap school; sane, and enjoying himself after a night like that--yet he was simon pettigrew. then he noticed that simon's eyes were constantly travelling, despite the scrambled eggs, in a given direction. a pretty young girl was breakfasting with a family party a little way off--that was the direction. there was a mother, a father, something that looked like an uncle, what appeared to be an aunt, and what appeared to be may dressed in a washing silk blouse and plain skirt. november was glancing at may. bobby remembered miss rossignol and felt a bit comforted; then he began to feel uncomfortable: the aunt was looking fixedly at simon. his admiration had evidently been noted by watchfulness; then the uncle seemed to take notice. bobby, blushing, tried to make conversation, and only got replies. then, to his relief, the family, having finished breakfast, withdrew, and simon became himself again, cheerful and burning for the pleasures of the day before him, the pleasures to be got from london, money, and youth. his conversation told this, and that he desired to include bobby in the scheme of things, and the young man could not help remembering thackeray's little story of how, coming up to london, he met a young oxford man in the railway carriage, a young man half-tipsy with the prospect of a day in town and a "tear round"--with the prospect, nothing more. "what are you going to do now?" asked bobby, as the other rose from the table. "shaved," said simon; "come along and get shaved; can't go about like this." bobby was already shaved, but he followed the other outside to a barber's and sat reading a _daily mirror_ and waiting whilst simon was operated on. the latter, having been shaved, had his hair brushed and trimmed, and all the time during these processes the barber spake in this wise, simon turning the monologue to a duologue. "yes, sir, glorious weather, isn't it? london's pretty full, too, for the time of year--fuller than i've seen for a long time. ever tried face massage, sir? most comforting. can be applied by yourself. can sell you a complete outfit, parker's face cream and all, two pound ten. thank you, sir. staying in the charing cross 'otel? i'll have it sent to your room. yes, sir, the 'otel is full. there's a deal of money being spent in london, sir. raise your chin, sir, a leetle more. ever try a gillette razor, sir? useful should you wish to shave in a 'urry; beautiful plated. this is it, sir--one guinea--shines like silver, don't it? thank you, sir, i'll send it up with the other. yes, sir, it's most convenient havin' a barber's close to the 'otel. i supply most of the 'otel people with toilet rekisites. 'air's a little thin on the top, sir; didn't mean no offence, sir, maybe it's the light. dry, that's what it is; it's the 'ot weather. now, i'd recommend coolers' lotion followed after application by goulard's brillantine. oh, lord, no, sir! _them_ brillantines is no use. goulard's is the only real; costs a bit more, but then, cheap brillantine is rewin. thank you, sir. and how are you off for 'air brushes, sir? there's a pair of bargains in that show-case--travellers' samples--i can let you have, silver-plated, as good as you'll get in london and 'arf the price. shine, don't they? and feel the bristles--real 'og. thank you, sir. two ten--one one--one four--two ten--and a shillin' for the 'air cut and shave. no, sir, i can't change an 'undred-pound note. a ten? yes, i can manage a ten. thank you, sir." seven pounds and sixpence for a hair-cut and shave--with accompaniments. bobby, tongue-tied and aghast, rose up. "'air cut, sir?" asked the barber. "no, thanks," replied bobby. simon, having glanced at himself in the mirror, picked up his straw hat and walking-stick, and taking the arm of his companion, out they walked. "where are you going?" asked bobby. "anywhere," replied the other; "i want to get some change." "why, you've got change!" simon unlinked, and in the face of the strand and the passers-by produced from his pocket two hundred-pound notes, three or four one-pound notes, and a ten-pound note; searching in his pockets to see what gold he had, he dropped a hundred-pound note, which bobby quickly recovered. "mind!" said bobby. "you'll have those notes snatched." "that's all right," said simon. he replaced the money in his pocket, and his companion breathed again. bobby had borrowed five pounds from tozer in view of possibilities. "look here," said he, "what's the good of staying in london a glorious day like this? let's go somewhere quiet and enjoy ourselves--richmond or greenwich or somewhere. i'll pay expenses and you need not bother about change." "no, you won't," said simon. "you're going to have some fun along with me. what's the matter with london?" bobby couldn't say. renouncing the idea of the country, without any other idea to replace it except to keep his companion walking and away from shops and bars and girls, he let himself be led. they were making back towards charing cross. at the _bureau de change_ simon went in, the idea of changing a hundred-pound note pursuing him. he wanted elbow-room for enjoyment, but the bureau refused to make change. the note was all right; perhaps it was simon that was the doubtful quantity. he had quite a little quarrel over the matter and came out arm-in-arm with his companion and flushed. "come along," said bobby, a new idea striking him. "we'll get change somewhere." from charing cross, through cockspur street, then through pall mall and up st. james's street they went, stopping at every likely and unlikely place to find change. engaged so, simon at least was not spending money or taking refreshment. they tried at shipping offices, at insurance offices, at gun-shops and tailors, till the weary bobby began to loathe the business, began to feel that both he and his companion were under suspicion and almost that the business they were on was doubtful. simon, however, seemed to pursue it with zest and, now, without anger. it seemed to bobby as though he enjoyed being refused, as it gave him another chance of entering another shop and showing that he had a hundred-pound note to change--a horrible foolish satisfaction that put a new edge to the affair. simon was swanking. "look here,", said the unfortunate, at last, "wasn't there a girl you told me of last night you wanted to send flowers to? let's go and get them; then we can have a drink somewhere." "she'll wait," said simon. "besides, i've sent them. come on." "very well," said bobby, in desperation. "i believe i know a place where you can get your note changed; it's close by." they reached a cigar merchant's. it was the cigar merchants and moneylenders that had often stood him in good stead. "wait for me," said bobby, and he went in. behind the counter was a gentleman recalling prince florizel of bohemia. "good morning, mr. ravenshaw," said this individual. "good morning, alvarez," replied bobby. "i haven't called about that little account i owe you though--but cheer up. i've got you a new customer--he wants a note changed." "what sort of note?" asked alvarez. "a hundred-pound note; can you do it?" "if the note's all right." "lord bless me, yes! i can vouch for that and for him; only he's strange to london. he's got heaps of money, too, but you must promise not to rook him too much over cigars, for he's a relative of mine." "where is he?" asked alvarez. "outside." "well, bring him in." bobby went out. uncle simon was gone. gone as though he had never been, swallowed up in the passing crowd, fascinated away by heaven knows what, and with all those bank-notes in his pocket. he might have got into a sudden taxi or boarded an omnibus, or vanished up sackville street or albemarle street; any passing fancy or sudden temptation would have been sufficient. bobby, hurrying towards st. james's street to have a look down it, stopped a policeman. "have you seen an old gentleman--i mean a youngish-looking gentleman--in a straw hat?" asked bobby. "i've lost him." scarcely waiting for the inevitable reply, he hurried on, feeling that the constable must have thought him mad. st. james's street showed nothing of simon. he was turning back when, half-blind to everything but the object of his search, he almost ran into the arms of julia delyse. she was carrying a parcel that looked like a manuscript. "why, bobby, what is the matter with you?" asked julia. "i'm looking for someone," said bobby distractedly. "i've lost a relative of mine." "i wish it were one of mine," said julia. "what sort of relative?" "an oldish man in a straw hat. walk down a bit; you look that side of the street and i'll watch this; he _may_ have gone into a shop--and i _must_ get hold of him." he walked rapidly on, and julia, sucked for a moment into this whirlpool of an uncle simon that had already engulfed mudd, bobby, and the good name of the firm of pettigrew, toiled beside him till they came nearly to the park railings. "he's gone," said bobby, stopping suddenly dead. "it's no use; he's gone." "well, you'll find him again," said julia hopefully. "relatives always turn up." "oh, he's sure to turn up," said the other, "and that's what i'm dreading--it's the way he'll turn up that's bothering me." "i could understand you better if i knew what you meant," said julia. "let's walk back; this is out of my direction." they turned. despite his perplexity and annoyance, bobby could not suppress a feeling of relief at having done with the business for a moment; all the same, he was really distressed. the craving for counsel and companionship in thought seized him. "julia, can you keep a secret?" asked he. "tight," said julia. "well, it's my uncle." "you've lost?" "yes; and he's got his pockets full of hundred-pound bank-notes--and he's no more fit to be trusted with them than a child." "what a delightful uncle!" "don't laugh; it's serious." "he's not mad, is he?" "no, that's the worst of it. he's got one of these beastly new diseases--i don't know what it is, but as far as i can make out it's as if he'd got young again without remembering what he is." "how interesting!" "yes, you would find him very interesting if you had anything to do with him; but, seriously, something has to be done. there's the family name and there's his business." he explained the case of simon as well as he could. julia did not seem in the least shocked. "but i think it's beautiful," she broke out. "strange--but in a way beautiful and pathetic. oh, if _only_ a few more people could do the same--become young, do foolish things instead of this eternal grind of common sense, hard business, and everything that ruins the world!" bobby tried to imagine the world with an increased population of the brand of uncle simon, and failed. "i know," he said, "but it will be the ruin of his business and reputation. abstractly, i don't deny there's something to be said for it, but in the concrete it don't work. do think, and let's try to find a way out." "i'm thinking," said julia. then, after a pause: "you must get him away from london." "that was my idea, but he won't go, not even to richmond for a few hours. he won't leave london." "there's a place in wessex i know," said julia, "where there's a charming little hotel. i was down there for a week in may. you might take him there." "we'd never get him into the train." "take him in a car." "might do that," said bobby. "what's the name of it?" "upton-on-hill; and i'll tell you what, i'll go down with you, if you like, and help to watch him. i'd like to study him." "i'll think of it," said bobby hurriedly. the affair of uncle simon was taking a new turn; like fate, it was trying to force him into closer contact with julia. craving for someone to help him to think, he had welded himself to julia with this family secret for solder. the idea of a little hotel in the country with julia, ever ready for embracements and passionate scenes, the knowledge that he was almost half-engaged to her, the instinct that she would suck him into cosy corners and arbours--all this frankly frightened him. he was beginning to recognise that julia was quite light and almost brilliant in the street when love-making was impossible, but impossibly heavy and dull, though mesmeric, when alone with him with her head on his shoulder. and away in the distance of his mind a deformed sort of common sense was telling him that if once julia got a good long clutch on him she would marry him; he would pass from whirlpool to whirlpool of cosy corner and arbour over the rapids of marriage with julia clinging to him. "i'll think of it," said he. "what's its name?" "the rose hotel, upton-on-hill--think of upton sinclair. it's a jolly little place, and such a nice landlord; we'd have a jolly time, bobby. bobby, have you forgotten yesterday?" "no," said bobby, from his heart. "i didn't sleep a wink last night," said the lady of the red hair. "did you?" "scarcely." "do you know," said she, "this is almost like fate. it gives us a chance to meet under the same roof quite properly since your uncle is there--not that i care a button for the world, but still, there are the proprieties, aren't there?" "there are." "wait for me," said she. "i want to go into my publishers' with this manuscript." they had reached a fashionable publishers' office that had the appearance of a bank premises. in she went, returning in a moment empty-handed. "now i'm free," said she; "free for a month. what are you doing to-day?" "i'll be looking for uncle simon," he replied. "i must rush back to the charing cross hotel, and after that--i must go on hunting. i'll see you to-morrow, julia." "are you staying at the charing cross?" "no, i'm staying at b12, the albany, with a man called tozer." "i wish we could have had the day together. well, to-morrow, then." "to-morrow," said bobby. he put her into a taxi and she gave the address of a female literary club, then when the taxi had driven away he returned to the charing cross hotel. there he found mudd, who had just returned. chapter v the home of the nightingales mudd, with the ten-pound note and the written address, had started that morning with the intention of doing another errand as well. he first took a cab to king charles street. it was a relief to find it there, and that the house had not been burned down in the night. fire was one of mudd's haunting dreads--fire and the fear of a mistress. he had extinguishing-bombs hung in every passage, besides red, cone-shaped extinguishers. if he could have had bombs to put out the flames of love and keep women away he no doubt would have had them. mrs. jukes received him, and he enquired if the plate had been locked up. then he visited his own room and examined his bank-book to see if it were safe and untampered with; then he had a glass of ginger wine for his stomach's sake. "where are you off to now?" asked mrs. jukes. "on business for the master," replied mudd. "i've some law papers to take to an address. lord! look at those brasses! haven't the girls no hands? place going to rack and ruin if i leave it two instant minits. and look at that fender--sure you put the chain on the hall door last night?" "sure." "well, be sure you do it, for there's another jack-the-ripper chap goin' about the west end, i've heard, and he may be in on you if you don't." having frightened mrs. jukes into the sense of the necessity for chains as well as bolts, mudd put on his hat, blew his nose, and departed, banging the door behind him and making sure it was shut. there is a flower shop in the street at the end of king charles street. he entered, bought his bouquet, and with it in his hand left the establishment. he was looking for a cab to hide himself in; he found none, but he met a fellow butler, judge ponsonby's man. "hello, mr. mudd," said the other; "going courting?" "mrs. jukes asked me to take them to a female friend that's goin' to be married," said mudd. the bouquet was not extraordinarily large, but it seemed to grow larger. condemned to take an omnibus in lieu of a cab, it seemed to fill the omnibus; people looked at it and then at mudd. it seemed to him that he was condemned to carry simon's folly bare in the face of the world. then he remembered what he had said about the recipient going to be married. was that an omen? mudd believed in omens. if his elbow itched--and it had itched yesterday--he was going to sleep in a strange bed; he never killed spiders, and he tested "strangers" in the tea-cup to see if they were male or female. the omen was riding him now, and he got out of the omnibus and sought the street of his destination, feeling almost as though he were a fantastic bridesmaid at some nightmare wedding, with simon in the rôle of groom. that simon should select a wife in this gloomy street off leicester square, and in this drab-looking house at whose door he was knocking, did not occur to mudd. what did occur to him was that some hussy living in this house had put her spell on simon and might select him for a husband, marry him at a registrar office before his temporary youth had departed, and come and reign at charles street. mudd's dreaded imaginary mistress had always figured in his mind's eye as a stout lady--eminently a lady--who would interfere with his ideas of how the brasses ought to be polished, interfere with tradesmen, order mudd about, and make herself generally a nuisance; this new imaginary horror was a "painted slut," who would bring ridicule and disgrace on simon and all belonging to him. mudd had the fine feelings of an old maid on matters like this, backed by a fine knowledge of what elderly men are capable of in the way of folly with women. did not mr. justice thurlow marry his cook? he rang at the dingy hall door and it was opened by a dingy little girl in a print dress. "does miss rosinol live here?" asked mudd. "yus." "can i see her?" "wait a minit," said the dingy one. she clattered up the stairs; she seemed to wear hobnailed boots to judge by the noise. a minute elapsed, and then she clattered down again. "come in, plaaze," said the little girl. mudd obeyed and followed upstairs, holding on to the shaky banister with his left hand, carrying the bouquet in his right, feeling as though he were a vicious man walking upstairs in a dream; feeling no longer like mudd. the little girl opened a door, and there was the "painted hussy"--old madame rossignol sitting at a table with books spread open before her and writing. she translated--as before said--english books into french, novels mostly. the bouquet of last night had been broken up; there were flowers in vases and about the room; despite its shabbiness, there was an atmosphere of cleanliness and high decency that soothed the stricken soul of mudd. "i'm mr. pettigrew's man," said mudd, "and he asked me to bring you these flowers." "ah, monsieur seemon pattigrew," cried the old lady, her face lighting. "come in, monsieur. cerise!--cerise!--a gentilmon from mr. pattigrew. will you not take a seat, monsieur?" mudd, handing over the flowers, sat down, and at that moment in came cerise from the bedroom adjoining. cerise, fresh and dainty, with wide blue eyes that took in mudd and the flowers, that seemed to take in at the same time the whole of spring and summer. "poor, but decent," said mudd to himself. "monsieur," said the old lady, as cerise ran off to get a bowl to put the flowers in, "you are as welcome to us as your good kind master who saved my daughter yesterday. will you convey to him our deepest respects and our thanks?" "saved her?" said mudd. madame explained. cerise, arranging the flowers, joined in; they waxed enthusiastic. never had mudd been so chattered to before. he saw the whole business and guessed how the land lay now. he felt deeply relieved. madame inspired him with instinctive confidence; cerise in her youth and innocence repelled any idea of marriage between herself and simon. but they'd got to be warned, somehow, that simon was off the spot. he began the warning seated there before the women and rubbing his knees gently, his eyes wandering about as though seeking inspiration from the furniture. mr. pettigrew was a very good master, but he had to be took care of; his health wasn't what it might be. he was older than he looked, but lately he had had an illness that had made him suddenly grow young again, as you might say; the doctors could not make it out, but he was just like a child sometimes, as you might say. "i said it," cut in madame. "a boy--that is his charm." well, mudd did not know anything about charms, but he was often very anxious about mr. pettigrew. then, little by little, the confidence the women inspired opened his flood-gates and his suppressed emotions came out. london was not good for mr. pettigrew's health--that was the truth; he ought to be got away quiet and out of excitement--doorknockers rose up before him as he said this--but he was very self-willed. it was strange a gentleman getting young again like this, and a great perplexity and trouble to an old man like him, mudd. "ah, monsieur, he has been always young," said madame; "that heart could never grow old." mudd shook his head. "i've known him for forty year," said he, "and it has hit me cruel hard, his doing things he's never done before--not much; but there you are--he's different." "i have known an old gentleman," said madame--"monsieur de mirabole--he, too, changed to be quite gay and young, as though spring had come to him. he wrote me verses," laughed madame. "me, an old woman! i humoured him, did i not, cerise? but i never read his verses; i could not humour him to that point." "what happened to him?" asked mudd gloomily. "oh dear, he fell in love with cerise," said madame. "he was very rich; he wanted to marry cerise, did he not, cerise?" "oui, maman," replied cerise, finishing the flowers. all this hit mudd pleasantly. sincere as sunshine, patently, obviously, truthful, this pair of females were beyond suspicion on the charge of setting nets for simon. also, and for the first time in his life, he came to know the comfort of a female mind when in trouble. his troubles up to this had been mostly about uncleaned brasses, corked wine, letters forgotten to be posted. in this whirlpool of amazement, like poe's man in the descent of the maelstrom, who, clinging to a barrel, found that he was being sucked down slower, mudd, clinging now to the female saving-something--sense, clarity of outlook, goodness, call it what you will--found comfort. he had opened his mind, the nightmare had lifted somewhat. opening his mind to bobby had not relieved him in the least; on the contrary, talking with bobby, the situation had seemed more insane than ever. the two rigid masculine minds had followed one another, incapable of mutual help; the buoyant female something incapable of strict definition was now to mudd as the supporting barrel. he clutched at the idea of old monsieur de mirabole, who had got young again without coming to much mischief; he felt that simon in falling upon these two females had fallen amongst pillows. he told them of simon's message, that he would call upon them later in the day, and they laughed. "he will be safe with us," said madame; "we will not let him come to 'arm. do not be alarmed, monsieur mudd, the bon dieu will surely protect an innocent so charming, so good--so much goodness may walk alone, even amongst tigers, even amongst lions; it will come to no 'arm. we will see that he returns to the sharing cross 'otel--i will talk to 'im." mudd departed, relieved, so great is the power of goodness, even though it shines in the persons of an impoverished old french lady and a girl whose innocence is her only strength. but his relief was not to be of long duration, for on entering the hotel, as before said, he met bobby. "he's gone," said bobby; "given me the slip; and he has two hundred-pound bank-notes with him, to say nothing of the rest." "oh, lord!" said mudd. "can he have gone to see that girl? what's her address?" "what girl?" asked mudd. "the girl you took the flowers to." "i've just been," said mudd. "no, he wasn't there. wish he was; it's an old lady." "old lady!" "and her daughter. they're french folk, poor but honest, not a scrap of harm in them." he explained the rossignol affair. "well, there's nothing to be done but sit down and wait," said bobby. "it's easy to say that. me, with my nerves near gone." "i know; mine are nearly as bad. 'pon my soul, it's just as if one had lost a child. mudd, we've got to get him out of london; we've got to do it." "get him back first," said mudd. "get him back alive with all that money in his pocket. he'll be murdered before night, that's my opinion, i know london; or gaoled--and he'll give his right name." "we'll tip the reporters if he is," said bobby, "and keep it out of the papers. i was run in once and i know the ropes. cheer up, mudd, and go and have a whisky-and-soda; you want bucking up, and so do i." "bucking up!" said mudd. chapter vi the flight of the dragon-fly one of the pleasantest, yet perhaps most dangerous, points about simon pettigrew's condition was his un-english open-heartedness towards strangers--strangers that pleased him. a disposition, in fact, to chum up with anything that appealed to him, without question, without thought. affable strangers, pretty girls--it was all the same to simon. now, when bobby ravenshaw went into the cigar merchant's, leaving simon outside, he had not noticed particularly a large dragon-fly car, claret-coloured and adorned with a tiny monogram on the door-panel, which was standing in front of the shop immediately on the right. it was the property of the hon. dick pugeot, and just as bobby disappeared into the tobacconist's the hon. dick appeared from the doorstep of the next-door shop. dick pugeot, late of the guards, was a big, yellow man, quite young, perhaps not more than twenty-five, yet with a serious and fatherly face and an air that gave him another five years of apparent age. this serious and fatherly appearance was deceptive. with the activity of a gnat, a disregard of all consequences, a big fortune, a good heart, and a taste for fun of any sort as long as it kept him moving, dick pugeot was generally in trouble of some kind or another. his crave for speed on the road was only equal to his instinct for fastness in other respects, but, up to this, thanks to luck and his own personality, he had, with the exception of a few endorsed licences and other trifles of that sort, always escaped. but once he had come very near to a real disaster. some eighteen months ago he found himself involved with a lady, a female shark in the guise of an angel, a--to put it in his own language--"bad 'un." the bad 'un had him firmly hooked. she was a countess, too! and fried and eaten he undoubtedly would have been had not the wisdom of an uncle saved him. "go to my solicitor, pettigrew," said the uncle. "if she were an ordinary card-sharper i would advise you to go to marcus abraham, but, seeing what she is, pettigrew is the man. he wouldn't take up an ordinary case of this sort, but, seeing what she is, and considering that you are my nephew, he'll do it--and he knows all the ins and outs of her family. there's nothing he doesn't know about us." "us" meaning people of high degree. pugeot went, and simon took up the case, and in forty-eight hours the fish was off the hook, frantically grateful. he presented simon with a silver wine-cooler and then forgot him, till this moment, when, coming out of spud and simpson's shop, he saw simon standing on the pavement smoking a cigar and watching the pageant of the street. simon's new clothes and holiday air and straw hat put him off for a moment, but it was pettigrew right enough. "hello, pettigrew!" said pugeot. "hello," said simon, pleased with the heartiness and appearance of this new friend. "why, you look quite gay," said pugeot. "what are you up to?" "out for some fun," said simon. "what are you up to?" "same as you," replied pugeot, delighted, amused, and surprised at simon's manner and reply, the vast respect he had for his astuteness greatly amplified by this evidence of mundane leanings. "get into the car; i've got to call at panton street for a moment, and then we'll go and have luncheon or something." he opened the car door and simon hopped in; then he gave the address to the driver and the car drove off. "well, i never expected to see you this morning," said pugeot. "never can feel grateful enough to you either--you've nothing special to do, have you? anywhere i can drive you to?" "i've got to see a girl," said simon, "but she can wait." pugeot laughed. that explained the summer garb and straw hat, but the frankness came to him with the weest bit of a shock. however, he was used to shocks, and if old simon pettigrew was running after girls it was no affair of his. it was a good joke, though, despite the fact that he could never tell it. pugeot was not the man to tell tales out of school. "look here," said simon, suddenly producing his notes, "i want to change a hundred; been trying to do it in a lot of shops. you can't have any fun without some money." "don't you worry," said pugeot. "this is my show." "i want to change a hundred," said simon, with the persistency of toddy wanting to see the wheels go round. "well, i'll get you change, though you don't really want it. why, you've got two hundred there--and a tenner!" "it's not too much to have a good time with." "oh my!" said pugeot. "well, if you're on the razzle-dazzle, i'm with you, pettigrew. i feel safe with you, in a way; there's not much you don't know." "not much," said simon, puffing himself. the car stopped. "a minute," said pugeot. out he jumped, transacted his business, and was back again under five minutes. there was a new light in his sober eye. "let's go and have a slap at the wilderness," said he, lowering his voice a tone. "you know the wilderness. i can get you in--jolly good fun." "right," said simon. pugeot gave an address to the driver and off they went. they stopped in a narrow street and pugeot led the way into a house. in the hall of this house he had an interview with a pale-faced individual in black, an evil, weary-looking person who handed simon a visitors' book to sign. they then went into a bar, where simon imbibed a cocktail, and from the bar they went upstairs. pugeot opened a door and disclosed monte carlo. a monte carlo shrunk to one room and one table. this was the wilderness club, and around the table were grouped men of all ages and sizes, some of them of the highest social standing. the stakes were high. just as a child gobbles a stolen apple, so these gentlemen seemed to be trying to make as much out of their furtive business as they could and get away, winners or losers, as soon as possible lest worse befel them. added to the uneasiness of the gambler was the uneasiness of the law-breaker, the two uneasinesses, combined making a mental cocktail that, to a large number of the frequenters, had a charm far above anything to be obtained in a legitimate gambling-shop on the continent. this place supplied oppenshaw with some of his male patients. pugeot played and lost, and then simon plunged. they were there an hour, and in that hour simon won seven hundred pounds! then pugeot, far more delighted than he, dragged him away. it was now nearly one o'clock, and downstairs they had luncheon, of a sort, and a bottle of cliquot, of a sort. "you came in with two hundred and you are going out with nine," said pugeot. "i am so jolly glad--you _have_ the luck. when we've finished we'll go for a great tearing spin and get the air. you'd better get a cap somewhere; that straw hat will be blown to jericho. you've never seen randall drive? he beats me. we'll run round to my rooms and get coats--the old car is a dragon-fly. i want to show you what a dragon-fly can really do on the hard high-road out of sight of traffic. two benedictines, please." they stopped at scott's, where simon invested in a cap; then they went to pugeot's rooms, where overcoats were obtained. then they started. pugeot was nicknamed the baby--baby pugeot--and the name sometimes applied. mixed with his passion for life, he loved fresh air and a good many innocent things, speed amongst them. randall, the chauffeur, seemed on all fours with him in the latter respect, and the dragon-fly was an able instrument. clearing london, they made through sussex for the sea. the day was perfect and filled for miles with the hum of the dragon-fly. at times they were doing a good seventy miles, at times less; then came the downs and a vision of the sea--seacoast towns through which they passed picking up petrol and liquid refreshments. at hastings, or somewhere, where they indulged in a light and early dinner, the vision of cerise, always like a guardian angel, arose before the remains of the mind of simon, and her address. he wanted to go there at once, which was manifestly impossible. he tried to explain her to pugeot, who at the same time was trying to explain a dark-eyed girl he had met at a dance the week before last and who was haunting him. "can't get her blessed eyes out of my head, my dear chap; and she's engaged two deep to a chap in the carabineers, without a cent to his name and a pile of debts as big as mount ararat. she won't be happy--that's what's gettin' me; she won't be happy. how can she be happy with a chap like that, without a cent to his name and a pile of debts? lord, _i_ can't understand women, they're beyond me. waiter, _con_found you! do you call this stuff asparagus? take it away! not a cent to her name--and tied to him for years, maybe. i mean to say, it's absurd.... what were you saying? oh yes, i'll take you there--it's only round the corner, so to speak. randall will do it. the dragon-fly'll have us there in no time. do you remember, was this hastings or bognor? waiter, hi! is this hastings or bognor? all your towns are so confoundedly alike there's no telling which is which, and i've been through twenty. hastings, that'll do; put your information down in the bill--if you can find room for it. you needn't be a bit alarmed, old chap, she'll be there all right. you said you sent her those flowers? well, that will keep her all right and happy. i mean to say, she'll be right--_ab_solutely--i know women from hoof to mane. no, no pudding. bill, please." then they were out in the warm summer twilight listening to a band. then they were getting into the car, and pugeot was saying to simon: "it's a jolly good thing we've got a teetotum driver. what _you_ say, old chap?" then the warm and purring night took them and sprinkled stars over them, and a great moon rose behind, which annoyed pugeot, who kept looking back at it, abusing it because the reflection from the wind-screen got in his eyes. then they burst a tyre and pugeot, instantly becoming condensedly clever and active and clear of speech, insisted on putting on the spare wheel himself. he had a long argument with randall as to which was the front and which was the back of the wheel--not the sideways front and back, but the foreways front and back, randall insisting gently that it did not matter. then the wheel on and all the nuts re-tested by randall--an operation which pugeot took as a sort of personal insult; the jack was taken down, and pugeot threw it into a ditch. they would not want it again as they had not another spare wheel, and it was a nuisance anyhow, but randall, with the good humour and patience which came to him from a salary equal to the salary of a country curate, free quarters and big tips and perquisites, recovered the jack and they started. a town and an inn that absolutely refused to serve the smiling motorists with anything stronger than "minerals" was passed. then ten miles further on the lights of a town hull down on the horizon brought the dry "insides" to a dear consideration of the position. the town developing an inn, randall was sent, as the dove from the ark, with a half-sovereign, and returned with a stone demijohn and two glasses. it was beer. chapter vii nine hundred pounds bobby ravenshaw did not spend the day at the charing cross hotel waiting for simon; he amused himself otherwise, leaving mudd to do the waiting. at eleven o'clock he called at the hotel. mr. mudd was upstairs in mr. pettigrew's room, and he would be called down. bobby thought that he could trace a lot of things in the porter's tone and manner, a respect and commiseration for mr. mudd and perhaps not quite such a high respect for himself and simon. he fancied that the hotel was beginning to have its eye upon him and simon as questionable parties of the _bon vivant_ type--a fancy that may have been baseless, but was still there. then mudd appeared. "well, mudd," said bobby, "hasn't he turned up yet?" "no, mr. robert." "where on earth can he be?" "i'm givin' him till half-past eleven," said mudd, "and then i'm off to vine street." "what on earth for?" "to have the hospitals circulated to ask about him." "oh, nonsense!" "it's on my mind he's had an accident," said mudd. "robbed and stunned, or drugged with opium and left in the street. i know london--and him as he is! he'll be found with his pockets inside out--i know london. you should have got him down to the country to-day, mr. robert, somewhere quiet; now, maybe, it's too late." "it's very easy to say that. i tried to, and he wouldn't go, not even to richmond. london seems to hold him like a charm; he's like a bee in a bottle--can't escape." at this moment a horrid little girl in a big hat and feathers, boots too large for her, and a shawl, made her appearance at the entrance door, saw the hall porter and came towards him. she had a letter in her hand. the hall porter took the letter, looked at it, and brought it to mudd. mudd glanced at the envelope and tore it open. "10, duke street, "leicester square "mr. modd, "come at once. "celestine rossignol." that was all, written in an angular, old-fashioned hand and in purple ink. "where's my hat?" cried mudd, running about like a decapitated fowl. "where's my hat? oh ay, it's upstairs!" he vanished, and in a minute reappeared with his hat; then, with bobby, and followed by the dirty little girl trotting behind them, off they started. they tried to question the little girl on the way, but she knew nothing definite. the gentleman had been brought 'ome--didn't know what was wrong with him; the lady had given her the letter to take; that was all she knew. "he's alive, anyway," said bobby. "the lord knows!" said mudd. the little girl let them in with a key and, mudd leading the way, up the stairs they went. mudd knocked at the door of the sitting-room. madame and cerise were there, quite calm, and evidently waiting; of simon there was not a trace. "oh, mr. modd," cried the old lady, "how fortunate you have received my letter! poor monsieur pattigrew----" "he ain't dead?" cried mudd. no, simon was not dead. she told. poor monsieur pattigrew and a very big gentleman had arrived over an hour ago. mr. pattigrew could not stand; he had been taken ill, the big gentleman had declared. such a nice gentleman, who had sat down and cried whilst mr. pattigrew had been placed on the sofa--taken ill in the street. the big gentleman had gone for a doctor, but had not yet returned. mr. pattigrew had been put to bed. she and the big gentleman had seen to that. mr. pattigrew had recovered consciousness for a moment during this operation and had produced a number of bank-notes--such a number! she had placed them safely in her desk; that was one of the reasons she had sent so urgently for mr. modd. she produced the notes--a huge sheaf. mudd took them and examined them dazedly, hundreds and hundreds of pounds' worth of notes; and he had only started with two hundred pounds! "why, there's nearly a thousand pounds' worth here," said mudd. bobby's astonishment might have been greater had not his eyes rested, from the first moment of their coming in, on cerise. cerise with parted lips, a heightened colour, and the air of a little child at a play she did not quite understand. she was lovely. french, innocent, lovely as a flower--a new thing in london, he had never seen anything quite like her before. the poverty of the room, uncle simon, his worries and troubles, all were banished or eased. she was music, and if saul could have seen her he would have had no need for david. had uncle simon added burglary to knocker-snatching, broken into a jeweller's and disposed of his takings to a "fence," committed robbery? all these thoughts strayed over his mind, harmless because of cerise. the unfortunate young man, who had fooled so long with girls, had met the girl who had been waiting for him since the beginning of the world. there is always that; she may be blowsy, she may be plain, or lovely like cerise--she is fate. "and here is the big gentleman's card," said madame, taking a visiting card from her desk, then another and another. "he gave me three." mudd handed the card to bobby, who read: "the hon. richard pugeot, "pall mall place, st. james. "guards' club." "i know him," said bobby. "_that's_ all right, and uncle simon couldn't have fallen into better hands." "is, then, monsieur pattigrew your oncle?" asked the old lady. "he is, madame." "then you are thrice welcome here, monsieur," said she. cerise looked the words, and bobby's eyes as they met hers returned thanks. "come," said madame, "you shall see him and that he is safe." she gently opened the door leading to the bedroom, and there, in a little bed, dainty and white--cerise's little bed--lay uncle simon, flushed and smiling and snoring. "poor monsieur pattigrew!" murmured the old lady. then they withdrew. it seemed that there was another bed to be got in the house for cerise, and mudd, taking charge of the patient, the ladies withdrew. it was agreed that no doctor was wanted. it was also agreed between bobby and mudd that the hotel was impossible after this. "we must get him away to the country tomorrow," said mudd, "if he'll go." "he'll go, if i have to take him tied up and bound," said bobby. "my nerves won't stand another day of this. take care of those notes, mudd, and don't let him see them. they'll be useful getting him away. i'll be round as early as i can. i'll see pugeot and get the rights of the matter from him. good night." off he went. in the street he paused for a moment, then he took a passing taxi for the albany. tozer was in, playing patience and smoking. he did not interrupt his game for the other. "well, how's uncle simon?" asked tozer. "he's asleep at last after a most rampageous day." "you look pretty sober." "don't mention it," said bobby, going to a tantalus case and helping himself to some whisky. "my nerves are all unstrung." "trailing after him?" "thank god, no!" said bobby. "waiting for him to turn up dead, bruised, battered, or simply intoxicated and stripped of his money. he gave me the slip in piccadilly with two hundred-pound notes in his pocket. the next place i find him was half an hour ago in a young lady's bed, dead to the world, smiling, and with nearly a thousand pounds in bank-notes he'd hived somehow during the day." "a thousand pounds!" "yes, and he'd only started with two hundred." "i say," said tozer, forgetting his cards, "what a chap he must have been when he was young!" "when he _was_ young! lord, i don't want to see him any younger than he is; if this is youth, give me old age." "you'll get it fast enough," said tozer, "don't you worry; and this will be a reminder to you to keep old. there's an arab proverb that says, 'there are two things colder than ice, an old young man and a young old man.'" "colder than ice!" said bobby. "i wish you had five minutes with uncle simon." "but who was this lady--this young----" "two of the nicest people on earth," said bobby, "an old lady and her daughter--french. he saved the girl in an omnibus accident or something in one of his escapades, and took her home to her mother. then to-night he must have remembered them, and got a friend to take him there. fancy, the cheek! what made him, in his state, able to remember them?" "what is the young lady like?" "she's beautiful," said bobby; then he took a sip of whisky-and-soda and failed to meet tozer's eye as he put down the glass. "that's what made him remember her," said tozer. bobby laughed. "it's no laughing matter," said the other, "at his age--when the heart is young." bobby laughed again. "bobby," said tozer, "beware of that girl." "i'm not thinking of the girl," said bobby; "i'm thinking how on earth the old man----" "the youth, you mean." "got all that money." "you're a liar," said tozer; "you are thinking of the girl." chapter viii pall mall place "higgs!" cried the hon. richard pugeot. "sir?" answered a voice from behind the silk curtains cutting off the dressing and bathroom from the bedroom. "what o'clock is it?" "just gone eight, sir." "get me some soda-water." "yes, sir." the hon. richard lay still. higgs, a clean-shaven and smart-looking young man, appeared with a bottle of schweppes and a tumbler on a salver. the cork popped and the sufferer drank. "what o'clock did i come home?" "after twelve, sir--pretty nigh one." "was there anyone with me?" "no, sir." "no old gentleman?" "no, sir." "was randall there?" "yes, sir." "and the car?" "yes, sir." "there was no old gentleman in the car?" "no, sir." "good heavens!" said pugeot. "what can i have done with him?" higgs, not knowing, said nothing, moving about putting things in order and getting his master's bath ready. "i've lost an old gentleman, higgs," said pugeot, for higgs was a confidential servant as well as a valet. "indeed, sir," said higgs, as though losing old gentlemen was as common as losing umbrellas. "and the whole business is so funny i can scarcely believe it's true. i haven't a touch of the jim-jams, have i, higgs?" "lord, sir, no! you're all right." "am i? see here, higgs. yesterday morning i met old mr. simon pettigrew, the lawyer; mind, you are to say nothing about this to anyone--but stay a moment, go into the sitting-room and fetch me _who's who_." higgs fetched the book. "'pettigrew, simon,'" read out pugeot, with the book resting on his knees, "'justice of the peace for herts--president of the united law society--fellow of the society of antiquaries'--h'm, h'm--'club, athenæum.' well, i met the old gentleman in piccadilly. we went for a spin together, and the last thing i remember was seeing him chasing a stableman round some inn yard, where we had stopped for petrol or whisky or something; chasing him round with a bucket. he was trying to put the bucket over the stableman's head." "fresh," said higgs. "as you say, fresh--but i want to know, was that an optical illusion? there were other things, too. if it wasn't an optical illusion i want to know what has become of the old gentleman? i'm nervous--for he did me a good turn once, and i hope to heaven i haven't let him in for any bother." "well, sir," said higgs, "i wouldn't worry, not if i were you. it was only his little lark, and most likely he's home safe by this." "i have also a recollection of two ladies that got mixed up in the affair," went on the other, "but who they were i can't say. little lark! the bother of it is, higgs, one can't play little larks like that, safely, if one is a highly respectable person and a j.p. and a member of the what's-its-name society." he got up and tubbed and dressed, greatly troubled in his mind. people sucked into the simon-whirl were generally troubled in their minds, so great is the power of high respectability when linked to the follies of youth. at breakfast mr. robert ravenshaw's card was presented by higgs. "show him in," said pugeot. "hullo, ravenshaw!" said pugeot. "glad to see you. have you had breakfast?" "yes, thanks. i only called for a moment to see you about my uncle." "which uncle?" "pettigrew----" "good heavens! you don't say he's----" bobby explained. it was like a millstone removed from pugeot's neck. then he, in his turn, explained. then bobby went into details. then they consulted. "you can't get him out of london without telling him where you are taking him to," said pugeot. "he'll kick the car over on the road if he's anything like what he was last night. leave it to me and _i'll_ do the trick. but the question is, where shall we take him? there's no use going to a place like brighton; too many attractions for him. a moated grange is what he wants, and even then he'll be tumbling into the moat." "i know of a place," said bobby, "down at upton-on-hill. a girl told me of it; it's the rose hotel." "i know it," said pugeot; "couldn't be better. i have a cousin there living at a place called the nook. there's a bowling-green at the hotel and a golf-course near. can't hurt himself. leave it all to me." he told higgs to telephone for the car, and then they sat and smoked whilst pugeot showed bobby just the way to deal with people of uncle simon's description. "it's all nonsense, that doctor man's talk," said pugeot. "the poor old chap has shed a nut or two. i ought to know something about it for i've had the same bother in my family. got his youth back--pish! cracked, that's the real name for it. i've seen it. i've seen my own uncle, when he was seventy, get his youth back--and the last time i saw him he was pulling a toy elephant along with a string. he'd got a taste also for playing with matches. is that the car, higgs? well, come along, and let's try the power of a little gentle persuasion." simon was finishing breakfast when they arrived, assisted by madame and cerise. poor monsieur pattigrew did not seem in the least in the need of pity either, though the women hung about him as women hang about an invalid. he was talking and laughing, and he greeted the newcomers as good companions who had just turned up. his geniality was not to be denied, and it struck bobby, in a weird sort of manner, that uncle simon like this was a much pleasanter person than the old original article. like this: that is to say, for a moment out of danger from the vicious grinding wheels of a city that destroys butterflies and a society that requests respectable old solicitors to remain respectable old solicitors. then, the women having discreetly retired for a while, pugeot began his gentle persuasion. uncle simon, with visions of yesterday's rural pleasures in his mind, required no persuasion, and he would come for a run into the country with pleasure; but pugeot was not taking that sort of thing on any more. he was gay, but a very little of that sort of gaiety sufficed him for a long time. "i don't mean that," said he; "i mean let's go down and stay for a while quietly at some nice place--i mean you and ravenshaw here--for business will oblige me to come back to town." "no, thanks," said simon; "i'm quite happy in london." "but think how nice it will be in the country this weather," said bobby. "london's so hot." "i like it hot," said simon; "weather can't be too hot for me." then the gentle persuaders alternately began offering inducements--bowls, golf, a jolly bar at an hotel they knew, even girls. they might just as well have been offering buns to the lions of trafalgar square. then bobby had an idea, and, leaving the room, he had a conference on the stairs with madame rossignol; with cerise also. then leaving simon to the women for a while, they went for a walk, and returned to find the marble wax. simon did not mind a few days in the country if the ladies would come as his guests; he was enthusiastic on the subject now. they would all go and have a jolly time in the country. the old poetical instinct that had not shown itself up to this, restrained, no doubt, by the mesmerism of london, seemed to be awakening and promising new developments. bobby did not care; poetry or a pickford's van were all the same to him as long as they got simon out of london. he had promised julia delyse, if you remember, to see her that day, but he had quite forgotten her for the moment. chapter ix julia she hadn't forgotten him. julia, with her hair down, in an eau-de-nil morning wrapper, and frying bacon over a duplex oilstove, was not lovely--though, indeed, few of us are lovely in the early morning. she had started the flat before she was famous. it was a bachelor girl's flat, where the bachelor girl was supposed to do her own cooking as far as breakfast and tea were concerned. money coming in, julia had refurnished the flat and requisitioned the part-time service of a maid. like the doctors of harley street who share houses, she shared the services of the maid with another flat-dweller, the maid coming to julia after three o'clock to tidy up and to bring in afternoon tea and admit callers. she was quite well enough off to have employed a whole maid, but she was careful--her publishers could have told you that. the bacon fried and breakfast over and cleared away, julia, with her hair still down, set to work at the cleared table before a pile of papers and account-books. never could you have imagined her the julia of the other evening discoursing "literature" with bobby. she employed no literary agent, being that rare thing, a writer with an instinct for business. when you see vast publishing houses and opulent publishers rolling in their motor-cars you behold an optical illusion. what you see, or, rather, what you ought to see, is a host of writers without the instinct for business. julia, seated before her papers and turning them over in search of a letter, came just now upon the first letter she had ever received from a publisher, a very curt, business-like communication saying that the publisher thought he saw his way to the publishing of her ms. entitled "the world at the gate," and requesting an interview. with it was tied, as a sort of curiosity, the agreement that had been put before her to sign and which she had not signed. it gave--or would have given--the publisher the copyright and half the american, serial, dramatic and other rights. it offered ten per cent, on the published price of all copies sold _after_ the first five hundred copies; it stipulated that she should give him the next four novels on the same terms as an inducement to advertise the book properly--and it had drawn from julia the prompt reply, "send the typescript of my novel back _at once_." so ended the first lesson. then, heartened by this evidently good opinion of her work, she had gone to another publisher? not a bit--or at least, not at first. she had joined the society of authors--an act as necessary to the making of a successful author as baptism to the making of a christian. she had studied the publishing tribe, its ways and its works, discovered that they had no more love for books than greengrocers for potatoes, and that such a love, should it exist, would be unhealthy. for no seller of commodities ought to love the commodities he sells. then she had gone to a great impudently-advertising roaring trading-firm that dealt with books as men deal with goods in bulk, and, interviewing the manager as man to man, had driven her bargain, and a good one, too. these people published poets and men of letters--but they respected julia. free of creative work this morning, she could give her full attention to accounts and so forth. then she turned to a little book which she sometimes scribbled in, and the contents of which she had a vague idea of some time publishing under a pseudonym. it was entitled "never," and it was not poetry. it was a thumb-book for authors, made up of paragraphs, some long, some short. "never dine with a publisher--luncheon is even worse." "never give free copies of books to friends, or lend them. the given book is not valued, the lent book is always lost--besides, the booksellers and lending libraries are your real friends." "never lower your price." "never attempt to raise your public." "never argue with a critic." "never be elated with good reviews, or depressed by bad reviews, or enraged by base reviews. the public is your reviewer--_it_ knows," and so on. she shut up "never," having included: "never give a plot away." then she did her hair and thought of bobby. he had not fixed what hour he would call; that was a clause in the agreement she had forgotten--she, who was so careful about agreements, too. then she dressed and sat down to read "de maupassant" and smoked a cigarette. she had luncheon in the restaurant below stairs and then returned to the flat. tea-time came and no bobby. she felt piqued, put on her hat, and as the mountain would not come to mohammed, mohammed determined to go to the mountain. her memory held his address, "care of tozer, b12, the albany." she walked to the albany, arriving there a little after five o'clock, found b12, and climbed the stairs. tozer was in, and he opened the door himself. "is mr. ravenshaw at home?" asked julia. "no," said tozer; "he's away, gone to the country." "gone to the country?" "yes; he went to-day." tozer had at once spotted julia as the lady of the plot. he was as unconventional as she, and he wanted further acquaintance with this fascinator of his _protégé_. "i think we are almost mutual acquaintances," said he; "won't you come in? my name is tozer and ravenshaw is my best friend. i'd like to talk to you about him. won't you come in?" "certainly," said the other. "my name is delyse--i daresay you know it." "i know it well," said tozer. "i don't mean by my books," said julia, taking her seat in the comfortable sitting-room, "but from mr. ravenshaw." "from both," said tozer, "and what i want to see is ravenshaw's name as well known as yours some day. bobby has been a spendthrift with his time, and he has lots of cleverness." "lots," said julia. tozer, who had a keen eye for character, had passed julia as a sensible person--he had never seen her in one of her love-fits--and she was a lady. just the person to look after bobby. "he has gone down to the country to-day with an old gentleman, his uncle." "i know all about _him_," said julia. "bobby has told you, then?" "yes." "about the attack of youth?" "yes." "well, a whole family party of them went off in a motor-car to-day. bobby called here for his luggage and i went into vigo street and saw them off." "how do you mean--a family party?" "the youthful old gentleman and a big blonde man, and bobby, and an old lady and a pretty girl." julia swallowed slightly. "relations?" "no, french, i think, the ladies were. quite nice people, i believe, though poor. the old gentleman had picked them up in some of his wanderings." "bob--mr. ravenshaw promised to see me to-day," said julia. "we are engaged--i speak quite frankly--at least, as good as engaged, you can understand." "quite." "he ought to have let me know," said she broodingly. "he ought." "have they gone to upton-on-hill, do you know?" "they have. the rose hotel." julia thought for awhile. then she got up to go. "if you want my opinion," said tozer, "i think the whole lot want looking after. they seemed quite a pleasant party, but responsibility seemed somewhat absent; the old lady, charming though she was, seemed to me scarcely enough ballast for so much youth." "i understand," said julia. then she went off and tozer lit a pipe. the pretty young french girl was troubling him. she had charmed even him--and he knew bobby, and his wisdom indicated that a penniless beauty was not the first rung of the ladder to success in life. julia, on the other hand, was solid. so he thought. part iv chapter i the garden-party upton-on-hill stands on a hogback of land running north and south, timbered with pines mostly, and commanding a view of half wessex, not the wessex of thomas hardy, however. you can see seven church spires from upton, and the roman road takes it in its sweep, becomes the upton high street for a moment, and passes on to be the roman road again leading to the downs and the distant sea. it is a restful place, and in spring the shouting of the birds and the measured call of the cuckoo fills the village, mixing with the voice of the ever-talking pine-trees. in summer upton sleeps amongst roses in an atmosphere of sunlight and drowsiness, sung to by the bees and the birds. the rose hotel stands, set back from the high street, in its own grounds, and beside the rose there are two other houses for refreshment, the bricklayer's arms and the saracen's head, of which more hereafter. it is a pleasant place as well as a restful. passing through it, people say, "oh, what a dream!" living in it one is driven at last to admit there are dreams and dreams. it is not the place that forces this conviction but the people. just as the roman road narrows at the beginning of the high street, so the life of a stranger coming, say, from london, narrows at the beginning of his or her residence in upton. if you are a villager you find yourself under a microscope with three hundred eyes at the eyepiece; if you are a genteel person, but without introductions, you find yourself the target of half a score of telescopes levelled at you by the residents. colonel salmon--who owned the fishing rights of the trout-stream below hill--the talbot-tomsons, the griffith-smiths, the grosvenor-jones and the rest, all these, failing introductions, you will find to be passive resisters to your presence. now, caution towards strangers and snobbishness are two different things. the uptonians are snobbish because, though you may be as beautiful as a dream or as innocent as a saint, you will be sniffed at and turned over; but if you are wealthy it is another matter, as in the case of the smyth-smyths, who were neither beautiful nor innocent--but that is another story. "the village is a mile further on," said pugeot; "let's turn down here before we go to the hotel and have afternoon tea with my cousin. randall, steer for the nook." the car was not the dragon-fly, but a huge closed limousine, with mudd seated beside randall, and inside, the rest of that social menagerie about to be landed on the residents of upton upon the landing-stage of the social position of dick pugeot's cousin, sir squire simpson. all the introductions in the world could not be better than the personal introduction to _the_ resident of upton by the hon. richard pugeot. they passed lodge gates and then up a pleasant drive to a big house-front, before which a small garden-party seemed to be going on; a big afternoon tea it was, and there were men in flannels, and girls in summer frocks, and discarded tennis racquets lying about, and the sight of all this gave bobby a horrible turn. uncle simon had been very quiet during the journey--happy but quiet--squeezed between the two women, but this was not the sort of place he wanted to land uncle simon in despite his quietude and happiness. mudd evidently also had qualms, for he kept looking back through the glass front of the car and seemed trying to catch bobby's eye. but there was no turning back. the car swept along the drive, past the party on the lawn, and drew up at the front door. then, as they bundled out, a tall old man, without a hat and dressed in grey tweed, detached himself from the lawn crowd and came towards them. this was sir squire simpson, bart. his head was dome-shaped, and he had heavy eyelids that reminded one of half-closed shutters, and a face that seemed carved from old ivory--an extremely serious-looking person and a stately; but he was glad to see pugeot, and he advanced with a hand outstretched and the ghost of an old-fashioned sort of smile. "i've brought some friends down to stay at the hotel," said pugeot, "and i thought we would drop in here for tea first. didn't expect to find a party going on." "delighted," said the squire. he was introduced to "my friend, mr. pettigrew, madame--er--de rossignol, mademoiselle de rossignol, mr. ravenshaw." then the party moving towards the lawn, they were all introduced to lady simpson, a harmless-looking individual who welcomed them and broke them up amongst her guests and gave them tea. bobby, detaching himself for a moment from the charms of miss squire simpson, managed to get hold of pugeot. "i say," said he, "don't you think this may be a bit too much for uncle?" "oh, he's all right," said pugeot; "can't come to any harm here. look at him, he's quite happy." simon seemed happy enough, talking to a dowager-looking woman and drinking his tea; but bobby was not happy. it all seemed wrong, somehow, and he abused pugeot in his heart. pugeot had said himself a moated grange was the proper place for uncle simon, and even then he might tumble into the moat--and now, with the splendid inconsequence of his nature, he had tumbled him into this whirl of local society. this was not seclusion in the country. why, some of these people might, by chance, be uncle simon's clients! but there was no use in troubling, and he could do nothing but watch and hope. he noticed that the women-folk had evidently taken up with cerise and her mother, and he could not but wonder vaguely how it would have been if they could have seen the rooms in duke street, leicester square, and the picture of uncle simon tucked up and snoring in cerise's little bed. the tennis began again, and bobby, firmly pinned by miss squire simpson--she was a plain girl--had to sit watching a game and trying to talk. the fact that madame and cerise were foreigners had evidently condoned their want of that touch in dress which makes for style. they were being led about and shown things by their hostess. uncle simon had vanished towards the rose-garden at the back of the house, in company with a female; she seemed elderly. bobby hoped for the best. "are you down here for long?" asked miss squire simpson. "not very long, i think," replied he. "we may be here a month or so--it all depends on my uncle's health." "that gentleman you came with?" "yes." "he seems awfully jolly." "yes--but he suffers from insomnia." "then he'll get lots of sleep here," said she. "oh, do tell me the name of that pretty girl who came with you! i never can catch a name when i am introduced to a person." "a miss rossignol--she's a friend of uncle's--she's french." "and the dear old lady is her mother, i suppose?" "yes. she writes books." "an authoress?" "yes--at least, i believe she translates books. she is awfully clever." "well played!" cried miss squire simpson, breaking from the subject into an ecstasy at a stroke made by one of the flannelled fools--then resuming: "she _must_ be clever. and are you all staying here together?" "yes, at the rose hotel." "you will find it a dear little place," said she, unconscious of any _double entendre_, "and you will get lots of tennis down here. do you fish?" "a little." "then you must make up to colonel salmon--that's him at the nets--he owns the best trout-stream about here." bobby looked at colonel salmon, a stout, red-faced man with a head that resembled somewhat the head of a salmon--a salmon with a high sense of its own importance. then pugeot came along smoking a cigarette, and then some of the people began to go. the big limousine reappeared from the back premises with mudd and the luggage, and pugeot began to collect his party. simon reappeared with the elderly lady; they were both smiling and he had evidently done no harm. it would have been better, perhaps, if he had, right at the start. the french ladies were recaptured, and as they bundled into the car quite a bevy of residents surrounded the door, bidding them good-bye for the present. "remember, you must come and see my roses," said mrs. fisher-fisher. "don't bother about formality, just drop in, all of you." "you'll find anderson stopping at the hotel; he's quite a nice fellow," cried sir squire simpson. "so long--so long." "are they not charming?" said old madame rossignol, whose face was slightly flushed with the good time she had been having; "and the beautiful house--and the beautiful garden." she had not seen a garden for years; verily, simon _was_ a good fairy as far as the rossignols were concerned. they drew up at the rose hotel. a vast clambering vine of wisteria shadowed the hall door, and out came the landlord to meet them. pugeot had telegraphed for rooms; he knew pugeot, and his reception of them spoke of the fact. then the rossignols were shown to their room, where their poor luggage, such as it was, had been carried before them. it was a big bedroom, with chintz hangings and a floor with hills and valleys in it; it had black oak beams and the window opened on the garden. the old lady sat down. "how happy i am!" said she. "does it not seem like a dream, _ma fée_?" "it is like heaven," said cerise, kissing her. chapter ii horn "no, sir," said mudd, "he don't take scarcely anything in the bar of the hotel, but he was sitting last night till closing-time in the bricklayer's arms." "oh, that's where he was," said bobby. "how did you find out?" "well, sir," said mudd, "i was in there myself in the parlour, having a drop of hot water and gin with a bit of lemon in it. it's a decent house, and the servants' room in this hotel don't please me, nor mr. anderson's man. i was sitting there smoking my pipe when in he came to the bar outside. i heard his voice. down he sits and talks quite friendly with the folk there and orders a pint of beer all round. quite affable and friendly." "well, there's no harm in that," said bobby. "i've often done the same in a country inn. did he stick to beer?" "he did," said mudd grimly. "he'd got that ten-pound note i was fool enough to let him have. yes, he stuck to beer, and so did the chaps he was treating." "the funny thing is," said bobby, "that though he knows we have his money--and, begad, there's nearly eleven thousand of it--he doesn't kick at our taking it--he must have known we cut open that portmanteau--but comes to you for money like a schoolboy." "that's what he is," said mudd. "it's my belief, mr. robert, that he's getting younger and younger; he's artful as a child after sweets. and he knows we're looking after him, i believe, and he doesn't mind, for it's part of his amusement to give us the slip. well, as i was saying, there he sat talking away and all these village chaps listening to him as if he was the sultan of turkey laying down the law. that's what pleased him. he likes being the middle of everything; and as the beer went down the talk went up--till he was telling them he'd been at the battle of waterloo." "good lord!" "_they_ didn't know no different," said mudd, "but it made me crawl to listen to him." "the bother is," said bobby, "that we are dealing, not only with a young man, but with the sort of young man who was young forty years ago. that's our trouble, mudd; we can't calculate on what he'll do because we haven't the data. and another bother is that his foolishness seems to have increased by being bottled so long, like old beer, but he can't come to harm with the villagers, they're an innocent lot." "are they?" said mudd. "one of the chaps he was talking to was a gallows-looking chap. horn's his name, and a poacher he is, i believe. then there's the blacksmith and a squint-eyed chap that calls himself a butcher; the pair of _them_ aren't up to much. innocent lot! why, if you had the stories mr. anderson's man has told me about this village the hair would rise on your head. why, london's a girl-school to these country villages, if all's true one hears. no, mr. robert, he wants looking after here more than anywhere, and it seems to me the only person who has any real hold on him is the young lady." "miss rossignol?" "yes, mr. robert, he's gone on her in his foolish way, and she can twist him round her finger like a child. when he's with her he's a different person, out of sight of her he's another man." "look here, mudd," said the other, "he can't be in love with her, for there's not a girl he sees he doesn't cast his eye after." "maybe," said mudd, "but when he's with her he's in love with her; i've been watching him and i know. he worships her, i believe, and if she wasn't so sensible i'd be afeard of it. it's a blessing he came across her; she's the only hold on him, and a good hold she is." "it is a blessing," said bobby. then, after a pause, "mudd, you've always been a good friend of mine, and this business has made me know what you really are. i'm bothered about something--i'm in love with her myself. there, you have it." "with miss rossignol?" "yes." "well, you might choose worse," said mudd. "but that's not all," said bobby. "there's another girl--mudd, i've been a damn fool." "we've all been fools in our time," said mudd. "i know, but it's jolly unpleasant when one's follies come home to roost on one. she's a nice girl enough, miss delyse, but i don't care for her. yet somehow i've got mixed up with her--not exactly engaged, but very near it. it all happened in a moment, and she's coming down here; i had a letter from her this morning." "oh, lord!" said mudd, "another mixture. as if there wasn't enough of us in the business!" "that's a good name for it, 'business.' i feel as if i was helping to run a sort of beastly factory, a mad sort of show where we're trying to condense folly and make it consume its own smoke--an illicit whisky-still, for we're trying to hide our business all the time, and it gives me the jim-jams to think that at any moment a client may turn up and see him like that. i feel sometimes, mudd, as fellows must feel when they have the police after them." "don't talk of the police," said mudd, "the very word gives me the shivers. when is she coming, mr. robert?" "miss delyse? she's coming by the 3.15 train to-day to farnborough station, and i've got to meet her. i've just booked her a room here. you see how i am tied. if i was here alone she couldn't come, because it wouldn't be proper, but having _him_ here makes it proper." "have you told her the state he's in?" "yes. she doesn't mind; she said she wished everyone else was the same--she said it was beautiful." they were talking in bobby's room, which overlooked the garden of the hotel, and glancing out of the window now, he saw cerise. then he detached himself from mudd. he reached her as she was passing through the little rambler-roofed alley that leads from the garden to the bowling-green. there is an arbour in the garden tucked away in a corner, and there is an arbour close to the bowling-green; there are several other arbours, for the hotel-planner was an expert in his work, but these are the only two arbours that have to do with our story. bobby caught up with the girl before she had reached the green, and they walked together towards it, chatting as young people only can chat with life and gaiety about nothing. they were astonishingly well-matched in mind. minds have colours just like eyes; there are black minds and brown minds and muddy-coloured minds and grey minds, and blue minds. bobby's was a blue mind, though, indeed, it sometimes almost seemed green. cerise's was blue, a happy blue like the blue of her eyes. they had been two and a half days now in pretty close propinquity, and had got to know each other well despite uncle simon, or rather, perhaps, because of him. they discussed him freely and without reserve, and they were discussing him now, as the following extraordinary conversation will show. "he's good, as you say," said bobby, "but he's more trouble to me than a child." said cerise: "shall i tell you a little secret?" "yes." "you will promise me surely, most surely, you will never tell my little secret?" "i swear." "he is in loff with me--i thought it was maman, but it is me." a ripple of laughter that caught the echo of the bowling-alley followed this confession. "last night he said to me before dinner, 'cerise, i loff you.'" "and what did you say?" "then the dinner-gong rang," said cerise, "and i said, 'oh, monsieur pattigrew, i must run and change my dress.' then i ran off. i did not want to change my dress, but i did want to change the conversation," finished cerise. then with a smile, "he loffs me more than any of the other girls." "why, how do you know he loves other girls?" "i have seen him look at girls," said cerise. "he likes all the world, but girls he likes most." "are you in love with him, cerise?" asked bobby, with a grin. "yes," said cerise candidly. "who could help?" "how much are you in love with him, cerise?" "i would walk to london for him without my shoes," said cerise. "well, that's something," said bobby. "come into this little arbour, cerise, and let's sit down. you don't mind my smoking?" "not one bit" "it's good to have anyone love one like that," said he, lighting a cigarette. "he draws it from me," said cerise. "well, i must say he's more likeable as he is than as he was; you should have seen him before he got young, cerise." "he was always good," said she, as though speaking from sure knowledge; "always good and kind and sweet." "he managed to hide it," said bobby. "ah yes--maybe so--there are many old gentlemen who seem rough and not nice, and then underneath it is different." "how would you like to marry uncle?" asked he, laughing. "if he were young outside as he is young inside of him--why, then i do not know. i might--i might not." then the unfortunate young man, forgetting all things, even the approaching julia, let his voice fall half a tone; he wandered from uncle; simon into the question of the beauty of the roses. the conversation flagged a bit, then he was holding one of her fingers. then came steps on the gravel. a servant. "the fly is ready to take you to the station, sir." it was three o'clock. chapter iii julia--_continued_ it was a cross between a hansom cab and a "growler," with the voice of the latter, and the dust of the farnborough road, with the prospect of a three-mile drive to meet julia and a three-mile drive back again, did not fill bobby with joy--also the prospect of having to make explanations. he had quite determined on that. after the arbour business it was impossible to go on with julia; he had to break whatever bonds there existed between them, and he had to do the business before she got to the hotel. then came the prospect of having to live with her in the hotel, even for a night. he questioned himself, asking himself were he a cad or not, had he trifled with julia? as far as memory went, they had both trifled with one another. it was a sudden affair, and no actual promise had been made; he had not even said "i love you"--but he had kissed her. the legal mind would, no doubt, have construed that into a declaration of affection, but bobby's mind was not legal--anything but--and as for kissing a girl, if he had been condemned to marry all the girls he had kissed he would have been forced to live in utah. he had to wait half an hour for the train at farnborough, and when it drew up out stepped julia, hot, and dressed in green, dragging a hold-all and a bundle of magazines and newspapers. "h'are you?" said bobby, as they shook hands. "hot," said julia. "isn't it?" he carried the hold-all to the fly and a porter followed with a basket-work portmanteau. when the luggage was stowed in they got in and the fly moved off. julia was not in a passionate mood; no person is or ever has been after a journey on the london and wessex and south coast railway--unless it is a mood of passion against the railway. she seemed, indeed, disgruntled and critical, and a tone of complaint in her voice cheered up bobby. "i know it's an awful old fly," said he, "but it's the best they had; the hotel motor-car is broken down or something." "why didn't you wire me that day," said she, "that you were going off so soon? i only got your wire from here next morning. you promised to meet me and you never turned up. i went to the albany to see if you were in, and i saw mr. tozer. he said you had gone off with half a dozen people in a car----" "only four, not including me," cut in bobby. "two ladies----" "an old french lady and her daughter." "well, that's two ladies, isn't it?" "i suppose so--you can't make it three. then there was uncle; it's true he's a host in himself." "how's he going on?" "splendidly." "i'm very anxious to see him," said julia. "it's so seldom one meets anyone really original in this life; most people are copies of others, and generally bad ones at that." "that's so," said bobby. "how's the novel going on?" said julia. "heavens!" said bobby, "do you think i can add literary work to my other distractions? the novel is not going on, but the plot is." "how d'you mean?" "uncle simon. i've got the beginning and middle of a novel in him, but i haven't got the end." "you are going to put him in a book?" "i wish to goodness i could, and close the covers on him. no, i'm going to weave him into a story--he's doing most of the weaving, but that's a detail. look here, julia----" "yes?" "i've been thinking." "yes?" "i've been thinking we have made a mistake." "who?" "well, we. i didn't write, i thought i'd wait till i saw you." "how d'you mean?" said julia dryly. "us." "yes?" "well, you know what i mean. it's just this way, people do foolish things on the spur of the moment." "what have we done foolish?" "we haven't done anything foolish, only i think we were in too great a hurry." "how?" "oh, you know, that evening at your flat." "oh!" "yes." "you mean to say you don't care for me any more?" "oh, it's not that; i care for you very much." "say it at once," said julia. "you care for me as a sister." "well, that's about it," said bobby. julia was silent, and only the voice of the fly filled the air. then she said: "it's just as well to know where one is." "are you angry?" "not a bit." he glanced at her. "not a bit. you have met someone else. why not say so?" "i have," said bobby. "you know quite well, julia, one can't help these things." "i don't know anything about 'these things,' as you call them; i only know that you have ceased to care for me--let that suffice." she was very calm, and a feeling came to bobby that she did not care so very deeply for him. it was not a pleasant feeling somehow, although it gave him relief. he had expected her to weep or fly out in a temper, but she was quite calm and ordinary; he almost felt like making love to her again to see if she _had_ cared for him, but fortunately this feeling passed. "we'll be friends," said he. "absolutely," said julia. "how could a little thing like that spoil friendship?" was she jesting with him or in earnest? bitter, or just herself? "is she staying at the hotel?" asked she, after a moment's silence. "she is," said bobby. "it's the french girl?" "how did you guess that?" "i knew." "when?" "when you explained them and began with the old lady. but the old lady will, no doubt, have her turn next, and to the next girl you'll explain them, beginning with the girl." bobby felt very hot and uncomfortable. "now you're angry with me," said he. "not a bit." "well, let's be friends." "absolutely. i could never fancy you as the enemy of anyone but yourself." bobby wasn't enjoying the drive, and there was a mile more of it--uphill, mostly. "i think i'll get out and give the poor old horse a chance," said he; "these hills are beastly for it." he got out and walked by the fly, glancing occasionally at the silhouette of julia, who seemed ruminating matters. he was beginning to feel, now, that he had done her an injury, and she had said nothing about going back to-morrow or anything like that, and he was held as by a vice, and cerise and he would be under the microscope, and cerise knew nothing about julia. then he got into the fly again and five minutes later they drove up to the rose. simon was standing in the porch as they drove up; his straw hat was on the back of his head and he had a cigar in his mouth. he looked at bobby and julia and grinned slightly. it seemed suddenly to have got into his head that bobby had been fetching a sweetheart as well as a young lady from the station. it had, in fact, and things that got into simon's youthful head in this fashion, allied to things pleasant, were difficult to remove. chapter iv horn--_continued_ simon had been that day all alone to see mrs. fisher-fisher's roses; he said so at dinner that night. he had remembered the general invitation and had taken it, evidently, as a personal one. bobby did not enquire details; besides, his mind was occupied at that dinner-table, where cerise was constantly seeking his glance and where julia sat watching. brooding and watching and talking chiefly to simon. she and simon seemed to get on well together, and a close observer might have fancied that simon was attracted, perhaps less by her charms than by the fact that he considered her bobby's girl and was making to cut bobby out, in a mild way, by his own superior attractions. after dinner simon forgot her. he had other business on hand. he had not dressed for dinner, he was simply and elegantly attired in the blue serge suit he had worn in london. taking his straw hat and lighting a cigar, he left the others and, having strolled round the garden for a few minutes, left the hotel premises and strolled down the street. the street was deserted. he reached the bricklayer's arms, and, having admired the view for a while from the porch of that hostelry, strolled into the bar. the love of low company, which is sometimes a distinguishing feature of the youthful, comes from several causes: a taste for dubious sport, a kicking against restraint, simply the love of low company, or a kind of megalomania--a wish to be first person in the company present, a wish easily satisfied at the cost of a few pounds. in simon's case it was probably a compound of the lot. in the bar of the bricklayer's arms he was first person by a mile; and this evening, owing to hay-harvest work, he was first by twenty miles, for the only occupant of the bar was dick horn. horn, as before hinted by mudd, was a very dubious character. in old days he would have been a poacher pure and simple, to-day he was that and other things as well. socialism had touched him. he desired, not only other men's game and fish, but their houses and furniture. he was six feet two, very thin, with lantern jaws, and a dark look suggestive of romany antecedents--a most fascinating individual to the philosopher, the police, and those members of the public of artistic leanings. he was seated smoking and in company of a brown mug of beer when simon came in. they gave each other good evening, simon rapped with a half-crown on the counter, ordered some beer for himself, had horn's mug replenished, and then sat down. the landlord, having served them, left them together, and they fell into talk on the weather. "yes," said horn, "it's fine enough for them that like it, weather's no account to me. i'm used to weather." "so am i," said simon. "gentlefolk don't know what weather is," said horn; "they can take it or leave it. it's the pore that knows what weather is." they agreed on this point. after a while horn got up, craned his head round the bar partition to see that no one was listening, and sat down again. "you remember what i said to you about them night lines?" "yes." "well, i'm going to set some to-night down in the river below." "by jove!" said simon, vastly interested. "if you're wanting to see a bit of sport maybe you'd like to jine me?" said horn. for a moment simon held back, playing with this idea, then he succumbed. "i'm with you," said he. "the keeper's away at ditchin'ham that minds this bit of the stream," said horn. "not that it matters, for he ain't no good, and the constable's no more than a blind horse. he's away, so we'll have the place proper to ourselves, and you said you was anxious to see how night linin' was done. well, you'll see it, if you come along with me. mind you, it's not every gentleman i'd take on a job like this, but you're different. mind you, they'd call this poachin', some of them blistered magistrits, and i'm takin' a risk lettin' you into it." "i'll say nothing," said simon. "it's a risk all the same," said horn. "i'll pay you," said simon. "'aff a quid?" "yes, here it is. what time do you start?" "not for two hours," said horn. "my bit of a place is below hill there. y'know the ditchin'ham road?" "yes." "well, it's that shack down there on the right of the road before it jines the village. i've got the lines there and all. you walk down there in two hours' time and you'll find me at the gate." "i'll come," said simon. then these two worthies parted; horn wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, saying he had to see a man about some ferrets, simon walking back to the hotel. chapter v tidd _versus_ renshaw the head of a big office or business house cannot move out of his orbit without creating perturbations. brownlow, the head clerk and second in command of the pettigrew business, was to learn this fact to his cost. brownlow was a man of forty-five, whose habits and ideas seemed regulated by clockwork. he lived at hampstead with his wife and three children, and went each day to the office. that was the summary of his life as read by an outsider. often the bald statement covers everything. it almost did in the case of brownlow. he had no initiative. he kept things together, he was absolutely perfect in routine, he had a profound knowledge of the law, he was correct, a good husband and a good father, but he had no initiative, and, outside of the law, very little knowledge of the world. imagine this correct gentleman, then, seated at his desk on the morning of the day after that on which simon made his poaching arrangements with horn. he was turning over some papers when balls, the second in command, came in. balls was young and wore eyeglasses and had ambitions. he and brownlow were old friends, and when together talked as equals. "i've had that james man just in to see me," said balls. "same old game; wanted to see pettigrew. he knows i have the whole thread of the case in my hands, but that's nothing to him, he wants to see pettigrew." "i know," said brownlow. "i've had the same bother. they _will_ see the head." "when's he back?" asked balls. "i don't know," said brownlow. "where's he gone?" "i don't know," said brownlow. "i only know he's gone, same as this time last year. he was a month away then." "oh, lord!" said balls, who had only joined the office nine months before and who knew nothing of last year's escapade. "a month more of this sort of bother--a month!" "yes," said brownlow. "i had it to do last year, and he left no address, same as now." then, after a moment's pause, "i'm worried about him. i can't help it, there was a strange thing happened last year. i've never told it to a soul before. he called me in one day to his room and he showed me a bundle of bank-notes. 'see here, brownlow,' said he, 'did you put these in my safe?' i'd never seen the things before and i have no key to his private safe. i told him i hadn't. he showed me the notes, ten thousand pounds' worth. ten thousand pounds' worth, he couldn't account for--asked _me_ if i'd put them in his safe. i said 'no,' as i told you. 'well, it's very strange,' said he. then he stood looking at the floor. then he said all of a sudden, 'it doesn't matter.' next day he went off on a month's holiday, sending word for me to carry on." "queer," said balls. "more than queer," replied brownlow. "i've put it down to mental strain; he's a hard worker." "it's not mental strain," said balls. "he's as alive as you or me and as keen, and he doesn't overwork; it's something else." "well, i wish it would stop," said brownlow, "for i'm nearly worried to death with clients writing to see him and trying to invent excuses, and my work is doubled." "so's mine," said balls. he went out and brownlow continued his business. he had not been engaged on it for long when morgan, the office-boy, appeared. "mr. tidd, sir, to see mr. pettigrew." "show him in," said brownlow. a moment later mr. tidd appeared. mr. tidd was a small, slight, old-maidish man; he walked lightly, like a bird, and carried a tall hat with a black band in one hand and a tightly-folded umbrella in the other. incidentally he was one of pettigrew's best clients. "good morning," said mr. tidd. "i've called to see mr. pettigrew with regard to those papers." "oh yes," said brownlow. "sit down, mr. tidd. those papers--mr. pettigrew has been considering them." "is not mr. pettigrew in?" "no, mr. tidd, he's not in just at present." "when is he likely to return?" "well, that's doubtful; he has left me in charge." the end of mr. tidd's nose moved uneasily. "you are in charge of my case?" "yes, of the whole business." "i can speak confidentially?" "absolutely." "well, i have decided to stop proceedings--in fact, i am caught in a hole." "oh!" "yes. mrs. renshaw has, in some illicit manner, got a document with my signature attached--a very grave document. this is strictly between ourselves." "strictly." "and she threatens to use it against me." "yes." "to use it against me, unless i return to her at once the letter of hers which i put in mr. pettigrew's keeping." "oh!" "yes. she is a violent and very vicious woman. i have not slept all night. i live, as you perhaps know, at hitchin. i took the first train i could conveniently catch to town this morning." the horrible fact was beginning to dawn on brownlow that simon had not brought those papers back to the office. he said nothing; his lips, for a moment, had gone dry. "how she got hold of that document with my name to it i cannot tell," said mr. tidd, "but she will use it against me most certainly unless i return that letter." "perhaps," said brownlow, recovering himself, "perhaps she is only threatening--bluffing, as they call it." "oh no, she's not," said the other. "if you knew her you would not say that; no, indeed, you would not say that. she is the last woman to threaten what she will not perform. till that document is in her hands i will not feel safe." "you must be careful," said brownlow, fighting for time. "how would it be if i were to see her?" "useless," said mr. tidd. "may i ask----" "yes?" "is the document to which your name is attached, and which is in her possession, is it--er--detrimental--i mean, plainly, is it likely to do you a grave injury?" "the document," said mr. tidd, "was written by me in a moment of impulse to a lady who is--another gentleman's wife." "it is a letter?" "yes, it is a letter." "i see. well, mr. tidd, _your_ document, the one you are anxious to return in exchange for this document, is in the possession of mr. pettigrew; it is quite safe." "doubtless," said mr. tidd, "but i want it in my hands to return it myself to-day." "i sent it with the other papers to mr. pettigrew's private house," said brownlow, "and he has not yet returned it." "oh! but i want it to-day." "it's very unfortunate," said brownlow, "but he's away--and i'm afraid he must have taken the papers with him for consideration." "good heavens!" said tidd. "but if that is so what am i to do?" "you can't wait?" "how can i wait?" "dear me, dear me," said brownlow, almost driven to distraction, "this is very unfortunate." tidd seemed to concur. his lips had become pale. then he broke out: "i placed my vital interests in the hands of mr. pettigrew, and now at the critical moment i find this!" said he. "away! but you must find him--you must find him, and find him at once." if he had only known what he would find he might have been less eager perhaps. "i'll find him if i can," said brownlow. he rang a bell, and when morgan appeared he sent for balls. "mr. balls," said brownlow with a spasmodic attempt at a wink, "can you not get mr. pettigrew's present address?" balls understood. "i'll see," said he. out he went, returning in a minute. "i'm sorry i can't," said balls. "mr. pettigrew did not leave his address when he went away." "thank you, mr. balls," said brownlow. then to tidd, when they were alone: "this is as hard for me as for you, mr. tidd; i can't think what to do." "we've got to find him," said tidd. "certainly." "will he by any chance have left his address at his private house?" "we can see," said brownlow. "he has no telephone, but i'll go myself." "i will go with you," said tidd. "you understand me, this is a matter of life and death--ruin--my wife--that woman, and the other one." "i see, i see, i see," said brownlow, taking his hat from its peg on the wall. "come with me; we will find him if he is to be found." he hurried out, followed by mr. tidd, and in fleet street he managed to get a taxi. they got into it and drove to king charles street. there was a long pause after the knock, and then the door opened, disclosing mrs. jukes. brownlow was known to her. "mrs. jukes," said brownlow, "can you give me mr. pettigrew's present address?" "no, sir, i can't." "he was called away, was he not?" "i don't think so, sir; he went off on some business or other. mudd has gone with him." "oh, dear!" said tidd. "they stopped at the charing cross hotel," said mrs. jukes, "and then i had a message they were going into the country. it was from mr. mudd, and he said they might be a month away." "a month away!" said tidd, his voice strangely calm. "yes, sir." "good gracious!" said brownlow. then to tidd, "you see how i am placed?" "a month away," said tidd; he seemed unable to get over that obstacle of thought. "yes, sir," said mrs. jukes. they got into the taxi and went to the charing cross hotel, where they were informed that mr. pettigrew was gone and had left no address. then suddenly an idea came to brownlow--oppenshaw. the doctor might know; failing the doctor, they were done. "come with me," said he; "i think i know a person who may have the address." he got into the taxi again with the other, gave the harley street address, and they drove off. the horrible irregularity of the whole of this business was poisoning brownlow's mind--hunting for the head of a firm who ought to be at his office and who held possession of a client's vitally important document. he said nothing, neither did mr. tidd, who was probably engaged in reviewing the facts of his case and the position his wife would take up when that letter was put into her hands by mrs. renshaw. they stopped at 110a, harley street. "why, it's a doctor's house," said tidd. "yes," said brownlow. they knocked at the door and were let in. the servant, in the absence of an appointment, said he would see what he could do, and showed them into the waiting-room. "tell dr. oppenshaw it is mr. brownlow from mr. pettigrew's office," said brownlow, "on very urgent business." they took their seats, and while mr. tidd tried to read a volume of _punch_ upside down, brownlow bit his nails. in a marvellously short time the servant returned and asked mr. brownlow to step in. oppenshaw did not beat about the bush. when he heard what brownlow wanted he said frankly he did not know where mr. pettigrew was; he only knew that he had been staying at the charing cross hotel. mudd, the manservant, was with him. "it's only right that you should know the position," said oppenshaw, "as you say you are the chief clerk and all responsibility rests on you in mr. pettigrew's absence." then he explained. "but if he's like that, where's the use of finding him?" said the horrified brownlow. "a man with mind disease!" "more a malady than a disease," put in oppenshaw. "yes, but--like that." "of course," said oppenshaw, "he may at any moment turn back into himself again, like the finger of a glove turning inside out." "perhaps," said the other hopelessly, "but till he does turn----" at that moment the sound of a telephone-bell came from outside. "till he does turn, of course, he's useless for business purposes," said oppenshaw; "he would have no memory, for one thing--at least, no memory of business." the servant entered. "please, sir, an urgent call for you." "one moment," said oppenshaw. out he went. he was back in less than two minutes. "i have his address," said he. "thank goodness!" said brownlow. "h'm," said oppenshaw; "but there's not good news with it. he's staying at the rose hotel, upton-on-hill, and he's been getting into trouble of some sort. it was mudd who 'phoned, and he seemed half off his head; said he didn't like to go into details over the telephone, but wanted me to come down to arrange matters. i told him it was quite impossible to-day; then he seemed to collapse and cut me off." "what am i to do?" "well, there's only two things to be done: tell this gentleman that mr. pettigrew's mind is affected, or take him down there on the chance that this shock may have restored mr. pettigrew." "i can't tell him mr. pettigrew's mind is affected," said brownlow. "i'd sooner do anything than that. i'd sooner take him down there on the chance of his being better--perhaps even if he's not, the sight of me and mr. tidd might recall him to himself." "possibly," said oppenshaw, who was in a hurry and only too glad of any chance of cutting the business short. "possibly. anyhow, there is some use in trying, and tell mudd it's absolutely useless my going. i shall be glad to do anything i can by letter or telephone." brownlow took up his hat, then he recaptured tidd and gave him the cheering news that he had simon's address. "i'll go with you myself," said brownlow. "of course, the expense will fall on the office. i must send a telegram to the office and my wife to say i won't be back to-night. we can't get to upton till this evening. we'll have to go as we are, without even waiting to pack a bag." "that doesn't matter; that doesn't matter," said tidd. they were in the street now and bundling into the waiting taxi. "victoria station," said brownlow to the driver. then to tidd, "i can telegraph from the station." they drove off. chapter vi what happened to simon "he came back two hours ago, sir, and he was in his room ten minutes ago--but he's gone." "well," said bobby, who was just off to bed, "he'll be back again soon; can't come to much harm here. you'd better sit up for him, mudd." off he went to bed. he lay reading for awhile and thinking of cerise; then he put out the light and dropped off to sleep. he was awakened by mudd. mudd with a candle in his hand. "he's not back yet, mr. robert." bobby sat up and rubbed his eyes. "not back? oh, uncle simon! what's the time?" "gone one, sir." "bother! what can have happened to him, mudd?" "that's what i'm asking myself," said mudd. a heavy step sounded on the gravel drive in front of the hotel, then came a ring at the bell. mudd, candle in hand, darted off. bobby heard voices down below. five minutes passed and then reappeared mudd--ghastly to look at. "they've took him," said mudd. "what?" "he's been took poachin'." "poaching!" "colonel salmon's river, he and a man, and the man's got off. he's at the policeman's house, and he says he'll let us have him if we'll go bail for him, seeing he's an old gentleman and only did it for the lark of the thing." "thank god!" "but he'll have to go before the magistrates on we'n'sday, whether or no--before the magistrates--_him_!" "the devil!" said bobby. he got up and hurried on some clothes. "him before the magistrates--in his present state! _oh_, lord!" "shut up!" said bobby. his hands were shaking as he put on his things. pictures of simon before the magistrates were fleeting before him. money was the only chance. could the policeman be bribed? hurrying downstairs and outside into the moonlit night, he found the officer. none of the hotel folk had turned out at the ring of the bell. bobby, in a muted voice and beneath the stars, listened to the tale of the law, then he tried corruption. useless. constable copper, though he might be no more good than a blind horse, according to horn, was incorruptible yet consolatory. "it'll only be a couple of quid fine," said he. "maybe not that, seeing what he is and it was done for a lark. horn will get it in the neck, but not him. he's at my house now, and you can have him back if you'll go bail he won't get loose again. he's a nice old gentleman, but a bit peculiar, i think." constable copper seemed quite light-hearted over the matter, and to think little of it as an offence. a couple of quid would cover it! he did not, perhaps, appreciate fully the light and shade of the situation--a j.p. and member of the athenæum and of the society of antiquaries brought up for poaching in company with an evil character named horn! neither did simon, whom they found seated on the side of the table in the coppers' sitting-room talking to mrs. copper, who was wrapped in a shawl. he went back to the hotel with them rather silent but not depressed; he tried, indeed, to talk and laugh over the affair. this was the last straw, and bobby burst out, giving him a "jawing" complete and of the first pattern. then they saw him to bed and put out the light. at breakfast he was quite himself again, and the summons which arrived at eleven o'clock was not shown to him. no one knew of the affair with the exception of the whole village, all the hotel servants, bobby and mudd. the distracted mudd spent the morning walking about, hither and thither, trying to collect his wits and make a plan. simon had given his name, of course, though indeed it did not matter much as he was a resident at the hotel. it was impossible to deport him or move him or pretend he was ill; nothing was possible but the bench of magistrates--colonel salmon presiding--and publicity. at half-past eleven or quarter to twelve he sent the despairing message to oppenshaw; then he collapsed into a cold sort of resignation with hot fits at times. chapter vii tidd _versus_ brownlow at four o'clock that day a carriage drove up to the hotel and two gentlemen alighted. they were shown into the coffee-room and mudd was sent for. he came, expecting to find police officers, and found brownlow and mr. tidd. "one moment, mr. tidd," said brownlow, then he took mudd outside into the hall. "he's not fit to be seen," said mudd, when the other had explained. "no client must see him. he's right enough to look at and speak to, but he's not himself. what made you bring him here, mr. brownlow--now, of all times?" brownlow started and turned. mr. tidd had opened the coffee-room door, and how much of their conversation he had heard heaven knows. "one moment," said brownlow. "i will wait no longer," said mr. tidd. "this must be explained. is mr. pettigrew here or is he not? no, i will not wait." a waiter passed at that moment with an afternoon-tea-tray. "is mr. pettigrew in this hotel?" asked tidd. "he's in the garden, i believe, sir." brownlow tried to get in front of tidd to round him off from the garden; mudd tried to take his arm. he pushed them aside. chapter viii in the arbour we must go back to three o'clock. at three o'clock bobby, walking in the garden smoking a cigarette, had crossed the front of the arbour--arbour no. 1. the grass path, soundless as a turkey carpet, did not betray his footsteps. there were two people in the arbour and they were "canoodling"--simon and julia delyse. she was keeping her hand in, perhaps, or the attraction simon had always had for her had betrayed her into allowing him to hold her hand. anyhow, he was holding it. bobby looked at her, and julia snatched her hand away. simon laughed; he seemed to think it a good joke, and his vain soul was doubtless pleased with having got the better of bobby with bobby's girl. bobby passed on, saying, "i beg your pardon." it was the only thing he could think of to say. then, when out of hearing, he too laughed. he had got the better of julia. that brooding presence would brood no more. an hour later simon, walking in the garden alone and in meditation, reached the bowling-green. he drew close to arbour no. 2. the grass silencing his footsteps, he passed the arbour opening and looked in. the two people there did not see him for a moment, then they unlocked. it was cerise and bobby. simon stood, mouth open, stock still, cigar dropped on grass. he had laughed when bobby had caught him with julia. he did not laugh now. the shock of the poaching business had left him untouched, unshaken, but cerise, in some strange way, was his centre of gravity, his compass, and sometimes his rudder. he loved cerise; the other girls were phantoms. perhaps cerise was the only real thing in his mental state. for a moment he stood, his hand to his head like a man stunned. bobby ran to him and caught him. "where am i?" said uncle simon. "oh--oh--i see." he leaned heavily on bobby, looking about him in a dazed way like a man half awakened. madame rossignol, who had just come out of the hotel, seeing his condition, ran towards him, and simon, as though recognising a guardian angel, held out his hand. then bobby and the old lady gently, very gently, began to lead him back to the house. as they drew near the back entrance three men, one following the other, came out. simon stopped. he had recognised tidd; he seemed also to recognise more fully his own position and to remember. bobby felt his hand tightly clasping his own. "why, this is mr. tidd," said simon. "mr. pettigrew," said tidd, "where are my papers--the papers in the case of renshaw?" "tidd _v._ renshaw," said simon's accurate mind. "they are in the top left-hand drawer of my bureau in charles street, westminster." chapter ix chapter the last "you are all absolutely wrong." julia delyse was speaking. she had been sitting mumchance at a general meeting of the pettigrew confraternity held half an hour before bench in a sitting-room of the rose hotel. simon had vetoed the idea of a solicitor to defend him--it would only create more talk, and from what he could make out his case was defenceless. he would throw himself on the mercy of the court. the rest had concurred. "throw yourself on the mercy of the court! have you ever lived in the country? do you know what these old magistrates are like? don't you know that the _wessex chronicle_ will publish yards about it, to say nothing of the local rag? i've thought out the whole thing. i've wired for dick pugeot." "you wired?" said bobby. "last night. you remember i asked you for his address--and there he is." the toot of a motor-horn came from outside. julia rose and left the room. bobby followed and stopped her in the passage. "julia," said he, "if you can get him out of this and save his name being in the papers, you'll be a brick. you are a brick, and i've been a--a----" "i know," said julia, "but you could not help yourself--nor can i. i'm not cerise. love is lunacy and the world's all wrong. now go back and tell your uncle to say nothing in court and to pretend he's a fool. if pugeot is the man you say he is, he'll save his name. old mr. pettigrew has got to be camouflaged." "good heavens, julia," cried bobby, the vision of gnus emulating zebras rising before him, "you can't mean to paint him?" "never mind what i mean," said julia. the upton bench was an old bench. it had been in existence since the time of mr. justice shallow. it held its sittings in the court-room of the upton police court, and there it dispensed justice, of a sort, of a wednesday morning upon "drunks," petty pilferers, poachers, tramps, and any other unfortunates appearing before it. colonel grouse was the chairman. with him this morning sat major partridge-cooper, colonel salmon, mr. teal, and general grampound. the reporters of the local rag and the _wessex chronicle_ were in their places. the clerk of the court, old mr. quail, half-blind and fumbling with his papers, was at his table; a few village constables, including constable copper, were by the door, and there was no general public. the general public was free to enter, but none of the villagers ever came. it was an understood thing that the bench discouraged idlers and inquisitive people. the inalienable right of the public to enter a court of justice and see themis at work had never been pushed. the bench was much more than the bench--it was the gentry and the power of upton,[1] against which no man could run counter. horn alone, in pot-houses and public places, had fought against this shibboleth; he had found a few agreers, but no backers. at eleven to the moment the pettigrew contingent filed in and took their places, and after them a big yellow man, the hon. dick pugeot. he was known to the magistrates, but justice is blind and no mark of recognition was shown, whilst a constable, detaching himself from the others, went to the door and shouted: "richard horn." horn, who had been caught and bailed, and who had evidently washed himself and put on his best clothes, entered, made for the dock, as a matter of long practice, and got into it. "simon pettigrew," called the clerk. simon rose and followed horn. instructed by julia to say nothing, he said nothing. then pugeot rose. "i beg your pardon," said pugeot; "you have got my friend's name wrong. pattigraw, please; he's a frenchman, though long resident in england; and it's not simon--but sigismond." "rectify the charge-sheet," said colonel grouse. "first witness." simon, dazed, and horrified as a solicitor by this line of action, tried to speak, but failed. the brilliant idea of julia's, taken up with enthusiasm by pugeot, was evidently designed to fool the newspaper men and save the name of simon the solicitor. still, it was horrible, and he felt as though pugeot were trying to carry him pick-a-back across an utterly impossible bridge. he guessed now why this had been sprung on him. they knew that as a lawyer he would never have agreed to such a statement. then copper, hoisting himself into the witness-stand, hitching his belt and kissing the testament, began: "i swear before a'mighty gawd that the evidence i shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me gawd, amen on the evening of the 16th pursuin' my beat by porter's meadows i see defendant in the company of horn----" "what were they doing?" asked old mr. teal, who was busily taking notes just like any real judge. "walkin' towards the river, sir." "in which direction?" "up stream, sir." "go on." copper went on. "crossin' the meadows, they kept to the river, me after them----" "how far behind?" asked major partridge-cooper. "half a field's length, sir, till they reached the bend of the stream beyond which the prisoner horn began to set his night lines, assisted by the prisoner puttigraw. 'hullo,' says i, and horn bolted, and i closed with the other one." "did he make resistance?" "no, sir. i walked him up to my house quite quiet." "that all?" "yes, sir." "you can stand down." the prisoners had pleaded guilty and there was no other evidence. simon began to see light. he could perceive at once that it would be a question of a fine, that the magistrates and press had swallowed him as specified by pugeot, that his name was saved. but he reckoned without pugeot. pugeot had done everything in life except act as an advocate, and he was determined not to let the chance escape. several brandies-and-sodas at the hotel had not lessened his enthusiasm for publicity, and he rose. "mr. chairman and justices," said pugeot. "i would like to say a few words on behalf of my friend, the prisoner, whom i have known for many years and who now finds himself in this unfortunate position through no fault of his own." "how do you make that out?" asked colonel grouse. "i beg your pardon?" said pugeot, checked in his eloquence. "oh yes, i see what you mean. well, as a matter of fact, as a matter of fact--well, not to put too fine a point upon it, leaving aside the fact that he is the last man to do a thing of this sort, he has had money troubles in france." "do you wish to make out a case of _non compos mentis_?" asked old mr. teal. "there is no medical evidence adduced." "not in the least," said pugeot; "he's as right as i am, only he has had worries." then, confidentially, and speaking to the bench as fellow-men: "if you will make it a question of a fine, i will guarantee everything will be all right--and besides"--a brilliant thought--"his wife will look after him." "is his wife present?" asked colonel grouse. "that is the lady, i believe," said colonel salmon, looking in the direction of the rossignols, whom he dimly remembered having seen at the squire simpson's with simon. pugeot, cornered, turned round and looked at the blushing madame rossignol. "yes," said he, without turning a hair, "that is the lady." then the recollection struck him with a thud that he had introduced the rossignols as rossignols to the squire simpson's and that they were registered at the hotel as rossignols. he felt as though he were in a skidding car, but nothing happened, no accusing voice rose to give him the lie, and the bench retired to consider its sentence, which was one guinea fine for sigismond and a month for horn. "you've married them," said julia, as they walked back to the hotel, leaving the others to follow. "i _never_ meant you to say that. but perhaps it's for the best; she's a good woman and will look after him, and he'll _have_ to finish the business, won't he?" "rather, and a jolly good job!" said pugeot. "now i've got to bribe the hotel man and stuff old simpson with the hard facts. never had such fun in my life. i say, old thing, where do you hang out in london?" julia gave him her address. that was the beginning of the end of pugeot as a bachelor--also of simon, who never would have been brought up to the scratch but for pugeot's speech--also of mr. ravenshaw, who never in his wildest dreams could have foreseen his marriage to simon's step-daughter a week after simon's marriage to her mother. mudd alone remains unmarried out of all these people, for the simple and efficient reason that there is no one to marry him to. he lives with the pettigrews in charles street, and his only trouble in life is dread of another outbreak on the part of simon. this has not occurred yet--will never occur, if there is any truth in the dictum of oppenshaw that marriage is the only cure for the delusions of youth. the end footnote: [1] this was before the politicians had amended the bench. brother copas by arthur thomas quiller-couch. 1911 to the gentle reader. in a former book of mine, _sir john constantine_, i expressed (perhaps extravagantly) my faith in my fellows and in their capacity to treat life as a noble sport. in _brother copas_ i try to express something of that corellative scorn which must come sooner or later to every man who puts his faith into practice.. i have that faith still; but that "he who would love his fellow men must not expect too much of them" is good counsel if bad rhyme. i can only hope that both the faith and the scorn are sound at the core. for the rest, i wish to state that st. hospital is a society which never existed. i have borrowed for it certain features from the hospital of st. cross, near winchester. i have invented a few external and all the internal ones. my "college of noble poverty" harbours abuses from which, i dare to say, that nobler institution is entirely free. st hospital has no existence at all outside of my imagining. arthur quiller-couch. the haven, fowey. february 16th, 1911. "and a little child shall lead them."--isaiah xi. 6. contents. chapter i. the master of st. hospital. ii. the college of noble poverty. iii. brother copas hooks a fish. iv. corona comes. v. brother copas on religious differences. vi. gaudy day. vii. low and high tables. viii. a peace-offering. ix. by mere river. x. the anonymous letter. xi. brother copas on the anglo-saxon. xii. mr. isidore takes charge. xiii. garden and laundry. xiv. brother copas on the house of lords. xv. canaries and greatcoats. xvi. the second letter. xvii. puppets. xviii. the pervigilium. xvix. merchester prepares. xx. naughtiness, and a sequel. xxi. reconciliation. xxii. mr. simeon makes a clean breast. xxiii. corona's birthday. xxiv. finis coronat opus. conclusion. brother copas. chapter i. the master of st. hospital. 'as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things . . .' the honourable and reverend eustace john wriothesley blanchminster, d.d., master of st. hospital-by-merton, sat in the oriel of his library revising his trinity gaudy sermon. he took pains with these annual sermons, having a quick and fastidious sense of literary style. "it is," he would observe, "one of the few pleasurable capacities spared by old age." he had, moreover, a scholarly habit of verifying his references and quotations; and if the original, however familiar, happened to be in a dead or foreign language, would have his secretary indite it in the margin. his secretary, mr. simeon, after taking the sermon down from dictation, had made out a fair copy, and stood now at a little distance from the corner of the writing-table, in a deferential attitude. the master leaned forward over the manuscript; and a ray of afternoon sunshine, stealing in between a mullion of the oriel and the edge of a drawn blind, touched his bowed and silvery head as if with a benediction. he was in his seventy-third year; lineal and sole-surviving descendant of that alberic de blanchminster (albericus de albo monasterio) who had founded this hospital of christ's poor in 1137, and the dearest, most distinguished-looking old clergyman imaginable. an american lady had once summed him up as a doctor of divinity in dresden china; and there was much to be allowed to the simile when you noted his hands, so shapely and fragile, or his complexion, transparent as old ivory--and still more if you had leisure to observe his saintliness, so delicately attuned to this world. "_as having nothing, and yet possessing all things_."--the master laid his forefinger upon the page and looked up reproachfully. "os meden echontes--my good simeon, is it possible? a word so common as os! and after all these years you make it perispomenon!" mr. simeon stammered contrition. in the matter of greek accents he knew himself to be untrustworthy beyond hope. "i can't tell how it is, sir, but that os always seems to me to want a circumflex, being an adverb of sorts." on top of this, and to make things worse, he pleaded that he had left out the accent in os ptochoi, just above. "h'm--as poor, and yet thankful for small mercies," commented the master with gentle sarcasm. he had learnt in his long life to economise anger. but he frowned as he dipped a pen in the ink-pot and made the correction; for he was dainty about his manuscripts as about all the furniture of life, and a blot or an erasure annoyed him. "brother copas," he murmured, "never misplaces an accent." mr. simeon heard, and started. it was incredible that the master, who five-and-twenty years ago had rescued mr. simeon from a school for poor choristers and had him specially educated for the sake of his exquisite handwriting, could be threatening dismissal over a circumflex. oh, there was no danger! if long and (until the other day) faithful service were not sufficient, at least there was guarantee in the good patron's sense of benefits conferred. moreover, brother copas was not desirable as an amanuensis. . . . none the less, poor men with long families will start at the shadow of a fear; and mr. simeon started. "master," he said humbly, choosing the title by which his patron liked to be addressed, "i think greek accents must come by gift of the lord." "indeed?" the master glanced up. "i mean, sir"--mr. simeon extended a trembling hand and rested his fingers on the edge of the writing-table for support--"that one man is born with a feeling for them, so to speak; while another, though you may teach and teach him--" "in other words," said the master, "they come by breeding. it is very likely." he resumed his reading: '--and yet possessing all things. we may fancy st. paul's actual words present in the mind of our second founder, the cardinal beauchamp, as their spirit assuredly moved him, when he named our beloved house the college of noble poverty. his predecessor, alberic de blanchminster, had called it after christ's poor; and the one title, to be sure, rests implicit in the other; for the condescension wherewith christ made choice of his associates on earth has for ever dignified poverty in the eyes of his true followers.' "and you have spelt 'his' with a capital 'h'--when you know my dislike of that practice!" poor mr. simeon was certainly not in luck to-day. the truth is that, frightened by the prospect of yet another addition to his family (this would be his seventh child), he had hired out his needy pen to one of the canons residentiary of merchester, who insisted on using capitals upon all parts of speech referring, however remotely, to either of the divine persons. the master, who despised canon tarbolt for a vulgar pulpiteer, and barely nodded to him in the street, was not likely to get wind of this mercenage; but if ever he did, there would be trouble. as it was, the serving of two masters afflicted mr. simeon's conscience while it distracted his pen. "i will make another fair copy," he suggested. "i fear you must. would you mind drawing back that curtain? my eyes are troublesome this afternoon. thank you."- 'nevertheless it was well done of the great churchman to declare his belief that the poor, as poor, are not only blessed--as our lord expressly says--but noble, as our lord implicitly taught. nay, the suggestion is not perhaps far-fetched that, as cardinal beauchamp had great possessions, he took this occasion to testify how in his heart he slighted them. or again--for history seems to prove that he was not an entirely scrupulous man, nor entirely untainted by self-seeking--that his tribute to noble poverty may have been the assertion, by a spirit netted among the briars of this world's policy, that at least it saw and suspired after the way to heaven. _video meliora, proboque_- "o limed soul, that struggling to be free art more engaged!" 'but he is with god: and while we conjecture, god knows. 'lest, however, you should doubt that the finer spirits of this world have found poverty not merely endurable but essentially noble, let me recall to you an anecdote of saint francis of assisi. it is related that, travelling towards france with a companion, brother masseo, he one day entered a town wherethrough they both begged their way, as their custom was, taking separate streets. meeting again on the other side of the town, they spread out their alms on a broad stone by the wayside, whereby a fair fountain ran; and francis rejoiced that brother masseo's orts and scraps of bread were larger than his own, saying, "brother masseo, we are not worthy of such treasure." "but how," asked brother masseo, "can one speak of treasure when there is such lack of all things needful? here have we neither cloth, nor knife, nor plate, nor porringer, nor house, nor table, nor manservant, nor maidservant." answered francis, "this and none else it is that i account wide treasure; which containeth nothing prepared by human hands, but all we have is of god's own providence--as this bread we have begged, set out on a table of stone so fine, beside a fountain so clear. wherefore," said he, "let us kneel together and pray god to increase our love of this holy poverty, which is so noble that thereunto god himself became a servitor."' the declining sun, slanting in past the banksia roses, touched the edge of a giant amethyst which the master wore, by inheritance of office, on his forefinger; and, because his hand trembled a little with age, the gem set the reflected ray dancing in a small pool of light, oval-shaped and wine-coloured, on the white margin of the sermon. he stared at it for a moment, tracing it mistakenly to a glass of rhone wine--a _chateau neuf du pape_ of a date before the phylloxera--that stood neglected on the writing-table. (by his doctor's orders he took a glass of old wine and a biscuit every afternoon at this hour as a gentle digestive.) thus reminded, he reached out a hand and raised the wine to his lips, nodding as he sipped. "in common room, simeon, we used to say that no man was really educated who preferred burgundy to claret, but that on the lower rhone all tastes met in one ecstasy. . . . i'd like to have your opinion on this, now; that is, if you will find the decanter and a glass in the cupboard yonder--and if you have no conscientious objection." mr. simeon murmured, amid his thanks, that he had no objection. "i am glad to hear it. . . . between ourselves, there is always something lacking in an abstainer--as in a man who has never learnt greek. it is difficult with both to say what the lack precisely is; but with both it includes an absolute insensibility to the shortcoming." mr. simeon could not help wondering if this applied to poor men who abstained of necessity. he thought not; being, for his part, conscious of a number of shortcomings. "spirits," went on the master, wheeling half-about in his revolving-chair and crossing one shapely gaitered leg over another, "spirits--and especially whisky--eat out the health of a man and leave him a sodden pulp. beer is honest, but brutalising. wine--certainly any good wine that can trace its origin back beyond the reformation--is one with all good literature, and indeed with civilisation. _antiquam exquirite matrem_: all three come from the mediterranean basin or from around it, and it is only the ill-born who contemn descent." "brother copas--" began mr. simeon, and came to a halt. he lived sparely; he had fasted for many hours; and standing there he could feel the generous liquor coursing through him--nay could almost have reported its progress from ganglion to ganglion. he blessed it, and at the same moment breathed a prayer that it might not affect his head. "brother copas--?" mr. simeon wished now that he had not begun his sentence. the invigorating _chateau neuf du pape_ seemed to overtake and chase away all uncharitable thoughts. but it was too late. "brother copas--you were saying--?" "i ought not to repeat it, sir. but i heard brother copas say the other day that the teetotallers were in a hopeless case; being mostly religious men, and yet having to explain in the last instance why our lord, in cana of galilee, did not turn the water into ginger-pop." the master frowned and stroked his gaiters. "brother copas's tongue is too incisive. something must be forgiven to one who, having started as a scholar and a gentleman, finds himself toward the close of his days dependent on the bread of charity." it was benignly spoken; and to mr. simeon, who questioned nothing his patron said or did, no shade of misgiving occurred that, taken down in writing, it might annotate somewhat oddly the sermon on the table. it was spoken with insight too, for had not his own poverty, or the fear of it, sharpened mr. simeon's tongue just now and prompted him to quote brother copas detrimentally? the little man did not shape this accusation clearly against himself, for he had a rambling head; but he had also a sound heart, and it was uneasy. "i ought not to have told it, sir. . . . i ask you to believe that i have no ill-will against brother copas." the master had arisen, and stood gazing out of the window immersed in his own thoughts. "eh? i beg your pardon?" said he absently. "i--i feared, sir, you might think i said it to his prejudice." "prejudice?" the master repeated, still with his back turned, and still scarcely seeming to hear. "but why in the world? . . . ah, there he goes!--and brother bonaday with him. they are off to the river, for brother copas carries his rod. what a strange fascination has that dry-fly fishing! and i can remember old anglers discussing it as a craze, a lunacy." he gazed out, still in a brown study. the room was silent save for the ticking of a louis seize clock on the chimney-piece; and mr. simeon, standing attentive, let his eyes travel around upon the glass-fronted bookcases, filled with sober riches in vellum and gilt leather, on the rare prints in black frames, the statuette of _diane chasseresse_, the bust of antinous, the portfolios containing other prints, the persian carpets scattered about the dark bees'-waxed floor, the sheraton table with its bowl of odorous peonies. "eh? i beg your pardon--" said the master again after three minutes or so, facing around with a smile of apology. "my wits were wool-gathering, over the sermon--that little peroration of mine does not please me somehow. . . . i will take a stroll to the home-park and back, and think it over. . . . thank you, yes, you may gather up the papers. we will do no more work this afternoon." "and i will write out another fair copy, sir." "yes, certainly; that is to say, of all but the last page. we will take the last page to-morrow." for a moment, warmed by the wine and by the master's cordiality of manner, mr. simeon felt a wild impulse to make a clean breast, confess his trafficking with canon tarbolt and beg to be forgiven. but his courage failed him. he gathered up his papers, bowed and made his escape. chapter ii. the college of noble poverty. if a foreigner would apprehend (he can never comprehend) this england of ours, with her dear and ancient graces, and her foibles as ancient and hardly less dear; her law-abidingness, her staid, god-fearing citizenship; her parochialism whereby (to use a greek idiom) she perpetually escapes her own notice being empress of the world; her inveterate snobbery, her incurable habit of mistaking symbols and words for realities; above all, her spacious and beautiful sense of time as builder, healer and only perfecter of worldly things; let him go visit the cathedral city, sometime the royal city, of merchester. he will find it all there, enclosed and casketed--"a box where sweets compacted lie." let him arrive on a saturday night and awake next morning to the note of the cathedral bell, and hear the bugles answering from the barracks up the hill beyond the mediaeval gateway. as he sits down to breakfast the bugles will start sounding nigher, with music absurd and barbarous, but stirring, as the riflemen come marching down the high street to divine service. in the minster to which they wend, their disused regimental colours droop along the aisles; tattered, a hundred years since, in spanish battlefields, and by age worn almost to gauze--"strainers," says brother copas, "that in their time have clarified much turbid blood." but these are guerdons of yesterday in comparison with other relics the minster guards. there is royal dust among them--saxon and dane and norman--housed in painted chests above the choir stalls. "_quare fremuerunt gentes?_" intone the choristers' voices below, mr. simeon's weak but accurate tenor among them. "_the kings of the earth stand up, and the rulers take counsel together_ . . ." the riflemen march down to listen. as they go by ta-ra-ing, the douce citizens of merchester and their wives and daughters admire from the windows discreetly; but will attend _their_ divine service later. this, again, is england. sundays and week-days at intervals the cathedral organ throbs across the close, gently shaking the windows of the deanery and the canons' houses, and interrupting the chatter of sparrows in their ivy. twice or thrice annually a less levitical noise invades, when our state visits its church; in other words, when with trumpeters and javelin-men the high sheriff escorts his majesty's judges to hear the assize sermon. on these occasions the head boy of the great school, which lies a little to the south of the cathedral, by custom presents a paper to the learned judge, suing for a school holiday; and his lordship, brushing up his latinity, makes a point of acceding in the best hexameters he can contrive. at his time of life it comes easier to try prisoners; and if he lie awake, he is haunted less by his day in court than by the fear of a false quantity. the school--with its fourteenth-century quadrangles, fenced citywards behind a blank brewhouse-wall (as though its founder's first precaution had been to protect learning from siege), and its precincts opening rearwards upon green playing-fields and river-meads--is like few schools in england, and none in any other country; and is proud of its singularity. it, too, has its stream of life, and on the whole a very gracious one, with its young, careless voices and high spirits. it lies, as i say, south of the close; beyond the northward fringe of which you penetrate, under archway or by narrow entry, to the high street, where another and different tide comes and goes, with mild hubbub of carts, carriages, motors--ladies shopping, magistrates and county councillors bent on business of the shire, farmers, traders, marketers. . . . this traffic, too, is all very english and ruddy and orderly. through it all, picturesque and respected, pass and repass the bedesmen of saint hospital: the blanchminster brethren in black gowns with a silver cross worn at the breast, the beauchamp brethren in gowns of claret colour with a silver rose. the terms of the twin bequests are not quite the same. to be a collegian of christ's poor it is enough that you have attained the age of sixty-five, so reduced in strength as to be incapable of work; whereas you can become a collegian of noble poverty at sixty, but with the proviso that misfortune has reduced you from independence (that is to say, from a moderate estate). the beauchamp brethren, who are the fewer, incline to give themselves airs over the blanchminsters on the strength of this distinction: like dogberry, in their time they have "had losses." but merchester takes, perhaps, an equal pride in the pensioners of both orders. merchester takes an even fonder pride in st. hospital itself--that compact and exquisite group of buildings, for the most part norman, set in the water-meadows among the ambient streams of mere. it lies a mile or so southward of the town, and some distance below the school, where the valley widens between the chalk-hills and, inland yet, you feel a premonition that the sea is not far away. all visitors to merchester are directed towards st. hospital, and they dote over it--the american visitors especially; because nowhere in england can one find the middle ages more compendiously summarised or more charmingly illustrated. almost it might be a toy model of those times, with some of their quaintest customs kept going in smooth working order. but it is better. it is the real thing, genuinely surviving. no visitor ever finds disappointment in a pilgrimage to st. hospital: the inmates take care of that. the trustees, or governing body, are careful too. a few years ago, finding that his old lodgings in the quadrangle were too narrow for the master's comfort, they erected a fine new house for him, just without the precincts. but though separated from the hospital by a roadway, this new house comes into the picture from many points of view, and therefore not only did the architect receive instructions to harmonise it with the ancient buildings, but where he left off the trustees succeeded, planting wistarias, tall roses and selected ivies to run up the coigns and mullions. nay, it is told that to encourage the growth of moss they washed over a portion of the walls (the servants' quarters) with a weak solution of farmyard manure. these conscientious pains have their reward, for to-day, at a little distance, the master's house appears no less ancient than the rest of the mediaeval pile with which it composes so admirably. with the master himself we have made acquaintance. in the words of an american magazine, "the principal of this old-time foundation, master e. j. wriothesley (pronounced 'wrottesley') blanchminster, may be allowed to fill the bill. he is founder's kin, and just sweet." the master stepped forth from his rose-garlanded porch, crossed the road, and entered the modest archway which opens on the first, or outer, court. he walked habitually at a short trot, with his head and shoulders thrust a little forward and his hands clasped behind him. he never used a walking-stick. the outer court of st. hospital is plain and unpretending, with a brewhouse on one hand and on the other the large kitchen with its offices. between these the good master passed, and came to a second and handsomer gate, with a tower above it, and three canopied niches in the face of the tower, and in one of the niches--the others are empty--a kneeling figure of the great cardinal himself. the passageway through the tower is vaulted and richly groined, and in a little chamber beside it dwells the porter, a part of whose duty it is to distribute the wayfarers' dole--a horn of beer and a manchet of bread--to all who choose to ask for it. the master halted a moment to give the porter good evening. "and how many to-day, brother manby?" "thirty-three, master, including a party of twelve that came in motor-cars. i was jealous the cast wouldn't go round, for they all insisted on having the dole, and a full slice, too--the gentlemen declaring they were hungry after their drive. but," added brother manby, with a glance at a card affixed by the archway and announcing that tickets to view the hospital could be procured at sixpence a head, "they were most appreciative, i must say." the master smiled, nodded, and passed on. he gathered that someone had profited by something over and above the twelve sixpences. but how gracious, how serenely beautiful, how eloquent of peace and benediction, the scene that met him as he crossed the threshold of the great quadrangle! some thousands of times his eyes had rested on it, yet how could it ever stale? "_in the evening there shall be light_."--the sun, declining in a cloudless west behind the roof-ridge and tall chimneys of the brethren's houses, cast a shadow even to the sundial that stood for centre of the wide grass-plot. all else was softest gold--gold veiling the sky itself in a powdery haze; gold spread full along the front of the 'nunnery,' or row of upper chambers on the eastern line of the quadrangle, where the three nurses of st. hospital have their lodgings; shafts of gold penetrating the shaded ambulatory below; gold edging the western coigns of the norman chapel; gold rayed and slanting between boughs in the park beyond the railings to the south. only the western side of the quadrangle lay in shadow, and in the shadow, in twos and threes, beside their doors and tiny flower-plots (their pride), sat the brethren, with no anxieties, with no care but to watch the closing tranquil hour: some with their aged wives (for the hospital, as the church of england with her bishops, allows a brother to have one wife, but ignores her existence), some in monastic groups, withdrawn from hearing of women's gossip. the master chose the path that, circumventing the grass-plot, led him past these happy-looking groups and couples. to be sure, it was not his nearest way to the home-park, where he intended to think out his peroration; but he had plenty of time, and moreover he delighted to exchange courtesies with his charges. for each he had a greeting---"fine weather, fine weather, brother dasent! ah, this is the time to get rid of the rheumatics! eh, mrs. dasent? i haven't seen him looking so hale for months past." --"a beautiful evening, brother clerihew--yes, beautiful indeed. . . . you notice how the swallows are flying, both high and low, brother woolcombe? . . . yes, i think we are in for a spell of it." --"ah, good evening, mrs. royle! what wonderful ten-week stocks! i declare i cannot grow the like of them in my garden. and what a perfume! but it warns me that the dew is beginning to fall, and brother royle ought not to be sitting out late. we must run no risks, nurse, after his illness?" the master appealed to a comfortable-looking woman who, at his approach, had been engaged in earnest talk with mrs. royle--talk to which old brother royle appeared to listen placidly, seated in his chair. --and so on. he had a kindly word for all, and all answered his salutations respectfully; the women bobbing curtseys, the old men offering to rise from their chairs. but this he would by no means allow. his presence seemed to carry with it a fragrance of his own, as real as that of the mignonette and roses and sweet-williams amid which he left them embowered. when he had passed out of earshot, brother clerihew turned to brother woolcombe and said-"the silly old '--' is beginning to show his age, seemin' to me." "oughtn't to," answered brother woolcombe. "if ever a man had a soft job, it's him." "well, i reckon we don't want to lose him yet, anyhow--'specially if colt is to step into his old shoes." brother clerihew's reference was to the reverend rufus colt, chaplain of st. hospital. "they never would!" opined brother woolcombe, meaning by "they" the governing body of trustees. "oh, you never know--with a man on the make, like colt. push carries everything in these times." "colt's a hustler," brother woolcombe conceded. "but, damn it all, they _might_ give us a gentleman!" "there's not enough to go round, nowadays," grunted brother clerihew, who had been a butler, and knew. "master blanchminster's the real thing, of course . . ." he gazed after the retreating figure of the master. "seemed gay as a goldfinch, he did. d'ye reckon colt has told him about warboise?" "i wonder. where is warboise, by the way?" "down by the river, taking a walk to cool his head. ibbetson's wife gave him a dressing-down at tea-time for dragging ibbetson into the row. threatened to have her nails in his beard--i heard her. that woman's a terror. . . . all the same, one can't help sympathising with her. 'you can stick to your stinking protestantism,' she told him, 'if it amuses you to fight the chaplain. you're a widower, with nobody dependent. but don't you teach my husband to quarrel with his vittles.'" "all the same, when a man has convictions--" "convictions are well enough when you can afford 'em," brother clerihew grunted again. "but up against colt--what's the use? and where's his backing? ibbetson, with a wife hanging on to his coat-tails; and old bonaday, that wouldn't hurt a fly; and copas, standing off and sneering." "a man might have all the pains of golgotha upon him before ever _you_ turned a hair," grumbled brother dasent, a few yards away. he writhed in his chair, for the rheumatism was really troublesome; but he over-acted his suffering somewhat, having learnt in forty-five years of married life that his spouse was not over-ready with sympathy. "t'cht!" answered she. "i ought to know what they're like by this time, and i wonder, for my part, you don't try to get accustomed to 'em. dying one can understand: but to be worrited with a man's ailments, noon and night, it gets on the nerves. . . ." "you're _sure_?" resumed mrs. royle eagerly, but sinking her voice-for she could hardly wait until the master had passed out of earshot. "did you ever know me spread tales?" asked the comfortable-looking nurse. "only, mind you, i mentioned it in the strictest secrecy. this is such a scandalous hole, one can't be too careful. . . . but down by the river they were, consorting and god knows what else." "at his age, too! disgusting, i call it." "oh, _she's_ not particular! my comfort is i always suspected that woman from the first moment i set eyes on her. instinct, i s'pose. 'well, my lady,' says i, 'if you're any better than you should be, then i've lived all these years for nothing.'" "and him--that looked such a broken-down old innocent!" "they get taken that way sometimes, late in life." nurse turner sank her voice and said something salacious, which caused mrs. royle to draw a long breath and exclaim that she could never have credited such things--not in a christian land. her old husband, too, overheard it, and took snuff with a senile chuckle. "gad, that's spicy!" he crooned. the master, at the gateway leading to the home-park, turned for a look back on the quadrangle and the seated figures. yes, they made an exquisite picture. here- "here where the world is quiet"-here, indeed, his ancestor had built a haven of rest. "from too much love of living, from hope and fear set free, we thank with brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be that no life lives for ever; that dead men rise up never; that even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea." as the lines floated across his memory, the master had a mind to employ them in his peroration (giving them a christian trend, of course) in place of the sonnet he had meant to quote. this would involve reconstructing a longish paragraph; but they had touched his mood, and he spent some time pacing to and fro under the trees before his taste rejected them as facile and even cheap in comparison with wordsworth's- "men unto whom sufficient for the day, and minds not stinted or untill'd are given, --sound healthy children of the god of heaven- are cheerful as the rising sun in may." "yes, yes," murmured the master, "wordsworth's is the better. but what a gift, to be able to express a thought just _so_--with that freshness, that noble simplicity! and even with wordsworth it was fugitive, lost after four or five marvellous years. no one not being a greek has ever possessed it in permanence. . . ." here he paused at the sound of a footfall on the turf close behind him, and turned about with a slight frown; which readily yielded, however, and became a smile of courtesy. "ah, my dear colt! good evening!" "good evening, master." mr. colt came up deferentially, yet firmly, much as a nurse in a good family might collect a straying infant. he was a tall, noticeably well-grown man, a trifle above thirty, clean shaven, with a square and obstinate chin. he wore no hat, and his close black hair showed a straight middle parting above his low and somewhat protuberant forehead. the parting widened at the occiput to a well-kept tonsure. at the back the head wanted balance; and this lent a suggestion of brutality--of "thrust"--to his abounding appearance of strength. he walked in his priestly black with the gait and carriage proper to a heavy dragoon. "a fine evening, indeed. are you disengaged?" "certainly, certainly"--in comparison with mr. colt's grave voice the master's was almost a chirrup--"whether for business or for the pleasure of a talk. nothing wrong, i hope?" for a moment or two the chaplain did not answer. he seemed to be weighing his words. at length he said-"i should have reported at once, but have been thinking it over. at early celebration this morning warboise insulted the wafer." "dear, dear, you don't say so!" --"took it from me, held it derisively between finger and thumb, and muttered. i could not catch all that he said, but i distinctly heard the words 'biscuit' and 'antichrist.' indeed, he confesses to having used them. his demeanour left no doubt that he was insolent of set purpose. . . . i should add that ibbetson, who was kneeling next to him and must have overheard, walked back from the altar-rail straight out of chapel; but his wife assures me that this was purely a coincidence, and due to a sudden weakness of the stomach." "you have spoken to warboise?" "yes, and he is defiant. says that bread is bread, and--when i pressed him for a definition--asked (insolently again) if the trustees had authorised our substituting biscuit for bread in the wayfarers' dole. advised us to 'try it on' there, and look out for letters in the _merchester observer_. he even threatened--if you'll believe me--to write to the press himself. in short, he was beyond all self-control." "i was afraid," murmured the master, flushing a little in his distress, "you would not introduce this--er--primitive use--or, i should say, restore it--without trouble. brother warboise has strong protestant prejudices; passionate, even." "and ignorant." "oh, of course, of course! still--" "i suggest that, living as he does on the church's benefaction, eating the bread of her charity--" the chaplain paused, casting about for a third phrase to express brother warboise's poor dependence. the master smiled whimsically. "'the bread'--that's just it, he would tell you . . . and alberic de blanchminster, moreover, was a layman, not even in any of the minor orders; so that, strictly speaking--" "but he left his wealth expressly to be administered by the church. . . . will you forgive me, master, if i repeat very respectfully the suggestion i made at the beginning? if you could see your way to be celebrant at the early office, your mere presence would silence these mutineers. the brethren respect your authority without question, and, the ice once broken, they would come to heel as one man." the master shook his head tremulously, in too much of a flurry even to note the chaplain's derangement of metaphors. "you cannot guess how early rising upsets me. doctor ainsley, indeed, positively forbids it. . . . i can sympathise, you see, with ibbetson . . . and, for brother warboise, let us always remember that st. hospital was not made, and cannot be altered, in a day--even for the better. like england, it has been built by accretions, by traditions; yes, and by traditions that apparently conflict--by that of brother ingman, among others. . . . "we who love st. hospital," continued the master, still tremulously, "have, i doubt not, each his different sense of the _genius loci_. warboise finds it, we'll say, in the person of peter ingman, protestant and martyr. but i don't defend his behaviour. i will send for him to-morrow, and talk to him. i will talk to him very severely." chapter iii. brother copas hooks a fish. "well," said brother copas, "since the fish are not rising, let us talk. or rather, you can tell me all about it while i practise casting. . . . by what boat is she coming?" "by the _carnatic_, and due some time to-morrow. i saw it in the newspaper." "well?--" prompted brother copas, glancing back over his shoulder as brother bonaday came to a halt. the bent little man seemed to have lost the thread of his speech as he stood letting his gentle, tired eyes follow the flight of the swallows swooping and circling low along the river and over the meadow-grasses. "well?--" prompted brother copas again. "nurse branscome will go down to meet her." "and then?--" "i am hoping the master will let her have my spare room," said brother bonaday vaguely. here it should be explained that when the trustees erected a new house for the master his old lodgings in the quadrangle had been carved into sets of chambers for half a dozen additional brethren, and that one of these, differing only from the rest in that it contained a small spare room, had chanced to be allotted to brother bonaday. he had not applied for it, and it had grieved him to find his promotion resented by certain of the brethren, who let slip few occasions for envy. for the spare room had been quite useless to him until now. now he began to think it might be, after all, a special gift of providence. "you have spoken to the master?" asked brother copas. "no: that is to say, not yet." "what if he refuses?" "it will be very awkward. i shall hardly know what to do. . . . find her some lodging in the town, perhaps; there seems no other way." "you should have applied to the master at once." brother bonaday considered this, while his eyes wandered. "but why?" he asked. "the boat had sailed before the letter reached me. she was already on her way. yes or no, it could make no difference." "it makes this difference: suppose that the master refuses, you have lost four days in which you might have found her a suitable lodging. what's the child's name, by the by? "corona, it seems." "seems?" "she was born just after her mother left me and went to america, having a little money of her own saved out of our troubles." again brother copas, in the act of making a cast, glanced back over his shoulder, but brother bonaday's eyes were on the swallows. "in 1902 it was, the year of king edward's coronation: yes, that will be why my wife chose the name. . . . i suppose, as you say," brother bonaday went on after a pause, "i ought to have spoken to the master at once; but i put it off, the past being painful to me." "yet you told nurse branscome." "someone--some woman--had to be told. the child must be met, you see." "h'm. . . . well, i am glad, anyway, that you told me whilst there was yet a chance of my being useful; being, as you may or may not have observed, inclined to jealousy in matters of friendship." this time brother copas kept his face averted, and made a fresh cast across stream with more than ordinary care. the fly dropped close under the far bank, and by a bare six inches clear of a formidable alder. he jerked the rod backward, well pleased with his skill. "that was a pretty good one, eh?" but clever angling was thrown away upon brother bonaday, whom preoccupation with trouble had long ago made unobservant. brother copas reeled in a few feet of his line. "you'll bear in mind that, if the master should refuse and you're short of money for a good lodging, i have a pound or two laid by. we must do what we can for the child; coming, as she will, from the other side of the world." "that is kind of you, copas," said brother bonaday slowly, his eyes fixed now on the reel, the whirring click of which drew his attention, so that he seemed to address his speech to it. "it is very kind, and i thank you. but i hope the master will not refuse: though, to tell you the truth, there is another small difficulty which makes me shy of asking him a favour." "eh? what is it?" brother bonaday twisted his thin fingers together. "i--i had promised, before i got this letter, to stand by warboise. i feel rather strongly on these matters, you know--though, of course, not so strongly as he does--and i promised to support him. which makes it very awkward, you see, to go and ask a favour of the master just when you are (so to say) defying his authority. . . . while if i hide it from him, and he grants the favour, and then next day or the day after i declare for warboise, it will look like treachery, eh?" "damn!" said brother copas, still winding in his line meditatively. "there is no such casuist as poverty. and only this morning i was promising myself much disinterested sport in the quarrelling of you christian brethren. . . . but isn't that warboise coming along the path? . . . yes, the very man! well, we must try what's to be done." "but i have given him my word, remember." brother copas, if he heard, gave no sign of hearing. he had turned to hail brother warboise, who came along the river path with eyes fastened on the ground, and staff viciously prodding in time with his steps. "hallo, warboise! halt, and give the countersign!" brother warboise halted, taken at unawares, and eyed the two doubtfully from under his bushy grey eyebrows. they were beauchamp both, he blanchminster. he wore the black cloak of blanchminster, with the silver cross _patte_ at the breast, and looked--so copas murmured to himself--"like caiaphas in a miracle play." his mouth was square and firm, his grey beard straightly cut. he had been a stationer in a small way, and had come to grief by vending only those newspapers of which he could approve the religious tendency. "the countersign?" he echoed slowly and doubtfully. he seldom understood brother copas, but by habit suspected him of levity. "to be sure, among three good protestants! '_bloody end to the pope!_' is it not?" "you are mocking me," snarled brother warboise, and with that struck the point of his staff passionately upon the pathway. "you are a gallio, and always will be: you care nothing for what is heaven and earth to us others. but you have no right to infect bonaday, here, with your poison. he has promised me." brother warboise faced upon brother bonaday sternly, "you promised me, you know you did." "to be sure he promised you," put in brother copas. "he has just been telling me." "and i am going to hold him to it! these are not times for falterers, halters between two opinions. if england is to be saved from coming a second time under the yoke of papacy, men will have to come out in their true colours. he that is not for us is against us." brother copas reeled in a fathom of line with a contemplative, judicial air. "upon my word, warboise, i'm inclined to agree with you. i don't pretend to share your protestant fervour: but hang it! i'm an englishman with a sense of history, and that is what no single one among your present-day high anglicans would appear to possess. if a man wants to understand england he has to start with one or two simple propositions, of which the first--or about the first--is that england once had a reformation, and is not going to forget it. but that is just what these fellows would make-believe to ignore. a fool like colt--for at bottom, between ourselves, colt is a fool-says 'reformation? there was no such thing: we don't acknowledge it.' as the american said of some divine who didn't believe in eternal punishment, 'by gosh, he'd better not!'" "but england _is_ forgetting it!" insisted brother warboise. "look at the streams of papist monks she has allowed to pour in ever since france took a strong line with her monastic orders. look at those fellows--college of st. john lateran, as they call themselves--who took lodgings only at the far end of this village. in the inside of six months they had made friends with everybody." "they employ local tradesmen, and are particular in paying their debts, i'm told." "oh," said brother warboise, "they're cunning!" brother copas gazed at him admiringly, and shot a glance at brother bonaday. but brother bonaday's eyes had wandered off again to the skimming swallows. "confessed romans and their ways," said brother warboise, "one is prepared for, but not for these wolves in sheep's clothing. why, only last sunday-week you must have heard colt openly preaching the confessional!" "i slept," said brother copas. "but i will take your word for it." "he did, i assure you; and what's more--you may know it or not--royle and biscoe confess to him regularly." "they probably tell him nothing worse than their suspicions of you and me. colt is a vain person walking in a vain show." "you don't realise the hold they are getting. look at the money they squeeze out of the public; the churches they restore, and the new ones they build. and among these younger anglicans, i tell you, colt is a force." "my good warboise, you have described him exactly. he is a force-and nothing else. he will bully and beat you down to get his way, but in the end you can always have the consolation of presenting him with the shadow, which he will unerringly mistake for the substance. i grant you that to be bullied and beaten down is damnably unpleasant discipline, even when set off against the pleasure of fooling such a fellow as colt. but when a man has to desist from pursuit of pleasure he develops a fine taste for consolations: and this is going to be mine for turning protestant and backing you in this business." "_you?_" "your accent is so little flattering, warboise, that i hardly dare to add the condition. yet i will. if i stand in with you in resisting colt, you must release bonaday here. henceforth he's out of the quarrel." "but i do not understand." brother warboise regarded brother copas from under his stiff grey eyebrows. "why should bonaday back out?" "that is his affair," answered brother copas smoothly, almost before brother bonaday was aware of being appealed to. "but--you don't mind my saying it--i've never considered you as a protestant, quite; not, at least, as an earnest one." "that," said brother copas, "i may be glad to remember, later on. but come; i offer you a bargain. strike off bonaday and enlist me. a volunteer is proverbially worth two pressed men; and as a protestant i promise you to shine. if you must have my reason, or reasons, say that i am playing for safety." here brother copas laid down his rod on the grassy bank and felt for his snuff-box. as he helped himself to a pinch he slyly regarded the faces of his companions; and his own, contracting its muscles to take the dose, seemed to twist itself in a sardonic smile. "unlike colt," he explained, "i read history sometimes, and observe its omens. you say that our clergy are active just now in building and restoring churches. has it occurred to you that they were never so phenomenally active in building and rebuilding as on the very eve of the reformation crash? ask and inquire, my friend, what proportion of our english churches are perpendicular; get from any handbook the date of that style of architecture; and apply the omen if you will." "that sounds reassuring," said brother warboise. "and so you really think we protestants are going to win?" "god forbid! what i say is, that the high anglicans will probably lose." "one never knows when you are joking or when serious." brother warboise, leaning on his staff, pondered brother copas's face. it was a fine face; it even resembled the conventional portrait of dante, but--i am asking the reader to tax his imagination--with humorous wrinkles set about the eyes, their high austerity clean taken away and replaced by a look of very mundane shrewdness, and lastly a grosser chin and mouth with a touch of the laughing faun in their folds and corners. "you are concealing your real reasons," said brother warboise. "that," answered brother copas, "has been defined for the true function of speech. . . . but i am quite serious this time, and i ask you again to let brother bonaday off and take me on. you will find it worth while." brother warboise could not see for the life of him why, at a time when it behoved all defenders of the reformed religion to stand shoulder to shoulder, brother bonaday should want to be let off. "no?" said brother copas, picking up his rod again. "well, those are my terms . . . and, excuse me, but was not that a fish over yonder? they are beginning to rise. . . ." brother warboise muttered that he would think it over, and resumed his walk. "he'll agree, safe enough. and now, no more talking!" but after a cast or two brother copas broke his own injunction. "a protestant! . . . i'm doing a lot for you, friend. but you must go to the master this very evening. no time to be lost, i tell you! why, if he consent, there are a score of small things to be bought to make the place fit for a small child. get out pencil and paper and make a list. . . . well, where do we begin?" "i--i'm sure i don't know," confessed brother bonaday helplessly. "i never, so to speak, had a child before, you see." "nor i . . . but damn it, man, let's do our best and take things in order! when she arrives--let me see--the first thing is, she'll be hungry. that necessitates a small knife and fork. knife, fork and spoon; regular godfather's gift. you must let me stand godfather and supply 'em. you don't happen to know if she's been christened, by the way?" "no--o. i suppose they look after these things in america?" "probably--after a fashion," said brother copas with a fine smile. "heavens! if as a protestant i am to fight the first round over infant baptism--" "there _is_ a font in the chapel." "yes. i have often wondered why." brother copas appeared to meditate this as he slowly drew back his rod and made a fresh cast. again the fly dropped short of the alder stump by a few inches, and fell delicately on the dark water below it. there was a splash--a soft gurgling sound dear to the angler's heart. brother copas's rod bent and relaxed to the brisk whirr of its reel as a trout took fly and hook and sucked them under. then followed fifteen minutes of glorious life. even brother bonaday's slow blood caught the pulse of it. he watched, not daring to utter a sound, his limbs twitching nervously. but when the fish--in weight well over a pound--had been landed and lay, twitching too, in the grasses by the mere bank, brother copas, after eyeing it a moment with legitimate pride, slowly wound up his reel. "and i am to be a protestant! . . . saint peter--king fisherman-forgive me!" chapter iv. corona comes. when nurse branscome reached the docks and inquired at what hour the _carnatic_ might be expected, the gatekeeper pointed across a maze of dock-basins, wharves, tramway-lines, to a far quay where the great steamship lay already berthed. "she've broken her record by five hours and some minutes," he explained. "see that train just pulling out of the station? that carries her mails." nurse branscome--a practical little woman with shrewd grey eyes-neither fussed over the news nor showed any sign of that haste which is ill speed. scanning the distant vessel, she begged to be told the shortest way alongside, and noted the gatekeeper's instructions very deliberately, nodding her head. they were intricate. at the close she thanked him and started, still without appearance of hurry, and reached the _carnatic_ without a mistake. she arrived, too, a picture of coolness, though the docks lay shadeless to the afternoon sun, and the many tramway-lines radiated a heat almost insufferable. the same quiet air of composure carried her unchallenged up a gangway and into the great ship. a gold-braided junior officer, on duty at the gangway-head, asked politely if he could be of service to her. she answered that she had come to seek a steerage passenger--a little girl named bonaday. "ach!" said a voice close at her elbow, "that will be our liddle korona!" nurse branscome turned. the voice belonged to a blond, middle-aged german, whose gaze behind his immense spectacles was of the friendliest. "yes--corona: that is her name." "so!" said the middle-aged german. "she is with my wive at this moment. if i may ascort you? . . . we will not then drouble mister smid' who is so busy." he led the way forward. once he turned, and in the faint light between-decks his spectacles shone palely, like twin moons. "i am habby you are come," he said. "my wive will be habby. . . . i told her a dozzen times it will be ol' right--the ship has arrived before she is agspected. . . . but our liddle korona is so agscited, so imbatient for her well-beloved england." he pronounced "england" as we write it. "so!" he proclaimed, halting before a door and throwing it open. within, on a cheap wooden travelling-trunk, sat a stout woman and a child. the child wore black weeds, and had--as nurse branscome noted at first glance--remarkably beautiful eyes. her right hand lay imprisoned between the two palms of the stout woman, who, looking up, continued to pat the back of it softly. "a friendt--for our mees korona!" "whad did i not tell you?" said the stout woman to the child, cooing the words exultantly, as she arose to meet the visitor. the two women looked in each other's eyes, and each divined that the other was good. "good afternoon," said nurse branscome. "i am sorry to be late." "but it is we who are early. . . . we tell the liddle one she must have bribed the cabdain, she was so craved to arr-rive!" "are you related to her?" "ach, no," chimed in husband and wife together as soon as they understood. "but friendts--friendts, korona--_hein?_" the husband explained that they had made the child's acquaintance on the first day out from new york, and had taken to her at once, seeing her so forlorn. he was a baker by trade, and by name muller; and he and his wife, after doing pretty well in philadelphia, were returning home to bremen, where his brother (also a baker) had opened a prosperous business and offered him a partnership. --"which he can well afford," commented frau muller. "for my husband is beyond combetition as a master-baker; and at the end all will go to his brother's two sons. . . . we have not been gifen children of our own." "yet home is home," added her husband, with an expansive smile, "though it be not the vaterland, mees korona--_hein?_" he eyed the child quizzically, and turned to nurse branscome. "she is badriotic so as you would nevar think- "'brit-ons nevar, nevar, nev-ar-will be slavs!'" he intoned it ludicrously, casting out both hands and snapping his fingers to the tune. the child corona looked past him with a gaze that put aside these foolish antics, and fastened itself on nurse branscome. "i think i shall like you," she said composedly and with the clearest english accent. "but i do not quite know who you are. are you fetching me to daddy?" "yes," said nurse branscome, and nodded. she seldom or never wasted words. nods made up a good part of her conversation always. corona stood up, by this action conveying to the grown-ups--for she, too, economised speech--that she was ready to go, and at once. youth is selfish, even in the sweetest-born of natures. baker muller and his good wife looked at her wistfully. she had come into their childless life, and had taken unconscious hold on it, scarce six days ago--the inside of a week. they looked at her wistfully. her eyes were on nurse branscome, who stood for the future. yet she remembered that they had been kind. herr muller, kind to the last, ran off and routed up a seaman to carry her box to the gangway. there, while bargaining with a porter, nurse branscome had time to observe with what natural good manners the child suffered herself to be folded in frau muller's ample embrace, and how prettily she shook hands with the good baker. she turned about, even once or twice, to wave her farewells. "but she is naturally reserved," nurse branscome decided. "well, she'll be none the worse for that." she had hardly formed this judgment when corona went a straight way to upset it. a tuft of groundsel had rooted itself close beside the traction rails a few paces from the waterside. with a little cry-almost a sob--the child swooped upon the weed, and plucking it, pressed it to her lips. "i promised to kiss the first living thing i met in england," she explained. "then you might have begun with me," said nurse branscome, laughing. "oh, that's good--i like you to laugh! this is real england, merry england, and i used to 'spect it was so good that folks went about laughing all the time, just because they lived in it." "look here, my dear, you mustn't build your expectations too high. if you do, we shall all disappoint you; which means that you will suffer." "but that was a long time ago. i've grown since. . . . and i didn't kiss you at first because it makes me feel uncomfortable kissing folks out loud. but i'll kiss you in the cars when we get to them." but by and by, when they found themselves seated alone in a third-class compartment, she forgot her promise, being lost in wonder at this funny mode of travelling. she examined the parcels' rack overhead. "'_for light articles only_,'" she read out. "but-but how do we manage when it's bedtime?" "bless the child, we don't sleep in the train! why, in little over an hour we shall be at merchester, and that's home." "home!" corona caught at the word and repeated it with a shiver of excitement. "home--in an hour?" it was not that she distrusted; it was only that she could not focus her mind down to so small a distance. "and now," said nurse branscome cheerfully, as they settled themselves down, "are you going to tell me about your passage, or am i to tell you about your father and the sort of place st. hospital is? or would you," added this wise woman, "just like to sit still and look out of window and take it all in for a while?" "thank you," answered corona, "that's what i want, ezactly." she nestled into her corner as the train drew forth beyond the purlieus and dingy suburbs of the great seaport and out into the country--our south country, all green and glorious with summer. can this world show the like of it, for comfort of eye and heart? her eyes drank, devoured it.--cattle knee-deep in green pasture, belly-deep in green water-flags by standing pools; cattle resting their long flanks while they chewed the cud; cattle whisking their tails amid the meadow-sweet, under hedges sprawled over with wild rose and honeysuckle.--white flocks in the lengthening shade of elms; wood and copse; silver river and canal glancing between alders, hawthorns, pollard willows; lichened bridges of flint and brick; ancient cottages, thatched or red-tiled, timber-fronted, bulging out in friendliest fashion on the high road; the high road looping its way from village to village, still between hedges. corona had never before set eyes on a real hedge in the course of her young life; but all this country--right away to the rounded chalk hills over which the heat shimmered--was parcelled out by hedges--hedges by the hundred--and such hedges! "it's--it's like a garden," she stammered, turning around and meeting a question in nurse branscome's eyes. "it's all so lovely and tiny and bandboxy. however do they find the time for it?" "eh, it takes time," said nurse branscome, amused. "you'll find that's the main secret with us over here. but--disappointed, are you?" "oh, no--no--no!" the child assured her. "it's ten times lovelier than ever i 'spected--only," she added, cuddling down for another long gaze, "it's different--different in size." "england's a little place," said nurse branscome. "in the colonies-i won't say anything about the states, for i've never seen them; but i've been to australia in my time, and i expect with canada it's much the same or more so--in the colonies everything's spread out; but home here, i heard brother copas say, if you want to feel how great anything is, you have to take it deep-ways, layer below layer." corona knit her small brow. "but windsor castle is a mighty big place?" she said hopefully. "oh, yes!" "well, i'm glad of that anyway." "but why, dear?" "because," said corona, "that is where the king lives. i used to call him _my_ king over on the other side, because my name is corona, and means i was born the year he was crowned. they make out they don't hold much stock in kings, back there; but that sort of talk didn't take me in, because when you _have_ a king of your own you know what it feels like. and, anyway, they had to allow that king edward is a mighty big one, and that he is always making peace for all the world. . . . so now you know why i'm glad about windsor castle." "i'm afraid it is not quite clear to me yet," said nurse branscome, leading her on. "i can't 'splain very well."--the child could never quite compass the sound "ex" in words where a consonant followed.--"i'm no good at 'splaining. but i guess if the job was up to you to make peace for all-over-the-world, you'd want to sit in a big place, sort of empty an' quiet, an' feel like god." corona gazed out of window again. "you can tell he's been at it, too, hereabouts; but somehow i didn't 'spect it to be all lying about in little bits." they alighted from the idling train at a small country station embowered in roses, the next on this side of merchester and but a short three-quarters of a mile from st. hospital, towards which they set out on foot by a meadow-path and over sundry stiles, a porter following (or rather making a _detour_ after them along the high road) and wheeling corona's effects on a barrow. from the first stile nurse branscome pointed out the grey norman buildings, the chapel tower, the clustering trees; and supported corona with a hand under her elbow as, perched on an upper bar with her knees against the top rail, she drank in her first view of home. her first comment--it shaped itself into a question, or rather into two questions--gave nurse branscome a shock: it was so infantile in comparison with her talk in the train. "does daddy live there? and is he so very old, then?" then nurse branscome bethought her that this mite had never yet seen her father, and that he was not only an aged man but a broken-down one, and in appearance (as they say) older than his years. a great pity seized her for corona, and in the rush of pity all her oddities and grown-up tricks of speech (americanisms apart) explained themselves. she was an old father's child. nurse branscome was midwife enough to know what freakishness and frailty belong to children begotten by old age. yet corona, albeit gaunt with growing, was lithe and well-formed, and of a healthy complexion and a clear, though it inclined to pallor. "your father is not a young man," she said gently. "you must be prepared for that, dear. . . . and of course his dress--the dress of the beauchamp brethren--makes him look even older than he is." "what is it?" asked corona, turning about as well as she could on the stile and putting the direct question with direct eyes. "it's a long gown, a gown of reddish-purple, with a silver rose at the breast." "save us!" exclaimed this unaccountable child. "'seems i'd better start right in by asking what news of the crusades." in the spare room pertaining to brother bonaday he and brother copas were (as the latter put it) making very bad weather with their preparations. they supposed themselves, however, to have plenty of time, little guessing that the captain of the _carnatic_ had been breaking records. in st. hospital one soon learns to neglect mankind's infatuation for mere speed; and yet, strange to say, brother copas was discoursing on this very subject. he had produced certain purchases from his wallet, and disposed them on the chest of drawers which was to serve corona for dressing-table. they included a cheap mirror, and here he felt himself on safe ground; but certain others--such as a gaudily-dressed doll, priced at 1s. 3d., a packet of hairpins, a book of coloured photographs, entitled _souvenir of royal merchester_--he eyed more dubiously. he had found it hard to bear in mind the child's exact age. "but she was born in coronation year. i have told you that over and over," brother bonaday would protest. "my dear fellow, i know you have; but the devil is, that means something different every time." --"the purpose of all right motion," brother copas was saying, "is to get back to the point from which you started. take the sun itself, or any created mass; take the smallest molecule in that mass; take the world whichever way you will--" 'behold the world, how it is whirled round! and, for it so is whirl'd, is named so.' "(there's pretty etymology for you!) all movement in a straight line is eccentric, lawless, or would be were it possible, which i doubt. why this haste, then, in passing given points? if man did it in a noble pride, as a _tour de force_, to prove himself so much the cleverer than the brute creation, i could understand it; but if that's his game, a speck of radium beats him in a common canter. i read in a scientific paper last week, in a signed article which bore every impress of truth, that there's a high explosive that will run a spark from here to paris while you are pronouncing its name. yet extend that run, and run it far and fast as you will, it can only come back to your hand. . . . which," continued brother copas, raising his voice, for brother bonaday had toddled into the sitting-room to see if the kettle boiled, "reminds me of a story i picked up in the liberal club the other day, the truth of it guaranteed. ten or eleven years ago the mayor of merchester died on the very eve of st. giles's fair. the town council met, and some were for stopping the shows and steam roundabouts as a mark of respect, while others doubted that the masses (among whom the mayor had not been popular) would resent this curtailing of their fun. in the end a compromise was reached. the proprietor of the roundabouts was sent for, and the show-ground granted to him, on condition that he made his steam-organ play hymn tunes. he accepted, and that week the merrymakers revolved to the strains of 'nearer, my god, to thee.' it sounds absurd; but when you come to reflect--" brother copas broke off, hearing a slight commotion in the next room. brother bonaday, kneeling and puffing at the fire which refused to boil the water, had been startled by voices in the entry. looking up, flushed of face, he beheld a child on the threshold, with nurse branscome standing behind her. "daddy!" brother copas from one doorway, nurse branscome from the other, saw brother bonaday's face twitch as with a pang of terror. he arose slowly from his knees, and very slowly--as if his will struggled against some invisible, detaining force--held out both hands. corona ran to them; but, grasped by them, drew back for a moment, scanning him before she suffered herself to be kissed. "my, what a dear old dress! . . . daddy, you _are_ a dude!" chapter v. brother copas on religious difference. "ah, good evening, mr. simeon!" in the british isles--search them all over--you will discover no more agreeable institution of its kind than the venables free library, merchester; which, by the way, you are on no account to confuse with the free public library attached to the shire hall. in the latter you may study the newspapers with all the latest financial, police and betting news, or borrow all the newest novels--even this novel which i am writing, should the library sub-committee of the town council (an austerely moral body) allow it to pass. in the venables library the books are mostly mellowed by age, even when naughtiest (it contains a whole roomful of restoration plays, an unmatched collection), and no newspapers are admitted, unless you count the monthly and quarterly reviews, of which _the hibbert journal_ is the newest-fangled. by consequence the venables library, though open to all men without payment, has few frequenters; "which," says brother copas, "is just as it should be." but not even public neglect will account for the peculiar charm of the venables library. that comes of the building it inhabits: anciently a town house of the marquesses of merchester, abandoned at the close of the great civil war, and by them never again inhabited, but maintained with all its old furniture, and from time to time patched up against age and weather--happily not restored. when, early in the last century, the seventh marquess of merchester very handsomely made it over to a body of trustees, to house a collection of books bequeathed to the public by old dean venables, merchester's most scholarly historian, it was with a stipulation that the amenities of the house should be as little as possible disturbed. the beds, to be sure, were removed from the upper rooms, and the old carpets from the staircase; and the walls, upstairs and down, lined with bookcases. but a great deal of the old furniture remains; and, wandering at will from one room to another, you look forth through latticed panes upon a garth fenced off from the street with railings of twisted iron-work and overspread by a gigantic mulberry-tree, the boughs of which in summer, if you are wise enough to choose a window-seat, will filter the sunlight upon your open book, annihilating all that's made to a green thought in a green shade. lastly, in certain of the rooms smoking is permitted; some bygone trustee--may earth lie lightly on him!--having discovered and taught that of all things a book is about the most difficult to burn. you may smoke in 'paradise,' for instance. by this name, for what reason i cannot tell, is known the room containing the greek and latin classics. brother copas, entering paradise with a volume under his arm, found mr. simeon seated there alone with a manuscript and a greek lexicon before him, and gave him good evening. "good evening, brother copas! . . . you have been a stranger to us for some weeks, unless i mistake?" "you are right. these have been stirring times in politics, and for the last five or six weeks i have been helping to save my country, at the liberal club." mr. simeon--a devoted conservative--came as near to frowning as his gentle nature would permit. "you disapprove, of course," continued brother copas easily. "well, so--in a sense--do i. we beat you at the polls; not in merchester--we shall never carry merchester--though even in merchester we put up fight enough to rattle you into a blue funk. but god help the pair of us, mr. simeon, if our principles are to be judged by the uses other men make of 'em! i have had enough of my fellow-liberals to last me for some time. . . . why are you studying liddell and scott, by the way?" "to tell the truth," mr. simeon confessed, "this is my fair copy of the master's gaudy sermon. i am running it through and correcting the greek accents. i am always shaky at accents." "why not let me help you?" brother copas suggested. "upon my word, you may trust me. i am, as nearly as possible, impeccable with greek accents, and may surely say so without vanity, since the gift is as useless as any other of mine." mr. simeon, as we know, was well aware of this. "i should be most grateful," he confessed, in some compunction. "but i am not sure that the master--if you will excuse me--would care to have his sermon overlooked. strictly speaking, indeed, i ought not to have brought it from home: but with six children in a very small house--and on a warm evening like this, you understand--" "i once kept a private school," said brother copas. "they are high-spirited children, i thank god." mr. simeon sighed. "moreover, as it happened, they wanted my liddell and scott to play at forts with." "trust me, my dear sir. i will confine myself to the master's marginalia without spying upon the text." brother copas, as mr. simeon yielded to his gentle insistence, laid his own book on the table, and seated himself before the manuscript, which he ran through at great speed. "h'm--h'm . . . psyche here is _oxyton_--here and always . . . and anoetos proparoxyton: you have left it unaccented." "i was waiting to look it up, having some idea that it held a contraction." brother copas dipped pen and inserted the accent without comment. "i see nothing else amiss," he said, rising. "it is exceedingly kind of you." "well, as a matter of fact it is; for i came here expressly to cultivate a bad temper, and you have helped to confirm me in a good one. . . . oh, i know what you would say if your politeness allowed: 'why, if bad temper's my object, did i leave the liberal club and come here?' because, my dear sir, at the club--though there's plenty--it's of the wrong sort. i wanted a _religiously_ bad temper, and an intelligent one to boot." "i don't see what religion and bad temper have to do with one another," confessed mr. simeon. "that is because you are a good man, and therefore your religion doesn't matter to you." "but really," mr. simeon protested, flushing; "though one doesn't willingly talk of these inmost things, you must allow me to say that my religion is everything to me." "you say that, and believe it. religion, you believe, colours all your life, suffuses it with goodness as with a radiance. but actually, my friend, it is your own good heart that colours and throws its radiance into your religion." 'o lady, we receive but what we give, and in our life alone does nature live'-"--or religion either. . . . pardon me, but a thoroughly virtuous or a thoroughly amiable man is not worth twopence as a touchstone for a creed; he would convert even mormonism to a thing of beauty. . . . whereas the real test of any religion is--as i saw it excellently well put the other day--'not what form it takes in a virtuous mind, but what effects it produces on those of another sort.' well, i have been studying those effects pretty well all my life, and they may be summed up, roughly but with fair accuracy, as bad temper." "good men or bad," persisted mr. simeon, "what _can_ the christian religion do but make them both better?" "_which_ christian religion? catholic or protestant? anglican or nonconformist? . . . i won't ask you to give away your own side. so we'll take the protestant nonconformists. there are a good many down at the club: you heard some of the things they said and printed during the election; and while your charity won't deny that they are religious--some of 'em passionately religious--you will make haste to concede that their religion and their bad temper were pretty well inseparable. they would say pretty much the same of you anglo-catholics." "you will not pretend that we show bad temper in anything like the same degree." "why should you? . . . i don't know that, as a fact, there is much to choose between you; but at any rate the worse temper belongs very properly to the under dog. your protestant is the under dog in england to-day; socially, if not politically. . . . yes, and politically, too; for he may send what majority he will to the house of commons pledged to amend the education act of 1902: he does it in vain. the house of lords--which is really not a political but a social body, the citadel of a class--will confound his politics, frustrate his knavish tricks. can you wonder that he loses his temper, sometimes inelegantly? and when the rich nonconformist tires of striving against all the odds--when he sets up his carriage and his wife and daughters find that it won't carry them where they had hoped--when he surrenders to their persuasions and goes over to the enemy--why, then, can you wonder that his betrayed coreligionists roar all like bears or foam like dogs and run about the city? . . . i tell you, my dear mr. simeon, this england of ours stands in real peril to-day of merging its class warfare in religious differences." "you mean it, of course, the other way about--of merging our religion in class warfare." "i mean it as i said it. class warfare is among englishmen a quite normal, healthy function of the body politic: it keeps the blood circulating. it is when you start infecting it with religion the trouble begins. . . . we are a sane people, however, on the whole; and every sane person is better than his religion." "how can you say such a thing?" "how can you gainsay it--nay, or begin to doubt it--if only you will be honest with yourself? consider how many abominable things religion has taught, and man, by the natural goodness of his heart, has outgrown. do you believe, for example, that an unchristened infant goes wailing forth from the threshold of life into an eternity of punishment? look me in the face, you father of six! no, of course you don't believe it. nobody does. and the difference is not that religion has ceased to teach it--for it hasn't--but that men have grown decent and put it, with like doctrines, silently aside in disgust. so it has happened to satan and his fork: they have become 'old hat.' so it will happen to all the old machinery of hell: the operating decency of human nature will grow ashamed of it--that is all . . . why, if you look into men's ordinary daily conduct--which is the only true test--they _never_ believed in such things. do you suppose that the most frantic scotch calvinist, when he was his douce daily self and not temporarily intoxicated by his creed, ever treated his neighbours in practice as men predestined to damnation? of course he didn't!" "but religion," objected mr. simeon, "lifts a man out of himself--his daily self, as you call it." "it does that, by jove!" brother copas felt for his snuff-box. "why, what else was i arguing?" "and," pursued mr. simeon, his voice gaining assurance as it happened on a form of words he had learnt from somebody else, "the efficacy of religion is surely just here, that it lifts the individual man out of his personality and wings him towards abba, the all-fatherly--as i heard it said the other day," he added lamely. "good lord!"--brother copas eyed him over a pinch. "you must have been keeping pretty bad company, lately. who is it? . . . that sounds a trifle too florid even for colt--the sort of thing colt would achieve if he could . . . upon my word, i believe you must have been sitting under tarbolt!" mr. simeon blushed guiltily to the eyes. but it was ever the mischief with brother copas's worldly scent that he overran it on the stronger scent of an argument. "but it's precisely a working daily religion, a religion that belongs to a man when he _is_ himself, that i'm after," he ran on. "you fellows hold that a sound religious life will ensure you an eternity of bliss at the end. very well. you fellows know that the years of a man's life are, roughly, threescore and ten. (actually it works out far below that figure, but i make you a present of the difference.) very well again. i take any average christian aged forty-five, and what sort of premium do i observe him paying--i won't say on a policy of eternal bliss--but on any policy a business-like insurance company would grant for three hundred pounds? there _is_ the difference too," added brother copas, "that _he_ gets the eternal bliss, while the three hundred pounds goes to his widow." brother copas took a second pinch, his eyes on mr. simeon's face. he could not guess the secret of the pang that passed over it--that in naming three hundred pounds he had happened on the precise sum in which mr. simeon was insured, and that trouble enough the poor man had to find the yearly premium, due now in a fortnight's time. but he saw that somehow he had given pain, and dexterously slid off the subject, yet without appearing to change it. "for my part," he went on, "i know a method by which, if made archbishop of canterbury and allowed a strong hand, i would undertake to bring, within ten years, every dissenter in england within the church's fold." "what would you do?" "i would lay, in one pastoral of a dozen sentences, the strictest orders on my clergy to desist from all politics, all fighting; to disdain any cry, any struggle; to accept from dissent any rebuff, persecution, spoliation--while steadily ignoring it. in every parish my church's attitude should be this: 'you may deny me, hate me, persecute me, strip me: but you are a christian of this parish and therefore my parishioner; and therefore i absolutely defy you to escape my forgiveness or my love. though you flee to the uttermost parts of the earth, you shall not escape these: by these, as surely as i am the church, you shall be mine in the end.' . . . and do you think, mr. simeon, any man in england could for ever resist that appeal? a few of us agnostics, perhaps. but we are human souls, after all; and no one is an agnostic for the fun of it. we should be tempted--sorely tempted--i don't say rightly." mr. simeon's eyes shone. the picture touched him. "but it would mean that the church must compromise," he murmured. "that is precisely what it would not mean. it would mean that all her adversaries must compromise; and with love there is only one compromise, which is surrender. . . . but," continued brother copas, resuming his lighter tone, "this presupposes not only a sensible archbishop but a church not given up to anarchy as the church of england is. let us therefore leave speculating and follow our noses; which with me, mr. simeon--and confound you for a pleasant companion!--means an instant necessity to cultivate bad temper." he picked up his volume from the table and walked off with it to the window-seat. "you are learning bad temper from a book?" asked mr. simeon, taking off his spectacles and following brother copas with mild eyes of wonder. "certainly. . . . if ever fortune, my good sir, should bring you (which god forbid!) to end your days in our college of noble poverty, you will understand the counsel given by the pilot to pantagruel and his fellow-voyagers--that considering the gentleness of the breeze and the calm of the current, as also that they stood neither in hope of much good nor in fear of much harm, he advised them to let the ship drive, nor busy themselves with anything but making good cheer. i have done with all worldly fear and ambition; and therefore in working up a hearty protestant rage (to which a hasty promise commits me), i can only tackle my passion on the intellectual side. those fellows down at the club are no help to me at all. . . . my book? it is the last volume of mr. froude's famous _history of england_. here's a passage now- "'the method of episcopal appointments, instituted by henry viii, as a temporary expedient, and abolished under edward as an unreality, was re-established by elizabeth, not certainly because she believed that the invocation of the holy ghost was required for the completeness of an election which her own choice had already determined, not because the bishops obtained any gifts or graces in their consecration which she herself respected, but because the shadowy form of an election, with a religious ceremony following it, gave them the semblance of spiritual independence, the semblance without the substance, which qualified them to be the instruments of the system which she desired to enforce. they were tempted to presume on their phantom dignity, till a sword of a second cromwell taught them the true value of their apostolic descent. . . . "that's pretty well calculated to annoy, eh? also, by the way, in its careless rapture it twice misrelates the relative pronoun; and froude was a master of style. or what do you say to this?- "'but neither elizabeth nor later politicians of elizabeth's temperament desired the church of england to become too genuine. it has been more convenient to leave an element of unsoundness at the heart of an institution which, if sincere, might be dangerously powerful. the wisest and best of its bishops have found their influence impaired, their position made equivocal, by the element of unreality which adheres to them. a feeling approaching to contempt has blended with the reverence attaching to their position, and has prevented them from carrying the weight in the councils of the nation which has been commanded by men of no greater intrinsic eminence in other professions.' "yet another faulty relative! "'pretensions which many of them would have gladly abandoned have connected their office with a smile. the nature of it has for the most part filled the sees with men of second-rate abilities. the latest and most singular theory about them is that of the modern english neo-catholic, who disregards his bishop's advice, and despises his censures; but looks on him nevertheless as some high-bred, worn-out animal, useless in himself, but infinitely valuable for some mysterious purpose of spiritual propagation.'" brother copas laid the open volume face-downward on his knee--a trivial action in itself; but he had a conscience about books, and would never have done this to a book he respected. "has it struck you, mr. simeon," he asked, "that froude is so diabolically effective just because in every fibre of him he is at one with the thing he attacks?" "he had been a convert of the tractarians in his young days, i have heard," said mr. simeon. "yes, it accounts for much in him. yet i was not thinking of that-which was an experience only, though significant. the man's whole cast of mind is priestly despite himself. he has all the priesthood's alleged tricks: you can never be sure that he is not faking evidence or garbling a quotation. . . . my dear mr. simeon, truly it behoves us to love our enemies, since in this world they are often the nearest we have to us." chapter vi. gaudy day. in the sunshine, on a lower step of the stone stairway that leads up and through the shadow of a vaulted porch to the hundred men's hall, or refectory, brother biscoe stood with a hand-bell and rang to dinner. brother biscoe was a charming old man to look upon; very frail and venerable, with a somewhat weak face; and as senior pensioner of the hospital he enjoyed the privilege of ringing to dinner on gaudy days--twenty-seven strokes, distinct and separately counted--one for each brother on the two foundations. the brethren, however, loitered in groups before their doorways, along the west side of the quadrangle, awaiting a signal from the porter's lodge. brother manby, there, had promised to warn them as soon as the master emerged from his lodging with the other trustees and a few distinguished guests--including the bishop of merchester, visitor of st. hospital--on their way to dine. the procession would take at least three minutes coming through the outer court--ample time for the brethren to scramble up the stairway, take their places, and assume the right air of reverent expectancy. as a rule--brother copas, standing on the gravel below brother biscoe and counting the strokes for him, begged him to note it--they were none so dilatory. but gossip held them. his shrewd glance travelled from group to group, and between the strokes of the bell he counted the women-folk. "they are all at their doors," he murmured. "for a look at the dear bishop, think you?" "they are watching to see what warboise will do," quavered brother biscoe. "oh, i know!" "the women don't seem to be taking much truck with warboise or his petition. see him over there, with plant and ibbetson only. . . . and ibbetson's only there because his wife has more appetising fish to fry. but she's keeping an eye on him--watch her! poor woman, for once she's discovering rumour to be almost too full of tongues." "i wonder you're not over there too, lending warboise support," suggested brother biscoe. "royle told me last night that you had joined the protestant swim." "but i am here, you see," brother copas answered sweetly; "and just for the pleasure of doing you a small service." even this did not disarm the old man, whose temper was malignant. "well, i wish you joy of your crew. a secret drinker like plant, for instance! and your friend bonaday, in his second childhood--" "bonaday will have nothing to do with us." "ah?" brother biscoe shot him a sidelong glance. "he's more pleasantly occupied, perhaps?--if it's true what they tell me." "it never is," said brother copas imperturbably; "though i haven't a notion to what you refer." "but surely you've heard?" "nothing: and if it concerns bonaday, you'd best hold your tongue just now; for here he is." brother bonaday in fact, with nurse branscome and corona, at that moment emerged from the doorway of his lodgings, not ten paces distant from the steps of the hundred men's hall. the three paused, just outside--the nurse and corona to await the procession of visitors, due now at any moment. brother bonaday stood and blinked in the strong sunlight: but the child, catching sight of brother copas as he left brother biscoe and hurried towards her, ran to meet him with a friendly nod. "i've come out to watch the procession," she announced. "that's all we women are allowed; while you--branny says there's to be ducks and green peas! did you know that?" "surely you must have observed my elation?" brother copas stood and smiled at her, leaning on his staff. "the bishop wears gaiters they tell me; and the master too. i saw them coming out of chapel in their surplices, and the chaplain with the bishop's staff: but branny wouldn't let me go to the service. she said i must be tired after my journey. so i went to the lodge instead and made friends with brother manby. i didn't," said corona candidly, "make very good weather with brother manby, just at first. he began by asking 'well, and oo's child might _you_ be?'--and when i told him, he said, 'ow's anyone to know _that_?' that amused me, of course." "did it?" asked brother copas in slight astonishment. "because," the child explained, "i'd been told that english people dropped their h's; but brother manby was the first i'd heard doing it, and it seemed too good to be true. _you_ don't drop your h's; and nor does daddy, nor branny." brother copas chuckled. "don't reproach us," he pleaded. "you see, you've taken us at unawares more or less. but if it really please you--" "you are very kind," corona put in; "but i guess that sort of thing must come naturally, to be any good. you can't think how naturally brother manby went on dropping them; till by and by he told me what a mort of americans came here to have a look around. then, of course, i saw how he must strike them as the real thing." brother copas under lowered eyebrows regarded the young face. it was innocent and entirely serious. "so i said," she went on, "that i came from america too, and it was a long way, and please would he hurry up with the bread and beer? after that we made friends, and i had a good time." "are you telling me that you spent the forenoon drinking beer in the porter's lodge?" corona's laugh was like the bubbling of water in a hidden well. "it wasn't what you might call a cocktail," she confided. "the tiredest traveller wouldn't ask for crushed ice to it, not with a solid william-the-conqueror wall to lean against." brother copas admitted that the tenuity of the wayfarer's ale had not always escaped the wayfarer's criticism. he was about to explain that, in a country of vested interests, publicans and teetotallers agreed to require that beer supplied _gratis_ in the name of charity must be innocuous and unenticing. but at this moment brother manby signalled from his lodge that the procession was approaching across the outer court, and he hurried away to join the crowd of brethren in their scramble upstairs to the hundred men's hall. the procession hove in sight; in number about a dozen, walking two-and-two, headed by master blanchminster and the bishop. nurse branscome stepped across to the child and stood by her, whispering the names of the dignitaries as they drew near. the dear little gaitered white-headed clergyman--the one in the college cap--was the master; the tall one, likewise in gaiters, the bishop. "--and the gentleman behind him is mr. yeo, the mayor of merchester. that's the meaning of his chain, you know." "why, is he dangerous?" asked corona. "his chain of office, dear. it's the rule in england." "you don't say! . . . over in america we've never thought of that: we let our grafters run loose. but who's the tall one next to him? my! but can't you see him, branny, with his long legs crossed?" branny was puzzled. "--on a tomb, in chain armour, with his hands _so_." corona put her two palms together, as in the act of prayer. "oh, i see! well, as it happens, his house has a private chapel with five or six of just those tombs--all of his ancestors. he's sir john shaftesbury, and he's pricked for high sheriff next year. one of the oldest families in the county; in all england, indeed. everyone loves and respects sir john." "didn't i say so!" the small palms were pressed together ecstatically. "and does he keep a dwarf, same as they used to?" "eh? . . . if you mean the little man beside him, with the straw-coloured gloves, that's mr. bamberger; mr. julius bamberger, our member of parliament." "say that again, please." the child looked up, wide-eyed. "he's our member of parliament for merchester; immensely rich, they say." "well," decided corona after a moment's thought, "i'm going to pretend he isn't, anyway. i'm going to pretend sir john found him and brought him home from palestine." branny named, one by one, the rest of the trustees, all persons of importance. mr. colt and the bishop's chaplain brought up the rear. the procession came to a halt. old warboise had not followed in the wake of the brethren, but stood at the foot of the stairway, and leaned there on his staff. his face was pale, his jaw set square to perform his duty. his hand trembled, though, as he held out a paper, accosting the bishop. "my lord," he said, "some of the brethren desire you as visitor to read this petition." "hey?" interrupted the master, taken by surprise. "tut--tut--my good warboise, what's the meaning of this?" "very sorry, master," brother warboise mumbled: "and meaning no disrespect to you, that have always ruled st. hospital like a gentleman. but a party must reckon with his conscience." the bishop eyed the document dubiously, holding it between finger and thumb. "some affair of discipline?" he asked, turning to the master. "romanisers, my lord--romanisers: that's what's the matter!" answered brother warboise, lifting his voice and rapping the point of his staff on the gravel. good master blanchminster, shocked by this address, lifted his eyes beyond warboise and perceived the womenkind gathered around their doorways, listening. nothing of the sort had happened in all his long and beneficent rule. he was scandalised. he lost his temper. "brother warboise," he said severely, "whatever your grievances--and i will inquire into it later--you have chosen a highly indecorous and, er, offensive way of obtruding it. at this moment, sir, we are going together to dine and to thank god for many mercies vouchsafed to us. if you have any sense of these you will stand aside now and follow us when we have passed. his lordship will read your petition at a more convenient opportunity." "quite so, my good man." the bishop took his cue and pocketed the paper, nodding shortly. the procession moved forward and mounted the staircase, brother warboise stumping after it at a little distance, scowling as he climbed, scowling after the long back and wide shoulders of mr. colt as they climbed directly ahead of him. around their tables in the hundred men's hall the brethren were gathered expectant. "buzz for the bishop--here he comes!" quoted brother copas, and stood forth ready to deliver the latin grace as the visitors found their places at the high table. st. hospital used a long latin grace on holy-days; "and," brother copas had once observed, "the market-price of latinity in england will ensure that we always have at least one brother capable of repeating it." " . . . _gratias agimus pro alberico de albo monasterio, in fide defuncto_--" here brother copas paused, and the brethren responded "_amen!_" "_ac pro henrico de bello campo, cardinali_." as the grace proceeded brother copas dwelt on the broad vowels with gusto. "..._itaque precamur; miserere nostri, te quaesumus domine, tuisque donis, quae de tua benignitate percepturi sumus, benedicito. per jesum christum, dominum nostrum. amen_." his eyes wandered down to the carving-table, where brother biscoe stood ready, as his turn was, to direct and apportion the helpings. he bowed to the dignitaries on the dais, and walked to his place at the board next to brother warboise. "old biscoe's carving," he announced as he took his seat. "you and i will have to take a slice of _odium theologicum_ together, for auld lang syne." sure enough, when his helping of duck came to him, it was the back. brother warboise received another back for his portion. "courage, brother ridley!" murmured copas, "you and i this day have raised a couple of backs that will not readily be put down." nurse branscome had been surprised when brother warboise accosted the bishop. she could not hear what he said, but guessed that something unusual was happening. a glance at the two or three groups of women confirmed this, and when the procession moved on, she walked across to the nearest, taking corona by the hand. the first she addressed happened to be mrs. royle. "whatever was brother warboise doing just now?" she asked. mrs. royle hunched her shoulders, and turned to mrs. ibbetson. "there's worse scandals in st. hospital," said she with a sniff, "than ever old warboise has nosed. eh, ma'am?" "one can well believe that, mrs. royle," agreed mrs. ibbetson, fixing an eye of disapproval on the child. "and i am quite sure of it," agreed nurse branscome candidly; "though what you mean is a mystery to me." chapter vii. low and high tables. "this," said brother copas sweetly, turning over his portion of roast duck and searching for some flesh on it, "is not a duck at all, but a pelican, bird of wrath. see, it has devoured its own breast." beside the dais, at the eastern end of the hundred men's hall, an ancient staircase leads to an upper chamber of which we shall presently speak; and on the newel-post of this staircase stands one of the curiosities of st. hospital--a pelican carved in oak, vulning its breast to feed its young. brother copas, lifting a pensive eye from his plate, rested it on this bird, as though comparing notes. "the plague take your double meanings!" answered brother warboise gruffly. "not that i understand 'em, or want to. 'tis enough, i suppose, that the master preached about it this morning, and called it the bird of love, to set you miscalling it." "not a bit," brother copas replied. "as for the parable of the pelican, the master has used it in half a dozen sermons; and you had it by heart at least as long ago as the day before yesterday, when i happened to overhear you pitching it to a convoy of visitors as you showed them the staircase. i hope they rewarded you for the sentiment of it." "look here," fired up brother warboise, turning over _his_ portion of duck, "if it's poor i am, it don't become you to mock me. and if i haven't your damned book-learning, nor half your damned cleverness, maybe you've not turned either to such account in life as to make a boast of it. and if you left me just now to stand up alone to the master, it don't follow i take pleasure in your sneering at him." "you are right, my dear fellow," said brother copas; "and also you are proving in two or three different ways that i was right just now. bird of love--bird of wrath--they are both the same thing. but, with all submission, neither you nor the master have the true parable, which i found by chance the other day in an old book called the _ancren riwle. ancren_, brother, means 'anchoresses,' recluses, women separated, and living apart from the world pretty much as by rights we men should be living in st. hospital; and _riwle_ is 'rule,' or an instruction of daily conduct. it is a sound old book, written in the thirteenth century by a certain good bishop poore (excellent name!) for a household of such good women at tarrent, on the river stour; and it contains a peck of counsel which might be preached not only upon the scandal-mongering women who are the curse of this place--yes, and applied; for it recommends here and there, a whipping as salutary--but even, _mutatis mutandis_, upon us brethren--" "we've had one sermon, to-day," growled brother warboise. "i am correcting it. this book tells of the pelican that she is a peevish bird and so hasty of temper that, when her young ones molest her, she kills them with her beak; and soon after, being sorry, she moans, smites her own breast with the same murderous beak, and so draws blood, with which (says the bishop) 'she then quickeneth her slain birds.' but i, being no believer in miracles, think he is right as to the repentance but errs about the bringing back to life. in this world, brother, that doesn't happen; and we poor angry devils are left wishing that it could." brother warboise, playing with knife and fork, looked up sharply from under fierce eyebrows. "the moral?" pursued brother copas. "there are two at least: the first, that here we are, two jolly protestants, who might be as comfortable as rats in a cheese--you conscious of a duty performed, and i filled with admiration of your pluck--and lo! when old biscoe annoys us by an act of petty spite, we turn, not on him, but on one another. you, already more angry with yourself than with biscoe, suddenly take offence with me because i didn't join you in standing between a good man and his dinner; while i, with a spoilt meal of my own for a grievance, choose to feel an irrational concern for the master's, turn round on my comrade who has spoilt _that_, and ask, what the devil is wrong with protestantism, that it has never an ounce of tact? or why, if it aims to be unworldly, must it always overshoot its mark and be merely inhuman?" brother warboise put nine-tenths of this discourse aside. "you think it has spoilt the master's dinner?" he asked anxiously, with a glance towards the high table. "not a doubt of it," brother copas assured him. "look at the old boy, how nervously he's playing with his bread." "i never meant, you know--" "no, of course you didn't; and there's my second moral of the pelican. she digs a bill into her dearest, and then she's sorry. at the best of her argument she's always owing her opponent an apology for some offence against manners. she has no _savoir-faire_." here brother copas, relapsing, let the cloud of speculation drift between him and brother warboise's remorse. "_quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus_--i reverence the pluck of a man who can cut himself loose from all that; for the worst loss he has to face (if he only knew it) is the inevitable loss of breeding. for the ordinary gentleman in this world there's either catholicism or sound paganism; no third choice." in truth master blanchminster's dinner was spoilt for him. he sat distraught, fingering his bread between the courses which he scarcely tasted, and giving answers at random, after pauses, to the bishop's small-talk. he was wounded. he had lived for years a life as happy as any that can fall to the lot of an indolent, unambitious man, who loves his fellows and takes a delight in their gratitude. st. hospital exactly suited him. he knew its history. his affection, like an ivy, clung about its old walls and incorporated itself in the very mortar that bound them. he loved to spy one of its brethren approaching in the street; to anticipate and acknowledge the deferential salute; to see himself as father of a happy family, easily controlling it by good will, in the right of good birth. he had been a reformer, too. the staircase beside the dais led to an upper chamber whence, through a small window pierced in the wall, former masters had conceived it their duty to observe the behaviour of the brethren at meals. in his sixth year of office master blanchminster had sent for masons to block this window up. the act of espial had always been hateful to him: he preferred to trust his brethren, and it cost far less trouble. for close upon thirty years he had avoided their dinner-hour on all but gaudy days. he had been warming a serpent, and it had bitten him. the wound stung, too. angry he was at warboise's disloyalty; angrier at the manner of it. if these old men had a grievance, or believed they had, at least they might have trusted him first with it. had he ever been tyrannical, harsh, unsympathetic even, that instead of coming to him as to their father and master they should have put this public affront on him and appealed straight away to the bishop? to be sure, the statutes provided that the bishop of merchester, as visitor, had power to inquire into the administration of st. hospital and to remedy abuses. but everyone knew that within living memory, and for a hundred years before, this power had never been invoked. doubtless these malcontents, whoever they might be--and it disquieted master blanchminster yet further that he could not guess as yet who they were or how many--had kept to the letter of their rights. but good heaven! had _he_ in all these years interpreted his rule by the letter, and not rather and constantly by the spirit? brother copas was right. warboise's action had been inopportune, offensive, needlessly hurting a kindly heart. but the master, while indignant with warboise, could not help feeling just a reflex touch of vexation with mr. colt. the chaplain no doubt was a stalwart soldier, fighting the church's battle; but her battle was not to be won, her rolling tide of conquest not to be set going, in such a backwater as st. hospital. confound the fellow! why could not these young men leave old men alone? thus it happened that the master, immersed in painful thoughts, missed the launching of the great idea, which was to trouble him and indeed all merchester until merchester had done with it. the idea was mr. bamberger's. ("why, of course it was," said brother copas later; "ideas, good and bad, are the mission of his race among the gentiles.") mr. bamberger, having taken his seat, tucked a corner of his dinner-napkin between his collar and the front of his hairy throat. adaptable in most things, in feeding and in the conduct of a napkin he could never subdue old habit to our english custom, and to-day, moreover, he wore a large white waistcoat, which needed protection. this seen to, he gazed around expansively. "a picture, by george!"--mr. bamberger ever swore by our english patron saint. "slap out of the middle ages, and priceless." (he actually said "thlap" and "pritheless," but i resign at the outset any attempt to spell as mr. bamberger pronounced.) "--authentic, too! to think of this sort of thing taking place to-day in merchester, england's ancient capital. eh, master? eh, mr. mayor?" master blanchminster awoke so far out of his thoughts as to correct the idiom. "undoubtedly merchester was the capital of england before london could claim that honour." "aye," agreed his worship, "there's no end of antikities in merchester, for them as takes an interest in such. dead-and-alive you may call us; but, as i've told the council more than once, they're links with the past in a manner of speaking." "but these antiquities attract visitors, or ought to." "they do: a goodish number, as i've told the council more than once." "why shouldn't they attract more?" "i suppose they would, if we had more of 'em," answered his worship thoughtfully. "when i said just now that we had no end of antikities, it was in a manner of speaking. there's the cathedral, of course, and the old palace--or what's left of it, and st. hospital here. but there's a deal been swept away within my recollection. we must move with the times." at this point the inspiration came upon mr. bamberger. he laid down the spoon in his soup and hurriedly caught at the rim of his plate as a vigilant waiter swept a hand to remove it. "hold hard, young man!" said mr. bamberger, snatching at his spoon and again fixing his eye on the mayor. "you ought to have a pageant, sir." "a what?" "a pageant; that's what we want for merchester--something to advertise the dear old place and bring grist to our mills. i've often wondered if we could not run something of the sort." this was not a conscious falsehood, but just a word or two of political patter, dropped automatically, absently. in truth, mr. bamberger, possessed by his inspiration, was wondering why the deuce it had never occurred to him until this moment. still more curious, too, that it had never occurred to his brother isidore! this isidore, after starting as a _croupier_ at ostend and pushing on to the post of _directeur des fetes periodiques_ to the municipality of that watering-place, had made a sudden name for himself by stage-managing a hall of odalisques at the last paris exposition, and, crossing to london, had accumulated laurels by directing popular entertainments at olympia (kensington) and shepherd's bush. one great daily newspaper, under hebrew control, habitually alluded to him as the prince of pageantists. isidore saw things on a grand scale, and was, moreover, an excellent brother. isidore (said mr. julius bamberger to himself) would find all the history of england in merchester and rattle it up to the truth of music. aloud he said-"this very scene we're looking on, f'r instance!" "there would be difficulties in the way of presenting it in the open air," hazarded his worship. mr. bamberger, never impatient of stupidity, opined that this could be got over easily. "there's all the material made to our hand. eh, master?--these old pensioners of yours--in a procession? the public is always sentimental." master blanchminster, rousing himself out of reverie, made guarded answer that such an exhibition might be instructive, historically, for schoolchildren. "an institution like this, supported by endowments, don't need advertising, of course--not for its own sake," said mr. bamberger. "i was thinking of what might be done indirectly for merchester. but--you'll excuse me, i must ride a notion when i get astride of one--st. hospital would be no more than what we call an episode. we'd start with alfred the great--maybe before him; work down to the cathedral and its consecration and sir john, here--that is, of course, his ancestor--swearing on the cross to depart for jerusalem." sir john--a whig by five generations of descent--glanced at mr. bamberger uneasily. he had turned unionist when mr. gladstone embraced home rule; and now, rather by force of circumstance than by choice, he found himself chairman of the unionist committee for merchester; in fact he, more than any man, was responsible for mr. bamberger's representing merchester in parliament, and sometimes wondered how it had all come about. he answered these rare questionings by telling himself that disraeli, whose portrait hung in his library, had also been a jew. but he did not quite understand it, or what there was in mr. bamberger that personally repelled him. at any rate sir john was a pure whig and to your pure whig personal dignity is everything. "so long," murmured he, "as you don't ask me to dress up and make myself a figure of fun." the bishop had already put the suggestion, so far as it concerned him, aside with a tolerant smile, which encouraged everything from which he, _bien entendu_, was omitted. mr. bamberger, scanning the line of faces with a jew's patient cunning, at length encountered the eye of mr. colt, who at the farther end of the high table was leaning forward to listen. "you're my man," thought mr. bamberger. "though i don't know your name and maybe you're socially no great shakes; a chaplain by your look, and high church. you're the useful one in this gang." he lifted his voice. "you won't misunderstand me, master," he said. "i named the cathedral and the crusades because, in merchester, history cannot get away from the church. it's _her_ history that any pageant of merchester ought to illustrate primarily--must, indeed: _her_ past glories, some day (please god) to be revived." "and," said mr. bamberger some months later, in private converse with his brother isidore, "that did it, though i say it who shouldn't. i froze on that colt straight; and colt, you'll allow, was trumps." for the moment little more was said. the company at the high table, after grace--a shorter one this time, pronounced by the chaplain-bowed to the brethren and followed the master upstairs to the little room which had once served for espial-chamber, but was now curtained cosily and spread for dessert. "by the way, master," said the bishop, suddenly remembering the petition in his pocket, and laughing amicably as he dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee, "what games have you been playing in st. hospital, that they accuse you of romanising?" the master's ivory face flushed at the question. "that was old warboise," he answered nervously. "i must apologise for the annoyance." "not at all--not at all! it amused me, rather, to be reminded that, as visitor, i am a person in st. hospital, and still reckoned an important one. 'made me feel like an image in a niche subjected to a sudden dusting. who is this--er, what-d'-ye-call-him? warboise? an eccentric?" "i will not say that. old and opinionated, rather; a militant protestant--" "ah, we know the sort. shall we glance over his screed? you permit me?" "i was about to suggest your doing so. to tell the truth, i am curious to be acquainted with the charge against me." the bishop smiled, drew forth the paper from his pocket adjusted his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and read- "to the right rev. father in god, walter, lord bishop of merchester. "my lord,--we the undersigned, being brethren on the blanchminster and beauchamp foundations of st. hospital's college of noble poverty by merton, respectfully desire your lordship's attention to certain abuses which of late have crept into this society; and particularly in the observances of religion. "we contend (1) that, whereas our reformed and protestant church, in number xxii of her articles of religion declares the romish doctrine of purgatory inter alia to be a fond thing vainly invented, etc., and repugnant to the word of god, yet prayers for the dead have twice been publicly offered in our chapel and the practice defended, nay recommended, from its pulpit. "(2) that, whereas in number xxviii of the same articles the sacrament of the lord's supper is defined in intention, and the definition expressly cleared to repudiate several practices not consonant with it, certain of these have been observed of late in our chapel, to the scandal of the church, and to the pain and uneasiness of souls that were used to draw pure refreshment from these sacraments--" the bishop paused. "i say, master, this brother warboise of yours can write passable english." "warboise? warboise never wrote that--never in his life." master blanchminster passed a hand over his forehead. "it's copas's handwriting!" announced mr. colt, who had drawn close and, unpermitted, was staring over the bishop's shoulder at the manuscript. the bishop turned half about in his chair, slightly affronted by this offence against good manners; but mr. colt was too far excited to guess the rebuke. "turn over the page, my lord." as the bishop turned it, on the impulse of surprise, mr. colt pointed a forefinger. "there it is--half-way down the signatures! 'j. copas,' written in the same hand!" chapter viii. a peace-offering. "'fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak! blessedest thursday's the fat of the week!'" quoted brother copas from one of his favourite poems. this was in the kitchen, three days later, and he made one of the crowd edging, pushing, pressing, each with plate in hand, around the great table where the joints stood ready to be carved and distributed. for save on gaudy days and great festivals of the church, the brethren dine in their own chambers, not in hall; and on three days of the week must fend for themselves on food purchased out of their small allowances. but on mondays, tuesdays, thursdays and saturdays they fetch it from the kitchen, taking their turns to choose the best cuts. and this was thursday and, as it happened, brother copas stood first on the rota. the rota hung on the kitchen wall in a frame of oak canopied with faded velvet--an ingenious and puzzling contrivance, somewhat like the calendar prefixed to the book of common prayer, with the names of the brethren inserted on movable cards worn greasy with handling. in system nothing could be fairer; but in practice, human nature being what it is, and the crowd without discipline, the press and clamour about the table made choosing difficult for the weaker ones. "brother copas to choose! brother clerihew to divide!" "aye," sang out brother copas cheerfully, "and i'll take my time about it. make room, woolcombe, if you please, and take your elbow out of my ribs--don't i know the old trick? and stop pushing--you behind there! . . . 'rats in a hamper, swine in a sty, wasps in a bottle.'--mrs. royle, ma'am, i am very sorry for your husband's rheumatism, but it does not become a lady to show this indecent haste." "indecent?" shrilled mrs. royle. "indecent, you call me?--you that pretend to ha' been a gentleman! i reckon, if indecency's the matter in these times, i could talk to one or two of ye about it." "not a doubt of _that_, ma'am. . . . but really you ladies have no right here: it's clean against the rules, and the hubbub you provoke is a scandal." "do you mean to insinuate, sir--" "with your leave, ma'am, i mean to insinuate myself between your person and the table from which at this moment you debar me. ah!" exclaimed brother copas as the cook whipped off the first of the great dish-covers, letting loose a cloud of savoury steam. he sniffed at it. "what's this? boiled pork, and in june! we'll have a look at the others, please . . . roast leg of mutton, boiled neck and scrag of mutton--aha! you shall give me a cut of the roast, please; and start at the knuckle end. yes, biscoe--_at the knuckle end_." hate distorted brother biscoe's patriarchal face. he came second on the rota, and roast knuckle of mutton was the tit-bit dearest of all to his heart, as brother copas knew. brother biscoe also had a passion for the two first cutlets of a mutton-neck; but he thought nothing of this in his rage. "please god it'll choke ye!" he snarled. "dear brother," said copas amiably, "on monday last you helped me to the back of a duck." "hurry up there!" shouted brother woolcombe, and swung round. "are we all to get cold dinner when these two old fools have done wrangling?" "fool yourself, woolcombe!" brother biscoe likewise swung about. "here's copas has brought two plates! isn't it time to speak up, when a rogue's caught cheating?" one or two cried out that he ought to lose his turn for it. "my friends," said brother copas, not at all perturbed, "the second plate is for brother bonaday's dinner, when his turn arrives. he has a heart-attack to-day, and cannot come for himself." "a _heart_-attack!" sniggered mrs. royle, her voice rising shrill above the din. "oh, save us if we didn't all know _that_ news!" laughter crackled like musketry about brother copas's ears, laughter to him quite meaningless. it was plain that all shared some joke against his friend bonaday; but he had no clue. "and," pursued mrs. royle, "here's his best friend tellin' us as 'tis a scandal the way women push themselves into st. hospital--'when they're not wanted,' did i hear you say, sir? yes, 'a scandal' he said, and 'indecent'; which i leave it to you is pretty strong language as addressed to a woman what has her marriage lines i should hope!" brother copas, bewildered by this onslaught--or, as he put it later, comparing the encounter with that between socrates and gorgias the sophist--drenched with that woman's slop-pail of words and blinded for the moment, received his portion of mutton and drew aside, vanquished amid peals of laughter, of which he guessed only from its note that the allusion had been disgusting. indeed, the whole atmosphere of the kitchen sickened him; even the portion of mutton cooling on his plate raised his gorge in physical loathing. but brother bonaday lay helpless in his chamber, without food. remembering this, brother copas stood his ground and waited, with the spare plate ready for the invalid's portion. the babel went on as one after another fought for the spoil. they had forgotten him, and those at the back of the crowd had found a new diversion in hustling old biscoe as he struggled to get away with his two cutlets of half-warm mutton. brother copas held his gaze upon the joints. his friend's turn came all but last on the rota; and by perversity--but who could blame it, in the month of june?--everyone eschewed the pork and bid emulously for mutton, roast or boiled. he knew that brother bonaday abhorred pork, which, moreover, was indigestible, and by consequence bad for a weak heart. he stood and watched, gradually losing all hope except to capture a portion of the mutton near the scrag-end. as for the leg, it had speedily been cleaned to the bone. at the last moment a ray of hope shot up, as an expiring candle flames in the socket. brother inchbald--a notoriously stingy man-whose turn came immediately before brother bonaday's, seemed to doubt that enough of the scrag remained to eke out a full portion; and bent towards the dish of pork, fingering his chin. copas seized the moment to push his empty plate towards the mutton, stealthily, as one forces a card. as he did so, another roar of laughter--coarser than before--drew him to glance over his shoulder. the cause of it was nurse branscome, entering by way of the refectory, with a hot plate held in a napkin between her hands. she paused on the threshold, as though the ribaldry took her in the face like a blast of hot wind. "oh, i am late!" she cried. "i came to fetch brother bonaday's dinner. until five minutes ago no one told me--" "it's all right," called back brother copas, still looking over his shoulder while his right hand extended the plate. "his turn is just called, and i am getting it for him." strange to say, his voice reached the nurse across an almost dead silence; for the laughter had died down at sight of a child--corona-beside her in the doorway. "but your plate will be cold. here, change it for mine!" "well thought upon! wait a second!" but before brother copas could withdraw the plate a dollop of meat had been dumped upon it. "eh? but wait--look here!--" he turned about, stared at the plate, stared from the plate to the dish of scrag. the meat on the plate was pork, and the dish of scrag was empty. brother inchbald had changed his mind at the last moment and chosen mutton. the brethren, led by mrs. royle, cackled again at sight of his dismay. one or two still hustled brother biscoe as he fought his way to the foot of the refectory steps, at the head of which nurse branscome barred the exit, with corona holding fast by her hand and wondering. "but what is it all about?" asked the child. "hush!" the nurse squeezed her hand, meaning that she must have courage. "we have come too late, and the dinner is all shared up--or all of it that would do your father good." "but"--corona dragged her small hand loose--"there is plenty left; and when they know he is sick they will make it all right. . . . if you please, sir," she spoke up, planting her small body in front of brother biscoe as he would have pushed past with his plate, "my father is sick, and nurse says he must not eat the meat that's left on the dish there. won't you give me that on your plate?" she stretched out a hand for it, and brother biscoe, spent with senile wrath at this last interruption of his escape, was snatching back the food, ready to curse her, when brother copas came battling through the press, holding both his plates high and hailing cheerfully. "i forgot," he panted, and held up the plate in his left hand. "bonaday can have the knuckle. i had first choice to-day." "he ought not to eat roasted meat," said nurse branscome slowly. "i am sorry. you are good and will be disappointed. the smallest bit of boiled, now--were it only the scrag--" "why," bustled brother copas, "brother biscoe has the very thing, then--the two best cutlets at the bottom of the neck. and, what's more, he'll be only too glad to exchange 'em for the roast knuckle here, as i happen to know." he thrust the tit-bit upon brother biscoe, who hesitated a moment between hate and greed, and snatched the cutlets from him before hate could weigh down the balance. brother biscoe, clutching the transferred plate, fled ungraciously, without a word of thanks. nurse branscome stayed but a moment to thank brother copas for his cleverness, and hurried off with corona to hot-up the plate of mutton for the invalid. they left brother copas eyeing his dismal pork. "and in june, too!" he murmured. "no: a man must protect himself. i'll have to eke out to-day on biscuits." chapter ix. by mere river. brother bonaday's heart-attacks, sharp while they lasted, were soon over. towards evening he had so far recovered that the nurse saw no harm in his taking a short stroll, with brother copas for _socius_. the two old men made their way down to the river as usual, and there brother copas forced his friend to sit and rest on a bench beside the clear-running water. "we had better not talk," he suggested, "but just sit quiet and let the fresh air do you good." "but i wish to talk. i am quite strong enough." "talk about what?" "about the child. . . . we must be getting her educated, i suppose." "why?" brother bonaday, seated with palms crossed over the head of his staff, gazed in an absent-minded way at the water-weeds trailing in the current. "she's an odd child; curiously shrewd in some ways and curiously innocent in others, and for ever asking questions. she put me a teaser yesterday. she can read pretty well, and i set her to read a chapter of the bible. by and by she looked up and wanted to know why god lived apart from his wife!" brother copas grunted his amusement. "did you tell her?" "i invented some answer, of course. i don't believe it satisfied her--i am not good at explanation--but she took it quietly, as if she put it aside to think over." "the athanasian creed is not easily edited for children. . . . if she can read, the likelihood is she can also write. does a girl need to learn much beyond that? no, i am not jesting. it's a question upon which i have never quite made up my mind." "i had hoped to find you keener," said brother bonaday with a small sigh. "now i see that you will probably laugh at what i am going to confess. . . . last night, as i sat a while before going to bed, i found myself hearkening for the sound of her breathing in the next room. after a bit, when a minute or so went by and i could hear nothing, a sort of panic took me that some harm had happened to her: till i could stand it no longer, but picked up the lamp and crept in for a book. there she lay sleeping, healthy and sound, and prettier than you'd ever think. . . . i crept back to my chair, and a foolish sort of hope came over me that, with her health and wits, and being brought up unlike other children, she might come one day to be a little lady and the pride of the place, in a way of speaking--" "a sort of lady jane grey, in modest fashion--is that what you mean?" suggested brother copas- 'like her most gentle, most unfortunate, crowned but to die--who in her chamber sate musing with plato, tho' the horn was blown, and every ear and every heart was won, and all in green array were chasing down the sun.' --"well, if she's willing, as unofficial godfather i might make a start with the latin declensions. it would be an experiment: i've never tried teaching a girl. and i never had a child of my own, brother; but i can understand just what you dreamed, and the lord punish me if i feel like laughing." he said it with an open glance at his friend. but it found no responsive one. brother bonaday's brow had contracted, as with a spasm of the old pain, and his eyes still scrutinised the trailing weeds in mere river. "if ever a man had warning to be done with life," said brother bonaday after a long pause, "i had it this forenoon. but it's wonderful what silly hopes a child will breed in a man." brother copas nodded. "aye, we'll have a shot with her. but--oh, good lord! here's the chaplain coming." "ah, copas--so here you are!" sung out mr. colt as he approached with his long stride up the tow-path. "nurse branscome told me i should find you here. good evening, bonaday!" he nodded. copas stood up and inclined his body stiffly. "i hope, sir," was his rebuke, "i have not wholly forfeited the title of brother?" the chaplain flushed. "i bring a message," he said. "the master wishes to see you, at half-past six." "that amounts to a command." brother copas pulled out his watch. "i may as well warn you," the chaplain pursued. "you will be questioned on your share in that offensive petition. as it appears, you were even responsible for composing it." brother copas's eyebrows went up. "is it possible, sir, that you recognised the style? . . . ah, no; the handwriting must have been your index. the bishop showed it to you, then?" "i--er--have been permitted to glance it over." "over his shoulder, if i may make a guess," murmured brother copas, putting his watch away and searching for his snuff-box. "anyway, you signed it: as bon--as brother bonaday here was too sensible to do: though," added mr. colt, "_his_ signature one could at least have respected." brother copas tapped his snuff-box, foreseeing comedy. "and why not mine, sir?" "oh, come, come!" blurted the chaplain. "i take you to be a man of some education." "is that indeed the reason?" "a man of some education, i say." "and i hear you, sir." brother copas bowed. "'praise from sir richard strahan is praise indeed'--though my poor friend here seems to get the backhand of the compliment." "and it is incredible you should go with the ignorant herd and believe us clergy of the church of england to be heading for rome, as your petition asserts." brother copas slowly inhaled a pinch. "in england, mr. chaplain, the ignorant herd has, by the admission of other nations, a practical political sense, and a somewhat downright way with it. it sees you reverting to many doctrines and uses from which the reformation cut us free--or, if you prefer it, cut us loose; doctrines and uses which the church of rome has taught and practised without a break. it says--this ignorant herd--'if these fellows are not heading for rome, then where the dickens _are_ they heading?' forgive this blunt way of putting it, but the question is not so blunt as it looks. it is on the contrary extremely shrewd; and until you high anglicans answer it candidly, the ignorant herd will suspect--and you know, sir, the lower classes are incurably suspicious--either that yourselves do not know, or that you know and won't tell." "you say," answered mr. colt, "that we revert to many doctrines and uses which, since the romish clergy preach and practise them, are ignorantly supposed to belong to rome. but 'many' is not 'all'; nor does it include the most radical doctrine of all. how can we intend romanising while we deny the supreme authority of the pope?--or bishop of rome, as i should prefer to call him." "fairly countered," replied brother copas, taking another pinch; "though the ignorant herd would have liked better an answer to its question. you deny the supreme authority of the pope? very well. whose, then, do you accept?" "the authority of christ, committed to his church." "oh, la, la, la! . . . i should have said, whose authoritative interpretation of christ's authority?" "the church's." "aye? through whose mouth? we shall get at something definite in time. . . . i'll put it more simply. you, sir, are a plain priest in holy orders, and it's conceivable that on some point of use or doctrine you may be in error. just conceivable, hey? at all events, you may be accused of it. to whom, then, do you appeal? to the king?--parliament?--the court of arches, or any other court? not a bit of it. well, let's try again. is it to the archbishop of canterbury? or to your own diocesan?" "i should appeal to the sanction of the church catholic as given in her ancient councils." "and again--as nowadays interpreted by whom? let us pass a hundred possible points on which no council bothered its head, and on which consequently it has left no decision. who's the man, anywhere, to take you by the scruff of the neck and chastise you for an error?" "within the limits of conscience i should, of course, bow to my diocesan." "elastic limits, mr. colt! and, substituting brother warboise's conscience for yours, precisely the limits within which brother warboise bows to you! anarchy will obey anything 'within the limits of conscience'--that's precisely what anarchy means; and even so and to that extent will you obey bishop or archbishop. in your heart you deny their authority; in speech, in practice, you never lose an occasion of flouting them and showing them up for fools. take this education squabble for an example. the successor to the chair of augustine, good man--he's, after all, your metropolitan--runs around doing his best to discover a way out, to patch up a 'concordat,' as they call it? what's the effect, upon any diocesan conference? up springs subaltern after subaltern, fired with zeal to give his commander away. 'our beloved archbishop, in his saintly trustfulness, is bargaining away our rights as churchmen'--all the indiscipline of a middle-class private school (and i know what that is, mr. colt, having kept one) translated into the sentimental erotics of a young ladies' academy!" mr. colt gasped. "and so, believe me, sir," concluded brother copas, snapping down the lid of his snuff-box, "this country of ours did not get rid of the pope in order to make room for a thousand and one popelings, each in his separate parish practising what seems right in his own eyes. at any rate, let us say, remembering the parable of the room swept and garnished, it intended no such result. let us agree, mr. chaplain, to economise in popes, and to condemn that business of avignon. so the ignorant herd comes back on you with two questions, which in effect are one: 'if not mere anarchists, what authority own you? and if not for rome, for what in the world _are_ you heading?' you ask rome to recognise your orders.--_mais, soyez consequent, monsieur_." it was mr. colt's turn to pull out his watch. "permit me to remind you," he said, "that you, at any rate, have to own an authority, and that the master will be expecting you at six-thirty sharp. for the rest, sir, you cannot think that thoughtful churchmen have no answer to these questions, if put by anyone with the right to put them. but _you_--not even a communicant! will you dare to use these arguments to the master, for instance?" "he had the last word there," said brother copas, pocketing his snuff-box and gazing after the chaplain's athletic figure as it swung away up the tow-path. "he gave me no time to answer that one suits an argument to the adversary. the master? could i present anything so crude to one who, though lazy, is yet a scholar?--who has certainly fought this thing through, after his lights, and would get me entangled in the councils of carthage and constance, st. cyprian and the rest? . . . colt quotes the ignorant herd to me, and i put him the ignorant herd's question--without getting a reply." "you did not allow him much time for one," said brother bonaday mildly. brother copas stared at him, drew out his watch again, and chuckled. "you're right. i lose count of time, defending my friends; and this is your battle i'm fighting, remember." he offered his arm, and the two friends started to walk back towards st. hospital. they had gone but a dozen yards when a childish voice hailed them, and corona came skipping along the bank. "daddy! you are to come home at once! it's past six o'clock, and branny says the river fog's bad for you." "home?" echoed brother bonaday inattentively. the word had been unfamiliar to him for some years, and his old brain did not grasp it for a moment. his eyes seemed to question the child as she stood before him panting, her hair dishevelled. "aye, brother," said copas with a glance at him, "you'll have to get used to it again, and good luck to you! what says the pessimist, that american fellow?--" 'nowhere to go but out, nowhere to come but back '-"missy don't agree with her fellow-countryman, eh?" his eye held a twinkle of mischief. "he _isn't_ my fellow-countryman!" corona protested vehemently. "i'm english--amn't i, daddy?" "there, there--forgive me, little one! and you really don't want to leave us, just yet?" "leave you?" the child took brother bonaday's hand and hugged it close. "uncle copas, if you won't laugh i want to tell you something--what they call confessing." she hesitated for a moment. "haven't you ever felt you've got something inside, and how awful good it is to confess and get it off your chest?" brother copas gave a start, and eyed his fellow-protestant. "well?" he said after a pause. "well, it's this way," confessed corona. "i can't say my prayers yet in this place--not to get any heft on them; and that makes me feel bad, you know. i start along with 'our father, which art in heaven,' and it's like calling up a person on the 'phone when he's close at your elbow all the time. then i say 'god bless st. hospital,' and there i'm stuck; it don't seem i want to worry god to oblige beyond that. so i fetch back and start telling how glad i am to be home--as if god didn't know--and that bats me up to st. hospital again. i got stone-walled that way five times last night. what's the sense of asking to go to heaven when you don't particularly want to?" "child," brother copas answered, "keep as honest as that and peg away. you'll find your prayers straighten themselves out all right." "sure? . . . well, that's a comfort: because, of course, i don't want to go to hell either. it would never do. . . . but why are you puckering up your eyes so?" "i was thinking," said brother copas, "that i might start teaching you latin. your father and i were discussing it just now." "would he like me to learn it?" "it's the only way to find out all that st. hospital means, including all it has meant for hundreds of years. . . . bless me, is that the quarter chiming? take your father's hand and lead him home, child. _venit hesperus, ite capellae_." "what does that mean?" "it's latin," said brother copas. "it's a--a kind of absolution." chapter x. the anonymous letter. although the month was june and the evening warm, master blanchminster sat huddled in his armchair before a bright fire. a table stood at his elbow, with some books upon it, his untasted glass of wine, and half a dozen letters--his evening's post. but the master leaned forward, spreading his delicate fingers to the warmth and, between them, gazing into the core of the blaze. the butler ushered in brother copas and withdrew, after a glance at the lights. two wax candles burned upon the writing-table in the oriel, and on the side-table an electric lamp shaded with green silk faintly silhouetted the master's features. brother copas, standing a little within the doorway, remarked to himself that the old gentleman had aged of late. "ah, brother copas? yes, i sent for you," said the master, rousing himself as if from a brown study. "be seated, please." he pointed to a chair on the opposite side of the hearth; and brother copas, seating himself with a bow, spread the worn skirt of his beauchamp robe, and arranged its folds over his knees. the firelight sparkled upon the beauchamp rose on his breast, and seemed to hold the master's eye as he looked up after a pause. "you guess, no doubt, why i sent for you?" brother copas inclined his head. "it concerns the petition which brother warboise presented to the bishop last monday. i am not complaining just now of his fashion of procedure, which i may hazard was not of your suggesting." "it was not, master. i may say so much, having warned him that i should say it if questioned." "yet you wrote out and signed the petition, and, if i may hazard again, composed it?" "i did." "i have," said master blanchminster, studying the back of his hands as he held his palms to the fire, "no right to force any man's conscience. but it seemed to me, if i may say so, that while all were forcibly put, certain of your arguments ignored--or, let me rather say, passed over--points which must have occurred to a man of your learning. am i mistaken?" "you understand, master," said brother copas, slightly embarrassed, and slightly the more embarrassed because the master, after asking the question, seemed inclined to relapse into his own thoughts, "the petition was not mine only. i had to compose it for all the signatories; and that, in any public business, involves striking a mean." "i understand even more," said the master, rousing himself, and reaching for a copy of the petition, which lay among his papers. "i understand that i have no right to cross-question a man on his share in a document which six or eight others have signed. shall it be further understood"--he looked up with a quick smile of goodness, whereat brother copas felt ashamed--"that i sent for you as a friend, and that you may speak frankly, if you will so honour me, without fear of my remembering a word to your inconvenience?" "and since you so honour me, master," said brother copas, "i am ready to answer all you ask." "well, then, i have read with particular interest, what you have to say here about the practice of confession. (this, by the way, is a typed copy, with which the bishop has been kind enough to supply me.) you have, i assume, no belief in it or in the efficacy of the absolution that follows it." the master, searching for a paragraph, did not perceive that brother copas flushed slightly. "and," he continued, as he found the passage and laid his finger on it, "although you set out your arguments with point--with fairness, too, let me add--i am perhaps not very far wrong in guessing that you have for confession an instinctive dislike which to your own mind means more than any argument you use." the master looked up with a smile; but by this time brother copas's flush had faded. "you may say that, master, of the whole document. i am an old man-far too old to have my beliefs and disbeliefs quickened by argument. they have long since hardened into prejudices; and, speaking generally, i have a prejudice against this setting of old men by the ears with a lot of neo-catholic stuff which irritates half of us while all are equally past being provoked to any vital good." the master sighed, for he understood. "i, too, am old," he answered, "older even than you; and as death draws nearer i incline with you, to believe that the fewer our words on these questions that separate us the better. (there's a fine passage to that effect in one of jowett's introductions, you may remember--the _phaedo_, i think.) least said is soonest mended, and good men are too honest to go out of the world professing more than they know. since we are opening our minds a little beyond our wont, let me tell you exactly what is my own prejudice, as you would call it. to me confession has been a matter of happy experience--i am speaking now of younger days, at cuddesdon--" "ah!" breathed copas. "and the desire to offer to others what has been a great blessing to myself, has at times been very strong. but i recognised that the general english mind--yes, i'll grant you, the general _healthy_ english mind--had its prejudice too; a prejudice so sturdy against confession, that it seemed to me i should alienate more souls than i attracted and breed more ill-temper than charity to cover it. so--weakly perhaps--i never spoke of it in sermons, and by consequence no brother of st. hospital has ever sought from me that comfort which my conscience all the while would have approved of giving." brother copas bowed his head for sign that he understood. "but--excuse me, master--you say that you found profit in confession at cuddesdon; that is, when i dare say your manhood was young and in ferment. be it granted that just at such a crisis, confession may be salutary. have you found it profitable in later life?" "i cannot," the master answered, "honestly say more than that no doubt of it has ever occurred to me, and for the simple reason that i have not tried. but i see at what you are driving--that we of st. hospital are too old to taste its benefit? . . . yet i should have thought that even in age it might bring comfort to some; and, if so, why should the others complain?" "for the offence it carries as an infraction of the reformed doctrine under which they supposed themselves to order their lives and worship. they contend, master, that they are all members of one society; and if the doctrine of that society be infringed to comfort a or b, it is to that extent weakened injuriously for c and d, who have been building their everlasting and only hope on it, and have grown too old to change." "but," answered master blanchminster, pinning his finger on the paragraph, "you admit here that even the reformed church, in the order for the visitation of the sick, enjoins confession and prescribes a form of absolution. now if a man be not too old for it when he is dying, _a fortiori_ he cannot be too old for it at any previous time." brother copas rubbed his hands together softly, gleefully. he adored dialectic. "with your leave, master," he replied, "dying is a mighty singular business. the difference between it and growing old cannot be treated as a mere matter of degree. now one of the points i make is that the church, by expressly allowing confession on this singular occasion, while saying nothing about it on any other, thereby inferentially excludes it on all others--or discountenances it, to say the least." "there i join issue with you, maintaining that all such occasions are covered by the general authority bestowed at ordination with the laying-on of hands--'whose sins thou dost forgive they are forgiven,' etc. to construe an open exhortation in one of her offices as a silent denunciation in all the rest seems to me--" for the next few minutes the pair enjoyed themselves to the top of their bent; until, as the master pushed aside some papers on the table to get at his prayer book--to prove that no. xxv of the articles of religion did not by its wording disparage absolution--his eye fell on a letter which lay uppermost. he paused midway in a sentence, picked the thing up and held it for a moment disgustfully between forefinger and thumb. "brother copas," he said with a change of voice, "we lose ourselves in logomachy, and i had rather hark back to a word you let drop a while ago about the brotherhood. you spoke of 'setting old men by the ears.' do you mean it seriously--that our brethren, just now, are not dwelling in concord?" "god bless your innocent old heart!" murmured brother copas under his breath. aloud he said, "men of the brethren's age, master, are not always amiable; and the tempers of their womenfolk are sometimes unlovely. we are, after all, failures in life, and to have lived night and day beside any one of us can be no joke." the master, with his body half-turned towards the reading-lamp, still held the letter and eyed it at arm's length. "i observed," he said after a while, "that brother bonaday did not sign your petition. yet i had supposed him to be an evangelical, and everyone knows you two to be close friends." the master mused again. "pardon me, but he has some reason, of course?" "he has." --"which you are not at liberty to tell me?" "that is so." "ah, well," said the master, turning and facing about on brother copas with a sudden resolve. "i wonder if--to leave this matter of the petition--you can tell me something else concerning your friend; something which, if you can answer it so as to help him, will also lift a sad weight off my mind. if you cannot, i shall equally forget that the question was ever put or the answer withheld. . . . to be candid, when you were shown in i was sitting here in great distress of mind." "surely not about bonaday, master?" said brother copas, wondering. "about bonaday, yes." the master inclined his head. "poison--it has been running through my thoughts all the while we have been talking. i suppose i ought not to show you this; the fire is its only proper receptacle--" "poison?" echoed brother copas. "and about bonaday? who, good soul, never hurt a fly!" "i rejoice to hear you say it," said the master, plainly relieved, and he appeared half-minded to withdraw and pocket the scrap of paper for which copas held out a hand. "it is an anonymous letter, and-er--evidently the product of a foul mind--" brother copas took it and, fumbling for his glasses, gazed around in search of the handiest light by which to read it. master blanchminster hurried to catch up the electric lamp and set it on the mantel-shelf above his shoulder. its coil of silk-braided wire dragging across the papers on the table, one or two dropped on the floor; and whilst the master stooped to collect them brother copas read the letter, first noting at a glance that the paper was cheap and the handwriting, though fairly legible, at once uneducated and painfully disguised. it ran- "master,--this is to warn you that you are too kind and anyone can take you in. it wasn't enough bonaday should get the best rooms in s. hospital but now you give him leave for this child which every one in s. hospital knows is a bastard. if you want to find the mother, no need to go far. why is nurse b--hanging about his rooms now. which they didn't carry it so far before, but they was acquainted years ago, as is common talk. god knows my reasons for writing this much are honest, but i hate to see your goodness put upon, and a scandal which the whole s. hospital feels bitter about--such letchery and wickedness in our midst, and nobody knowing how to put a stop to it all. "yours obdtly., "a well wisher." "the handwriting," said brother copas, "is a woman's, though disguised." the master, erect again, having collected his papers, eyed brother copas as if surprised by his calm tone. "you make nothing of it, then?" "p'st!" "i--i was hoping so." the master's voice was tremulous, apologetic. "it came by this evening's post, not half an hour ago. . . . i am not used to receive such things: yet i know what ought to be done with them--toss them into the fire at once and dismiss them from your mind. i make no doubt i should have burnt it within another ten minutes: as for cleansing one's mind of it so quickly, that must be a counsel of perfection. but you were shown in, and i--i made certain that you could contradict this disgraceful report and set my mind at rest. forgive me." "ah, master"--brother copas glanced up with a quick smile-"it almost looks as if you were right after all, and one is never too old to confess!" he bent and held the edge of the paper close to the blaze. "may i burn it?" "by all means." "nay, then, i won't. but since you have freely parted with it, may i keep it? . . . i have had some little experience with manuscripts, and it is just possible i may trace this to the writer--who is assuredly a woman," added brother copas, studying the letter again. "you have my leave to do so." "and you ask no further question?" the master hesitated. at length he said firmly-"none. i have no right. how can so foul a thing confer any right?" brother copas was silent for a space. "nay, that is true, master; it cannot. . . . nevertheless, i will answer what was in your mind to ask. when i came into the room you were pondering this letter. the thought of it--pah!--mixed itself up with a thought of the appointment you had set for me--with the petition; and the two harked back together upon a question you put to me just now. 'why was not brother bonaday among the signatories?' between them they turned that question into a suspicion. guilty men are seldom bold: as the scots say, 'riven breeks sit still.' . . . was not this, or something like it, in your mind, sir?" "i confess that it was." "why then, master, i too will confess--i that came to you to denounce the practice. of what this letter hints bonaday is innocent as--as you are. he approved of the petition and was on the point of signing it; but he desired your good leave to make a home for his child. between parent and protestant my friend was torn, and moreover between conscience and loyalty. he could not sue for this favour from you, his soul weighted with an intention to go straightway and do what must offend you." master blanchminster faced brother copas squarely, standing of a sudden erect. it seemed to add inches to his stature. "had he so poor a trust in me, after these years?" "no, master." brother copas bent his head. "that is where i come in. all this is but preparatory. . . . i am a fraud--as little protestant as catholic. i found my friend in straits, and made a bargain with those who were pressing him--" "do i understand, brother copas, that this petition--of which all the strength lies in its scholarship and wording--is yours, and that on these terms only you have given me so much pain?" "you may put it so, master, and i can say no more than 'yes'--though i might yet plead that something is wrong with st. hospital, and--" "something is very wrong with st. hospital," interrupted the master gravely. "this letter--if it come from within our walls--but i after all, as its master, am ultimately to blame." he paused for a moment and looked up with a sudden winning smile. "we have both confessed some sins. shall we say a prayer together, brother?" the two old men knelt by the hearth there. together in silence they bowed their heads. chapter xi. brother copas on the anglo-saxon. "you ought to write a play," said mrs. simeon. mr. simeon looked up from his dinner and stared at his wife as though she had suddenly taken leave of her senses. she sat holding a fork erect and close to her mouth, with a morsel of potato ready to be popped in as soon as she should finish devouring a paragraph of _the people_ newspaper, folded beside her plate. in a general way mrs. simeon was not a reader; but on mondays (washing-days) she regularly had the loan of a creased copy of _the people_ from a neighbour who, having but a couple of children, could afford to buy and peruse it on the day of issue. there is much charity among the working poor. "i--i beg your pardon, my dear?" mr. simeon murmured, after gently admonishing his second son (eustace, aged 11, named after the master) for flipping bread pills across the table. "i am afraid i did not catch--" "i see there's a man has made forty thousand pounds by writing one. and he did it in three weeks, after beginning as a clerk in the stationery. . . . forty thousand pounds, only think! that's what i call turning cleverness to account." "but, my love, i don't happen to be clever," protested mr. simeon. his wife swallowed her morsel of potato. she was a worn-looking blonde, peevish, not without traces of good looks. she wore the sleeves of her bodice rolled up to the elbows, and her wrists and forearms were bleached by her morning's work at the wash-tub. "then i'm sure i don't know what else you are!" said she, looking at him straight. mr. simeon sighed. ever on mondays he returned at midday to a house filled with steam and the dank odour of soap-suds, and to the worst of the week's meagre meals. a hundred times he had reproached himself that he did ungratefully to let this affect him, for his wife (poor soul) had been living in it all day, whereas his morning had been spent amid books, rare prints, statuettes, soft carpets, all the delicate luxuries of master blanchminster's library. yet he could not help feeling the contrast; and the children were always at their most fractious on mondays, chafed by a morning in school after two days of freedom. "where are you going this afternoon?" his wife asked. "to blow the organ for windeatt." dr. windeatt (mus. doc. oxon.) was the cathedral organist. "has he offered to pay you?" "well--it isn't _pay_ exactly. there was an understanding that if i blew for him this afternoon--old brewer being laid up with the shingles--he would take me through that tenor part in the new _venite exultemus_. it's tricky, and yesterday morning i slurred it horribly." "tc'ht! a man of your education blowing an organ, and for nothing! if there was any money in it one wouldn't mind so much. . . . but you let yourself be put upon by anybody." mr. simeon was silent. he knew that to defend himself would be to court a wrangle, reproaches, tears perhaps, all unseemly before the children; and, moreover, what his wife said was more than half deserved. "daddy, why _don't_ you write a play?" demanded the five-year-old agatha. "and then mammy would have a carriage, and i'd go to a real boarding-school with canaries in the window like they have at miss dickinson's." the meal over, mr. simeon stole away to the cathedral. he was unhappy; and as he passed through friars' gateway into the close, the sight of the minster, majestical above its green garth, for once gave no lift to his spirit. the great central tower rose against a sky of clearest blue, strong and foursquare as on the day when its norman builders took down their scaffolding. white pigeons hovered or perched on niche and corbel. but fortitude and aspiration alike had deserted mr. simeon for the while. life--hard life and poverty--had subdued him to be one of the petty, nameless crowd this cathedral had seen creep to their end in its shadow. . . . "what should such creatures as i do, crawling between earth and heaven?" a thousand thousand such as mr. simeon had listened or lifted their voice to its anthems--had aspired for the wings of a dove, to fly away and be at rest. where now were all their emotions? he entered by a side-door of the western porch. the immense, solemn nave, if it did not catch his thoughts aloft, at least hushed them in awe. to mr. simeon merchester cathedral was a passion, nearer, if not dearer, than wife or children. he had arrived ten minutes ahead of the appointed time. as he walked towards the great organ he heard a child's voice, high-pitched and clear, talking behind the traceries of the choir screen. he supposed it the voice of some irreverent chorister, and stepping aside to rebuke it, discovered corona and brother copas together gazing up at the coffins above the canopy. "and is king alfred really up there?--the one that burnt the cakes?-and if so, which?" corona was asking, too eager to think of grammar. brother copas shrugged his shoulders. "what's left of him is up there somewhere." 'here are sands, ignoble things dropped from the ruined sides of kings.' "--but the parliament troopers broke open the coffins and mixed the dust sadly. the latin says so. '_in this and the neighbouring chests_' (or caskets, as you say in america), '_confounded in a time of civil fury, reposes what dust is left of_--' ah, good afternoon, mr. simeon! this young lady has laid forcible hands on me to give her an object-lesson in english history. do you, who know ten times more of the cathedral than i, come to my aid." "if you are looking for king alfred," answered mr. simeon, beaming on corona through his glasses, "there's a tradition that his dust lies in the second chest to the right . . . a tradition only. no one really knows." corona shifted her position some six paces to the right, and tilted her gaze up at the coffer as though she would crick her neck. "aye, missie"--mr. simeon still beamed--"they're up there, the royal ones--dane and norman and angevin; and not one to match the great anglo-saxon that was father of us all." brother copas grunted impatiently. "my good simeon, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! god forbid that one should decry such a man as alfred was. but the pedantry of freeman and his sect, who tried to make 'english' a conterminous name and substitute for 'anglo-saxon,' was only by one degree less offensive than the ignorance of your modern journalist who degrades englishmen by writing them down (or up, the poor fool imagines) as anglo-saxons. in truth, king alfred was a noble fellow. no one in history has struggled more pluckily to rekindle fire in an effete race or to put spirit into an effete literature by pretending that both were of the prime." "come, come," murmured mr. simeon, smiling. "i see you are off upon one of your hobbies. . . . but you will not tell me that the fine rugged epic of _beowulf_, to which the historians trace back all that is noblest in our poetry, had lost its generative impulse even so early as alfred's time. that were too extravagant!" "_brekekekex, ten brink, ten brink!_" snapped brother copas. "all the frogs in chorus around charon's boat! fine rugged fiddlestick--have you ever read _beowulf_?" "in translation only." "you need not be ashamed of labour saved. i once spent a month or two in mastering anglo-saxon, having a suspicion of germans when they talk about english literature, and a deeper suspicion of english critics who ape them. then i tackled _beowulf_, and found it to be what i guessed--no rugged national epic at all, but a blown-out bag of bookishness. impulse? generative impulse?--the thing is wind, i tell you, without sap or sinew, the production of some conscientious anglo-saxon whose blue eyes, no doubt, watered with the effort of inflating it. i'll swear it never drew a human tear otherwise. . . . that's what the whole anglo-saxon race had become when alfred arose to galvanise 'em for a while--a herd of tall, flabby, pale-eyed men, who could neither fight, build, sing, nor enforce laws. and so our england--wise as austria in mating--turned to other nuptials and married william the norman. behold then a new breed; the country covered with sturdy, bullet-headed, energetic fellows, who are no sooner born than they fly to work--hammers going, scaffolds climbing; cities, cathedrals springing up by magic; and all to a new song that came with some imported workmen from the provence--" 'quan la douss' aura venta deves vostre pays'-"and so--pop!--down the wind goes your pricked bladder of a _beowulf_: down the wind that blows from the mediterranean, whence the arts and the best religions come." mr. simeon rubbed the side of his jaw thoughtfully. "ah," said he, "i remember master blanchminster saying something of the sort the other day. he was talking of wine." "yes--the best religions and the best wine: they go together. could ever an anglo-saxon have built _that_, think you?" demanded brother copas with a backward jerk of the head and glance up at the vaulted roof. "but to my moral.--all this talk of anglo-saxons, celts, and the rest is rubbish. we are english by chemical action of a score of interfused bloods. that man is a fool who speaks as though, at this point of time, they could be separated: had he the power to put his nonsense into practice he would be a wicked fool. and so i say, mr. simeon, that the roundheads--no pure anglo-saxon, by the way, ever had a round head--who mixed up the dead dust in the caskets aloft there, were really leaving us a sound historical lesson--" but here mr. simeon turned at the sound of a brisk footstep. dr. windeatt had just entered by the western door. "you'll excuse me? i promised the doctor to blow the organ for him." "do people blow upon organs?" asked corona, suddenly interested. "i thought they played upon them the same as pianos, only with little things that pulled out at the sides." "come and see," mr. simeon invited her, smiling. the three went around to the back of the organ loft. by and by when mr. simeon began to pump, and after a minute, a quiet _adagio_, rising upon a throb of air, stole along the aisles as though an angel spoke in it, or the very spirit of the building, tears sprang into the child's eyes and overflowed. she supposed that mr. simeon alone was working this miracle. . . . blinking more tears away, she stared at him, meeting his mild, half-quizzical gaze as he stooped and rose and stooped again over the bellows. brother copas, touching her elbow, signed to her to come away. she obeyed, very reluctantly. by a small doorway in the southern aisle she followed him out into the sunshine of the cathedral close. "but how does he do it?" she demanded. "he doesn't look a bit as if he could do anything like that--not in repose." brother copas eyed her and took snuff. "he and the like of him don't touch the stops, my dear. he and the like of him do better; they supply the afflatus." o ye holy and humble men of heart, bless ye the lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever! mr. simeon worked mechanically, heaving and pressing upon the bellows of the great organ. his mind ran upon master copas's disparagement of _beowulf_ and the anglo-saxons. it was ever the trouble that he remembered an answer for brother copas after brother copas had gone. . . . why had he not bethought him to cite caedmon, at any rate, against that sweeping disparagement? how went the story?- caedmon was a lay brother, a tender of cattle at the abbey of whitby under the abbess hilda who founded it. until somewhat spent in years he had never learnt any poems. therefore at a feast, when all sang in turn, so soon as he saw the harp coming near him, he would rise and leave the table and go home. once when he had gone thus from the feast to the stables, where he had night-charge of the beasts, as he yielded himself to sleep one stood over him and said, greeting him by name, "caedmon, sing some song to me." "i cannot sing," he said, "and for this cause left i the feast." "but you shall sing to me," said the vision. "lord, what shall i sing?" "sing the creation," said the vision. caedmon sang, and in the morning remembered what he had sung . . . "if this indeed happened to caedmon, and late in life" (mused mr. simeon, heaving on the bellows of the great organ), "might not even some such miracle befall me?" lord, i have loved the habitation of thy house, and the place where thine honour dwelleth. "i might even write a play," thought mr. simeon. chapter xii. mr. isidore takes charge. "uncle copas," said corona, as the two passed out through the small doorway in the southern aisle and stood blinking in the sunshine, "i want you next to show me what's left of the old castle where the kings lived: that is, if you're not tired." "tired, child? 'tis our business--'tis the brethren's business-to act as guides around the relics of merchester. by fetching a very small circuit we can take the castle on our way, and afterwards walk home along the water-meads, my favourite path." corona slipped her hand into his confidentially. together they left the close, and passing under the king's gate, turned down college street, which led them by the brewhouse and outer porch of the great school. a little beyond it, where by a conduit one of the mere's hurrying tributaries gushed beneath the road, they came to a regiment of noble elms guarding a gateway, into which brother copas turned aside. a second and quite unpretentious gateway admitted them to a green meadow, in shape a rough semicircle, enclosed by ruinated walls. "you may come here most days of the month," said brother copas, holding the gate wide, "and never meet a soul. 'tis the tranquillest, most forsaken spot in the city's ambit." but here, as corona caught her breath, he turned and stared. the enclosure was occupied by a squad of soldiers at drill. they wore uniforms of khaki, and, dressed up with their backs to the gateway, were performing the simple movements of foot drill in face of a choleric sergeant-major, who shouted the words of command, and of a mounted officer who fronted the squad, silent, erect in saddle, upon a strapping bay. some few paces behind this extremely military pair stood a couple of civilian spectators side by side, in attire-frock-coats, top-hats, white waistcoats--which at a little distance gave them an absurd resemblance to a brace of penguins. "heavens!" murmured brother copas. "is it possible that bamberger has become twins? one never knows of what these jews are capable. . . ." his gaze travelled from the two penguins to the horseman in khaki. he put up a shaking hand to shade it. "colt? colt in regimentals? oh, this must be vertigo!" at a word from the sergeant-major the squad fell out and stood in loose order, plainly awaiting instructions. mr. colt--yes, indeed it was the chaplain--turned his charger's head half-about as the two frock-coated civilians stepped forward. "now, mr. bamberger, my men are at your disposal." "i t'ank you, reverent mr. major--if zat is ze form to address you--" began mr. bamberger's double. "'major,' _tout court_, if you please," mr. colt corrected him. "one drops the 'reverend' while actually on military duty." "so? ach, pardon!--i should haf known. . . now ze first is, we get ze angle of view, where to place our grandt standt so ze backgrount mek ze most pleasing pigture. at ze same time ze standt must not tresbass--must not imbinge, _hein_?--upon our stage, our what-you-call-it area. two t'ousand berformers--we haf not too mooch room. i will ask you, mr. major, first of all to let your men--zey haf tent-pegs, _hein_?--to let your men peg out ze area as i direct. afterwards, with your leaf, you shall place z'em here--z'ere--in groups, zat i may see in some sort how ze groups combose, as we say. himmel! what a backgroundt! ze cathedral, how it lifts over ze trees--bar-fect! now, if you will follow me a few paces to ze right, here . . . ach! see yonder, by ze gate! zat old man in ze red purple _poncho_--haf ze berformers already begon to aszemble zemselves? . . ." mr. colt slewed his body about in the saddle. "eh? . . . oh, that's brother copas, one of our beauchamp brethren. mediaeval he looks, doesn't he? i assure you, sir, we keep the genuine article in merchester." "you haf old men dressed like _zat_? . . . my dear julius, i see zis bageant retty-made!" "it was at st. hospital--the almshouse for these old fellows--that the notion first came into my head." "sblendid! . . . we will haf a brocession of them; or, it may be, a whole ebisode. . . . will you bid him come closer, mr. major, zat i may study ze costume in its detail?" "certainly." mr. colt beckoned to brother copas, who came forward still holding corona by the hand. "brother copas, mr. isidore bamberger here--brother of our member--desires to make your acquaintance." "i am honoured," said brother copas politely. "ach, so!" burst in mr. isidore. "i was telling the major how moch i admire zat old costume of yours." "it is not for sale, however." brother copas faced the two hebrews with his ironical smile. "i am sorry to disappoint you, sirs, but i have no old clothes to dispose of, at present." "no offence, no offence, i hope?" put in mr. julius. "my brother, sir, is an artist--" "be easy, sir: i am sure that he intended none. for the rest," pursued brother copas with a glance at mr. colt and a twinkle, "if we had time, all four of us here, to tell how by choice or necessity we come to be dressed as we are, i dare say our stories might prove amusing as the calenders' in _the arabian nights_." "you remind me," said mr. isidore, "zat i at any rate must not keep zese good territorials standing idle. another time--at your service--" he waved a hand and hurried off to give an instruction to the sergeant-major. his brother followed and overtook him. "damn it all, isidore! you might remember that merchester is my constituency, and my majority less than half a hundred." "_hein_? for what else am i here but to helb you to increase it?" "then why the devil start by offending that old chap as you did?" "eh? i offended him somehow. zat is certain: zough why on earth he should object to having his dress admired--" mr. isidore checked his speech upon a sudden surmise. "my goot julius, you are not telling me he has a vote!" "you silly fool, of course he has!" "gott in himmel! i am sorry, julius. . . . i--i sobbosed, in england, that paupers--" "state-paupers," corrected his brother. "private paupers, like the brethren of st. hospital, rank as tenants of their living-rooms." "i shall never gombrehend the institutions of zis country," groaned mr. isidore. "never mind: make a pageant of 'em," said his brother grimly. "i'll forgive you this time, if you'll promise me to be more careful." "i'll do more, julius. i'll get aroundt ze old boy somehow: mek him bivot-man in a brocession, or something of the sort. i got any amount of tagt, once i know where to use it." "smart man, our member!" commented mr. colt, gazing after the pair. "and mr. isidore doesn't let the grass grow under his feet, hey?" "has an eye for detail, too," answered brother copas, taking snuff. "see him there, upbraiding his brother for want of tact towards a free and independent elector. . . . but--excuse me--for what purpose are these two parcelling out the castle meadow?" "you've not heard? there's a suggestion--and i may claim some share in the credit of it, if credit there be--to hold a pageant here next summer, a merchester pageant. mr. bamberger's full of it. what's your idea?" "a capital notion," said brother copas slowly. "since _jam pridem syrus in tamesin defluxit orontes_, i commend any attempt to educate mr. bamberger and his tribe in the history of this england they invade. but, as you say, this proposed pageant is news to me. i never seem to hear any gossip. it had not even reached me, mr. chaplain, that you were deserting st. hospital to embrace a military career." "nor am i. . . . at cambridge i ever was an ardent volunteer. here in merchester (though this, too, may be news to you) i have for years identified myself with all movements in support of national defence. the church lads' brigade, i may say, owed its inception to me; likewise the young communicants' miniature rifle association; and for three successive years our merchester boy scouts have elected me president and scoutmaster. it has been a dream of my life, brother copas, to link up the youth of britain in preparation to defend the motherland, pending that system of compulsory national service which (we all know) must eventually come. and so when sir john shaftesbury, as chairman of our county territorial force association, spoke to the lord-lieutenant, who invited me to accept a majority in the mershire light infantry, second battalion, territorial--" "i can well understand, sir," said brother copas, as mr. colt drew breath; "and i thank you for telling me so much. no wonder sir john enlisted such energy as yours! yet--to be equally frank with you--i am sorry." "you disapprove of national service?" "i approve of it with all my heart. every young man should prepare himself to fight, at call, for his country. but the devotion should be voluntary." "ah, but suppose our young men will not? suppose they prefer to attend football matches--" "that, sir--if i may respectfully suggest it--is your business to prevent. and i might go on to suggest that the clergy, by preaching compulsory military service, lay themselves open, as avowed supporters of 'law and order,' to a very natural suspicion. we will suppose that you get your way, and every young briton is bound, on summons, to mobilise. we will further suppose a conservative government in power, and confronted with a devastating strike--shall we say a railwaymen's strike? what more easy than to call out one-half of the strikers on service and oblige them, under pain of treason, to coerce the other half? do you suppose that this nation will ever forget hounslow heath?" "let us, then," said mr. colt, "leave arguing this question of compulsory national service until another occasion, when i shall hope to convince you. for the moment you'll allow it to be every man's duty, as a citizen, to carry arms for his country?" "every man's, certainly--if by that you exclude priests." "why exclude priests?" "because a priest, playing at warfare, must needs be mixing up things that differ. as i see it, mr. colt, your gospel forbids warfare; and if you consent to follow an army, your business is to hold a cross above human strife and point the eyes of the dying upward, to rest on it, thus rebuking men's passions with a vision of life's ultimate peace." "yet a bishop of beauvais (as i read) once thought it not unmeet to charge with a mace at the head of a troop; and our own dear archbishop maclagan of york, as everyone knows, was once lieutenant in a cavalry regiment!" "oh, la, la!" chuckled brother copas. "be off, then, to your territorials, mr. chaplain! i see mr. isidore, yonder, losing his temper with the squad as only an artist can. . . . but--believe an old man, dear sir--you on your horse are not only misreading the sermon but mistaking the mount!" mr. colt rode off to his squad, and none too soon; for the men, startled by mr. isidore's sudden onslaught of authority and the explosive language in which he ordered them hither and thither, cursing one for his slowness with the measuring-tape, taking another by the shoulders and pushing him into position, began to show signs of mutiny. mr. julius bamberger mopped a perspiring brow as he ran about vainly trying to interpose. "isidore, this is damned nonsense, i tell you!" "you leave 'em to me," panted mr. isidore. "tell me i don't understand managing a crowd like this! it's part of ze _method_, my goot julius. put ze fear of ze lord into 'em, to start wiz. zey gromble at first; zen zey findt zey like it: in the endt zey lof you. _hein_? it is not for nozzing zey call me ze bageant king! . . ." the old man and the child, left to themselves, watched these operations for a while across the greensward, over which the elms now began to lengthen their shadows. "the chaplain was right," said brother copas. "mr. isidore certainly does not let the grass grow under his feet." "if i were the grass, i shouldn't want to," said corona. chapter xiii. garden and laundry. "the nasty pigs!" nurse branscome's face, usually composed and business-like (as a nurse's should be), was aflush between honest shame and equally honest scorn. "to be sure," said brother copas soothingly. he had met her by chance in the ambulatory on her way from brother bonaday's rooms. on a sudden resolve he had told her of the anonymous letter, not showing it, but conveying (delicately as he might) its substance. "to be sure," he repeated. "but i am thinking--" "as if i don't know your thoughts!" she interrupted vigorously. "you are thinking that, to save scandal, i had better cease my attendance on brother bonaday, and hand over the case to nurse turner. that i could do, of course; and if _he_ knows of it, i certainly shall. have you told him?" brother copas shook his head. "no. what is more, i have not the smallest intention of telling him." "thank you. . . . oh, but it is vile--vile!" "so vile that, believe me, i had great difficulty in telling you." "i am sure you had. . . . i can hand over the case to nurse turner, of course; in fact, it came on her _rota_, but she asked me as a favour to take it, having her hands full just then with brother royle and brother dasent's rheumatics. it will be hard, though, to give up the child." nurse branscome flushed again. "oh, yes--you are a gentleman, brother copas, and will not misunderstand! i have taken a great liking for the child, and she will ask questions if i suddenly desert her. you see the fix? . . . besides, nurse turner--i hope i am not becoming like one of these people, but i must say it--nurse turner has not a nice mind." "there we get at it," said brother copas. "as a fact, you were far from reading my thoughts just now. they did not (forgive me) concern themselves with you or your wisest line of conduct. you are a grown woman, and know well enough that honesty will take care of its own in the end. i was thinking rather of corona. as you say, she has laid some hold upon the pair of us. she has a pathetic belief in all the inmates of st. hospital--and god pity us if our corruption infects this child! . . . you take me?" nurse branscome looked at him squarely. "if i could save her from that!" "you would risk appearances?" "gladly. . . . will you show me the letter?" brother copas shook his head. "you must take it on faith from me for a while . . . at any rate until i find out who in st. hospital begins her 'w's' with a curl like a ram's horn. did you leave the child with her father?" "no; she had run out to the kitchen garden. since she has discovered it she goes there regularly twice a day, morning and evening. i can't think why, and she won't tell. she is the queerest child." the walled kitchen garden of st. hospital lies to the south, between the back of the "nunnery" and the river mere. it can be reached from the ambulatory by a dark, narrow tunnel under the nurses' lodgings. the brethren never went near it. for years old battershall, the gardener, had dug there in solitude--day in, day out--and had grown his vegetables, hedged in from all human intercourse, nor grumbling at his lot. corona, exploring the precincts, had discovered this kitchen garden, found it to her mind, and thereafter made free of it with the cheerfullest _insouciance_. the dark tunnel, to begin with, put her in mind of some adventure in a fairy tale she could not recall; but it opened of a sudden and enchantingly upon sunshine and beds of onions, parsley, cabbages, with pale yellow butterflies hovering. old battershall, too, though taciturn, was obviously not displeased by her visits. he saw that while prying here and there--especially among the parsley beds, for what reason he could not guess--the child stole no fruit, did no harm. she trampled nothing. she lifted no leaf to harm it. when she stopped to speak with him her talk was "just nonsense, you know." unconsciously, by the end of the third day he had looked up twice or thrice from his delving, asking himself why she was late. and what (do you suppose) did corona seek in the kitchen garden? she too, unknowing, was lonely. unknowing, this child felt a need for children, companions. uncle copas's doll--well meant and priced at 1s. 3d.--had somehow missed to engage her affections. she could not tell him so, but she hated it. like every woman-child of her age she was curious about babies. she had heard, over in america, that babies came either at early morning or at shut of eve, and were to be found in parsley beds. now old mr. battershall grew parsley to make you proud. at the merchester rural gardening show he regularly took first prize; his potting-shed, in the north-east angle of the wall, was papered with winning tickets from bench to roof. at first when he saw corona moving about the bed, lifting the parsley leaves, he had a mind to chide her away; for, as he put it, "children and chicken be always a-pickin'--the mischief's in their natur'." finding, however, that she did no damage, yet harked back to the parsley again and again, he set her down for an unusually intelligent child, who somehow knew good gardening when she saw it. "glad to see you admirin' it, missie," he said one morning, coming up behind her unperceived. corona, in the act of upturning a leaf, started and drew back her hand. babies--she could not tell why--made their appearance in this world by stealth, and must be searched for furtively. "a mort o' prizes i've took with that there parsley one time and another," pursued mr. battershall, not perceiving the flush of guilt on her face (for his eyesight was, in his own words, not so young as it used to be). "goodbody's curly mammoth is the strain, and i don't care who knows it, for the secret's not in the strain, but in the way o' raisin' it. i grows for a succession, too. summer or winter these six-an'-twenty years st. hospital's ne'er been without a fine bed o' parsley, i thank the lord!" six-and-twenty years. . . . it was comforting in a way to know that parsley grew here all the seasons round. but--six-and-twenty years, and not one child in the place save herself, who had come over from america! yet mr. battershall was right; it _seemed_ excellent parsley. "you don't find that anything comes and--and takes away--" she hazarded, but came to a full stop. "there's slugs," answered mr. battershall stolidly, "and there's snails. terrible full o' snails the old wall was till i got the master to repoint it." "would snails--" "eh?" he asked as she hesitated. "they might take away the--the flowers, for instance." old battershall guffawed. "you wasn' sarchin' for flowers, was you? dang me, but that's a good 'un! . . . i don't raise my own seed, missie, if that's your meanin'; an' that bein' so, he'd have to get up early as would find a flower in my parsley." ah, this might explain it! as she eyed him, her childish mind searching the mystery, yet keeping its own secret, corona resolved to steal down to the garden one of these fine mornings very early indeed. "now i'll tell you something about parsley," said mr. battershall; "something very curious, and yet it must be true, for i heard the master tell it in one of his sermons. the ancients, by which i mean the greeks, set amazin' store by the yerb. there was a kind of athletic sports--sort of crystal palace meetin'--_the_ great event, as you might say, and attractin' to sportsmen all over greece--" "all over what?" "greece. which is a country, missy, or, at any rate, was so. the meeting was held every four years; and what d'ye suppose was the top prize, answerin', as you may say, to the championship cup? why, a wreath o' parsley! 'garn!' says you. and 'parsley!' says you. which a whole wreath of it might cost fivepence at the outside. . . ." now corona, whose mind was ever picking up and hoarding such trifles, had heard uncle copas two days before drop a remark that the greeks knew everything worth knowing. plainly, then, the parsley held some wonderful secret after all. she must contrive to outwit old battershall, and get to the garden ahead of him, which would not be easy, by the way. to begin with, on these summer mornings old battershall rose with the lark, and boasted of it; and, furthermore, the door of her father's bedroom stood open all night. to steal abroad she must pass it, and he was the lightest of sleepers. she did not intend to be beaten, though; and meanwhile she punctually visited the parsley morning and evening. heaven knows how the day-dream came to take possession of her. she was not consciously lonely. she worshipped this marvellous new home. sometimes in her rambles she had to pinch herself to make sure this was all really happening. but always in her rambles she saw st. hospital peopled with children--boys, girls, and little toddlers--chasing one another across the lawns, laughing at hide-and-seek in the archways, bruising no flower-bed, filling old souls with glee. they were her playmates, these innocents of her fancy, the long day through. at evening in her prayers she called them home, and they came reluctant- no, no, let us play, for it is yet day and we cannot go to sleep; besides, in the sky the little birds fly and the hills are all covered with sheep. the tunnel was populous with them as she passed through it from the garden to the ambulatory, and at the end of the tunnel she came plump upon branny and uncle copas in converse. they started guiltily. "i've been looking for you this half-hour," said brother copas, recovering himself. "didn't a certain small missy make an appointment with me to be shown the laundry and its wonders? and isn't this tuesday--ironing day?" "you promised to show it to me _some time_," answered corona, who was punctilious in small matters; "but you never fixed any time in p'tic'lar." "oh, then i must have made the appointment with myself! never mind; come along now, if you can spare the time." nurse branscome nodded and left them, turning in at the stairway which led to her quarters in the nunnery. at the foot of it she paused to call after them-"mind, corona is not to be late for her tea! i've invited myself this evening, and there is to be a plum cake in honour of the occasion." brother copas and corona passed down the ambulatory and by the porter's lodge to the outer court. of a sudden, within a few paces of the laundry, brother copas halted to listen. "you had better stop here for a moment," he said, and walked forward to the laundry door, the hasp of which he lifted after knocking sharply with his staff. he threw the door open and looked in, surveying the scene with an angry disgust. "hallo! more abominations?" exclaimed brother copas. the quarrel had started in the forenoon over a dirty trick played by brother clerihew, the ex-butler. (brother clerihew had a name for underhand practice; indeed, his inability to miss a chance of it had cost him situation after situation, and finally landed him in st. hospital.) this time he had played it upon poor old doddering brother ibbetson. finding ibbetson in the porter's gateway, with charge of a lucrative-looking tourist and in search of the key of the relique room, he noted that the key, usually handed out by porter manby, hung on a hook just within the doorway; but old ibbetson, being purblind, could not see it, or at all events could not recognise it, and manby happened to be away at the brewhouse on some errand connected with the wayfarers' dole. brother clerihew, who had left him there, sent ibbetson off on a chase in the wrong direction, loitered around for a couple of minutes chatting about the weather, and then, with a remark that it was shameful to keep gentlefolks waiting so, looked casually in at the doorway. "why the key is here all the time!" he exclaimed. "if you are in any hurry, sir, permit me to take brother ibbetson's place, and show you round. oh," he added falsely, seeing the visitor hesitate, "it won't hurt _him_ at all! i don't like to mention it, but any small gratuities bestowed on the brethren are carried to a common fund." ibbetson, harking back from a vain search to find his bird had flown, encountered porter manby returning with brother warboise from the brew-house, and tremulously opened up his distress. "eh?" snapped warboise, after exchanging glances with the porter. "clerihew said manby was in the kitchen, did he? but he'd left us at the brewhouse not a minute before." "and the key! gone from the hook!" chimed in porter manby, "where i'll swear i left it. this is one of clerihew's monkeyings, you bet." "i'll monkey him," growled brother warboise. the three kept sentry, knowing that clerihew must sooner or later return with his convoy, there being no other exit. when at length he hove in sight with his convoy his face wore an uneasy, impudent smile. he was the richer by half a crown. they stood aside and let him brazen it past them; but manby and ibbetson were still waiting for him as he came back alone. ibbetson was content with a look of reproach. manby told him fair and straight that he was a swindling cur. but meanwhile warboise had stumped off and told ibbetson's wife. this done, he hurried off, and catching clerihew by the steps of the hundred men's hall, threatened the rogue with his staff. manby caught them in altercation, the one aiming impotent blows, the other evading them still with his shameless grin, and separated them. brother ibbetson looked on, feebly wringing his hands. but mrs. ibbetson was worth three of her husband, and a notorious scold. in the laundry, later on, she announced within earshot of mrs. clerihew that, as was well beknown, clerihew had lost his last three places for bottle-stealing; and mrs. royle, acknowledged virago of st. hospital, took up the accusation and blared it obscenely. for a good five minutes the pair mauled mrs. clerihew, who, with an air of high gentility, went on ironing shirts. she had been a lady's maid when clerihew married her, and could command, as a rule, a high-bred, withering sneer. unhappily, the united attack of mrs. ibbetson and mrs. royle goaded her so far beyond the bounds of breeding that of a sudden she upped and called the latter a bitch; whereupon, feeling herself committed, this ordinarily demure woman straightened her spine and followed up the word with a torrent of filthy invective that took the whole laundry aback. her success was but momentary. mrs. royle had a character to maintain. fetching a gasp, she let fly the dirtiest word one woman can launch at another, and on the instant made a grab at mrs. clerihew's brow. . . . it was a matter of notoriety in st. hospital that mrs. clerihew wore a false "front." the thing came away in mrs. royle's clutch, and amid shrieks of laughter mrs. royle tossed it to mrs. ibbetson, who promptly clapped down a hot flat-iron upon it. the spectators rocked with helpless mirth as the poor woman strove to cover her bald brows, while the thing hissed and shrivelled to nothing, emitting an acrid odour beneath the relentless flat-iron. "ladies! ladies!" commanded brother copas. "a visitor, if you please!" the word--as always in st. hospital--instantly commanded a hush. the women fled back to their tables, and started ironing, goffering, crimping for dear life, with irons hot and cold. brother copas, with a chuckle, leant back and beckoned corona in from the yard. at sight of her on the threshold mrs. royle broke into a coarse laugh. it found no echo, and died away half-heartedly. for one thing, there might yet be a real visitor behind the child; for another, these women stood in some little awe of brother copas, who paid well for his laundry-work, never mixed himself up with gossip, and moreover had a formidable trick of lifting his hat whenever he passed one of these viragoes, and after a glance at her face, fixing an amused stare at her feet. "pardon me, ladies," said he; "but my small laundry-work has hitherto gone, as you know, to old mrs. vigurs in st. faith's road. last week she sent me word that she could no longer undertake it, the fact being that she has just earned her old age pension and is retiring upon it. i come to ask if one of you will condescend to take her place and oblige me." he paused, tasting the fun of it. as he well knew, they all feared and hated him for his trick of irony; but at least half a dozen of them desired his custom, for in st. hospital (where nothing escaped notice) brother copas's fastidious extravagance in body-linen and his punctuality in discharging small debts were matters of common knowledge. moreover, in their present mood each of these women saw a chance of spiting another by depriving her of the job. brother copas eyed them with an amiable smile. "come," he said, "don't all speak at once! . . . i'll not ask you to bid for my little contract just now when i see you are all so busy. but seriously, i invite tenders, and will ask any one of you who cares for my custom to send me (say by to-morrow evening) a list of her prices in a sealed envelope, each envelope to bear the words 'washing list' in an upper corner, that i may put all the tenders aside and open them together. eh? what do you say, ladies?" "i shall be happy for one," said mrs. clerihew, laying stress on the aspirate. she was always careful of this, having lived with gentlefolks. she burned to know if brother copas had heard her call mrs. royle a bitch. mrs. royle (to do her justice) when enraged recked neither what she said nor who overheard. but mrs. clerihew, between her lapses, clung passionately to gentility and the world's esteem. she was conscious, moreover, that without her false "front" she must be looking a fright. . . . in short, the wretched woman rushed into speech because for the moment anything was more tolerable than silence. "i thank you, ma'am." neither voice nor look betrayed that brother copas had overheard or perceived anything amiss. mrs. clerihew, baffled, began desperately to curry favour. "and you've brought brother bonaday's pretty child, i see. . . . step over here, my dear, and watch me--when i've heated this iron. 'crimping,' they call it, and i've done it for titled folks in my time. one of these days, i hope, you'll be going into good service yourself. there's nothing like it for picking up manners." she talked for talking's sake, in a carneying tone, while her bosom still heaved from the storm of battle. mrs. royle attempted a ribald laugh, but it met with no success, and her voice died down under a disapproving hush. mrs. clerihew talked on, gaining confidence. she crimped beautifully, and this was the more remarkable because (as corona noted) her hand shook all the while. in short, the child had, as she put it, quite a good time. when it was time to be going she thanked mrs. clerihew very prettily, and walked back with brother copas to her father's room. they found nurse branscome there and the table already laid for tea; there was a plum cake, too. after tea branny told them all very gravely that this must be her last visit. she was giving over the care of corona's father to nurse turner, whose "case" it had really been from the first. she explained that the nurses, unless work were extra heavy, had to take their patients in a certain order, by what she called a _rota_. "but he's bettering every day now, so i don't mind." she nodded cheerfully towards brother bonaday, and then, seeing that corona's face was woebegone, she added: "but you will often be running across to the nunnery to see me. besides, i've brought a small parting gift to console you." she unwrapped a paper parcel, and held out a black boy-doll, a real golliwog, with white shirt buttons for eyes and hair of black berlin wool. "oh, branny!" corona, after holding the golliwog a moment in outstretched hands, strained it to her breast. "oh, branny! and till this moment i didn't know how much i've wanted him!" chapter xiv. brother copas on the house of lords. all love being a mystery, i see no reason to speculate how or why it came to pass that corona, who already possessed two pink and waxen girl-dolls, and treated them with the merest contempt, took this black manikin of a golliwog straight to her heart to share its innermost confidences. it happened so, and there's no more to be said. next morning corona paid an early call at the nunnery. "i'm afraid," she said in her best society manner, "this is a perfeckly ridiklous hour. but you are responsible for timothy in a way, aren't you?" "timothy?" echoed nurse branscome. "oh, i forgot!" corona patted the red-trousered legs of the golliwog, which she held, not as little girls usually hold dolls, but tucked away under her armpit. "timothy's his name, though i mean to call him timmy for short. but the point is, he's becoming rather a question." "in what way?" "well, you see, i have to take him to bed with me. he insists on it, which is all very well," continued corona, nodding sagely, "but one can't allow it in the same clothes day and night. it's like what uncle copas says of brother plant's linen; it positively isn't _sanitary_." "i see," said branny, laughing. "you want me to make a change of garments for him?" "i've examined him," answered corona. "there's a stitch here and there, but on the whole he'll unbutton quite easily; only i didn't like to do it until i'd consulted you. . . . and i don't want you to bother about the clothes, if you'll only show me how to cut out. i can sew quite nicely. mamma taught me. i was making a sampler all through her illness--_corona bonaday, aged six years and three months_; then the big and little abc, and the numbers up to ten; after that the lord's prayer down to _forgive us our trespasses_. when we got to that she died. . . . i want to begin with a suit of pajamas--no, i forgot; they're _py_jamas over here. whatever happens, i _do_ want him to be a gentleman," concluded corona earnestly. the end was that nurse branscome hunted up a piece of coloured flannel, and master timothy that same evening was stripped to indue a pyjama suit. corona carried him thus attired off to her bed in triumph--but not to sleep. brother bonaday, lying awake, heard her voice running on and on in a rapid monotone. ten o'clock struck, and he could endure the sound no longer. it seemed to him that she must be rambling in delirium, and slipping on his dressing-gown, he stole to her chamber door. "cannot you get to sleep, little maid?" "is that you, daddy?" answered corona. "i am so sorry, but timmy and i have been arguing. he's such a queer child; he has a lingering belief in the house of lords!" "now i wonder how she gets at that?" mused brother bonaday when he reported the saying to copas. "very simply we shall find; but you must give me a minute or so to think it out." "to be sure, with her american up-bringing there might naturally grow an instinctive disrespect for the hereditary principle." "i have not observed that disrespect in americans," answered brother copas dryly. "but we'll credit it to them if you will; and there at once you have a capital reason why our little miss bull should worship the house of lords as a fetish--whereas, it appears, she doesn't." "it's the queerer because, when it comes to the king, she worships the 'accident of birth,' as you might call it. to her king edward is nothing less than the lord's anointed." "quite so. . . . but please, my dear fellow, don't clap into _my_ mouth that silliest of phrases. 'accident of birth!' i once heard parturition pleaded as an accident--by a servant girl in trouble. funny sort of accident, hey? does ever anyone--did she, your own daughter, for example--come into this world fortuitously?" brother copas, taking snuff, did not perceive the twitch of his friend's face. his question seemed to pluck brother bonaday up short, as though with the jerk of an actual rope. "maybe," he harked back vaguely, "it's just caprice--the inconsequence of a child's mind--the mystery of it, some would say." "fiddlestick-end! there's as much mystery in corona as in the light of day about us at this moment; just so much and no more. if anything, she's deadly logical; when her mind puzzles us it's never by hocus-pocus, but simply by swiftness in operation. . . . i've learnt that much of the one female child it has ever been my lot to observe; and the lord may allow me to enjoy the success towards the close of a life largely spent in misunderstanding boys. stay a moment--" brother copas stood with corrugated brow. "i have it! i remember now that she asked me, two days ago, if i didn't think it disgusting that so many of our english peers went and married american heiresses merely for their money. probably she supposes that on these means our ancient nobility mainly finances itself. she amused me, too, by her obvious reluctance to blame the men. 'of course,' she said, 'the real fault is the women's, or would be if they knew what's decent. but you can't expect anything of _them_; they've had no nurture.' that was her word. so being a just child, she has to wonder how englishmen 'with nurture' can so demean themselves to get money. in short, my friend, your daughter--for love of us both maybe--is taking our picturesqueness too honestly. she inclines to find a merit of its own in poverty. it is high time we sent her to school." it was high time, as brother bonaday knew; if only because every child in england nowadays is legally obliged to be educated, and the local attendance officer (easily excused though he might be for some delay in detecting the presence of a child of alien birth in so unlikely a spot as st. hospital) would surely be on corona's track before long. but brother bonaday hated the prospect of sending her to the parish school, while he possessed no money to send her to a better. moreover, he obeyed a lifelong instinct in shying away from the call to decide. "but we were talking about the house of lords," he suggested feebly. "the hereditary principle--" brother copas inhaled his snuff, sideways eyeing this friend whose weakness he understood to a hair's-breadth. but he, too, had his weakness--that of yielding to be led away by dialectic on the first temptation. "aye, to be sure. the hereditary--principle, did you say? my dear fellow, the house of lords never had such a principle. the hereditary right to legislate slipped in by the merest slant of a side wind, and in its origin was just a handy expedient of the sort so dear to our constitution, logically absurd, but in practice saving no end of friction and dispute." "you will grant at any rate that, having once adopted it, the lords exalted it to rank as a principle." "yes, and for a time with amazing success. that was their capital error. . . . have you never observed, my good bonaday, how fatally miracles come home to roost? jonah spends three days and three nights in the whale's belly--why? simply to get his tale believed. _credo quia impossibile_ seldom misses to work well for a while. he doesn't foresee, poor fellow, that what makes his fortune with one generation of men will wreck his credit with another. . . . so with the house of lords--though here a miracle triumphantly pointed out as happening under men's eyes was never really happening at all. that in the loins of every titled legislator should lie the germ of another is a miracle (i grant you) of the first order, and may vie with jonah's sojourn in the whale's belly; nay, it deserved an even longer run for its money, since it persuaded people that they saw the miraculous succession. but nature was taking care all the time that it never happened. actually our peerages have perished, and new ones have been born at an astonishing rate; about half of them at this moment are younger than the great reform bill. a shrewd american remarked the other day, that while it is true enough a son may not inherit his father's ability, yet if the son of a rothschild can keep the money his father made he must in these days of liquid securities be a pretty able fellow. weaklings (added my american) don't last long, at any rate in our times. 'god and nature turn out the incompetents almost as quickly as would the electorate.' . . . but my point is that the house of lords, having in the past exploited this supposed miracle for all it was worth, are now (if the liberals have any sense) to be faced with the overdraft which every miracle leaves to be paid sooner or later. the longer-headed among the peers perceived this some years ago; they all see it now, and are tumbling over each other in their haste to dodge the 'hereditary principle' somehow. it is for the liberals to hold them firmly to the dear old miracle and rub their noses in it. so, and so only, will this electorate of ours rid itself, under a misapprehension, of a real peril, to which, if able to see the thing in its true form and dimensions, it would in all likelihood yield itself grovelling." "eh? i don't follow--" "i tell you, bonaday, the house of lords is in fact no hereditary curse at all. what the devil has it to do with the claims of old descent? does it contain a man whose ancestor ever saw agincourt? bankers, brewers, clothiers, mine-owners, company-promoters, journalists--our upper house to-day is a compact, fairly well-selected body of men who have pushed to success over their fellows. given such a body of supermen, well agreed among themselves, and knowing what they want, supplied with every temptation to feed on the necessities of the weak, armed with extravagant legal powers, even fortified with a philosophy in the sham darwin doctrine that, with nations as with men, the poverty of one is the wealth of another--there, my dear sir, you have a menace against which, could they realise it, all moderate citizens would be fighting for their lives. . . . but it is close upon dinner-time, and i refuse to extend these valuable but parenthetical remarks on the house of lords one whit farther to please your irresolution. . . . it's high time corona went to school." "i have not been well lately, as you know, brother. i meant all along, as soon as i picked up my strength again, to--" "tilly vally, tilly vally!" snapped brother copas. "since we are making excuses shall we add that, without admitting ourselves to be snobs, we have remarked a certain refinement--a delicacy of mind--in corona, and doubt if the bloom of it will survive the rough contact of a public elementary school? . . . come, i've thought of that, as a godfather should. you're aware that, a couple of years ago, a small legacy dropped in upon me--a trifling windfall of ten guineas a year. well, i've been wasting it on luxuries--a few books i don't read, a more expensive brand of tobacco, which really is no better than the old shag, some extra changes of body-linen. now since the education act of 1902 the fees in the public secondary day schools have been cut down to a figure quite ridiculously low, and the private day schools have been forced to follow suit. i dare say that seven pounds a year will send corona, say, to miss dickinson's genteel seminary--nay, i'll undertake to beat the lady down to that sum--and i shall still be left with three pounds and ten shillings to squander on shirts. now if you start thanking me--ah, there goes the dinner-bell! hurry, man--you're first on the roster!" chapter xv. canaries and greycoats. so corona was sent to school; but not, as it befell, to miss dickinson's. brother copas, indeed, paid a visit to miss dickinson, and, warned by some wise instinct, took the child with him. miss dickinson herself opened the front door, and explained with an accent of high refinement that her house-parlourmaid was indisposed that morning, and her cook busy for the moment. "you have some message for me?" she asked graciously; for the brethren of st. hospital pick up a little business as letter-carriers or _commissionaires_. on learning her visitor's errand, of a sudden she stiffened in demeanour. corona, watching her face intently, noted the change. "dear me, what a very unusual application!" said miss dickinson, but nevertheless invited them to step inside. "we can discuss matters more freely without the child," she suggested. "as you please, ma'am," said copas, "provided you don't ask her to wait in the street." corona was ushered into an apartment at the back--the boudoir, its mistress called it--and was left there amid a din of singing canaries, while miss dickinson carried off brother copas to the drawing-room. the boudoir contained some scholastic furniture and a vast number of worthless knick-knacks in poker-work, fret-work, leathern _applique_-work, gummed shell-work, wool-work, tambour-work, with crystoleum paintings and drawings in chalk and water-colour. on a table in front of the window stood a cage with five canaries singing in it. corona herself felt a sense of imprisonment, but no desire to sing. the window looked upon a walled yard, in which fifteen girls of various ages were walking through some kind of drill under an instructress whose appearance puzzled her until she remembered that miss dickinson's cook was "busy for the moment." corona watched their movements with an interest begotten of pity. the girls whispered and prinked, and exchanged confidences with self-conscious airs. they paid but a perfunctory attention to the drill. it was clear they despised their instructress. yet they seemed happy enough in a way. "i wonder why?" thought corona. "i don't like miss dickinson; first, because she has the nose of a witch, and next because she is afraid of us. i think she is afraid of us because we're poor. well, i'm not afraid of her--not really; but i'd feel mighty uncomfortable if she had dear old daddy in there alone instead of uncle copas." meanwhile in the drawing-room--likewise resonant with canaries--miss dickinson was carefully helping brother copas to understand that as a rule she excluded all but children of the upper classes. "it is not--if you will do me so much credit--that i _look down_ upon the others; but i find that the children themselves are not so happy when called upon to mix with those of a different station. the world, after all, is the world, and we must face facts as they are." "you mean, ma'am, that your young ladies--or some of them--might twit corona for having a father who wears the beauchamp robe." "i would not say _that_. . . . in fact i have some influence over them, it is to be hoped, and should impress upon them beforehand that the--er--subject is not to be alluded to." "that would be extremely tactful," said brother copas. he rose. "pray be seated. . . . as i dare say you know, mr.--" "copas." "--as i dare say you know, mr. copas, higher education in england just now is passing through a--er--phase: it is (to use a forcible, if possibly vulgar, expression) in a state of flux. i do not conceal from myself that this must be largely attributed to the education act of 1902." "ah!" brother copas dived finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket in search of his snuff-box, but, recollecting himself, withdrew them hastily. "mr balfour, whether he meant it or no, hit the private-venture schools beyond a doubt." "one may trust that it is but a temporary blow. i have, let me say, the utmost confidence in mr. balfour's statesmanship. i believe-far-sighted man that he is, and with his marvellous apprehension of the english character--" "'tis a scotchman's first aptitude," murmured brother copas, nodding assent. "--i believe mr. balfour looked beyond the immediate effect of the act and saw that, after the municipalities' and county councils' first success in setting up secondary schools of their own, each with its quota of poor, non-paying children, our sturdy british independence would rise against the--er--contact. the self-respecting parent is bound to say in time, 'no, i will _not_ have my son, still less my daughter, sitting with tom, dick and harry.' indeed, i see signs of this already--most encouraging signs. i have two more pupils this term than last, both children of respectable station." "i congratulate you, ma'am, and i feel sure that mr. balfour would congratulate himself, could he hear. but meantime the private-venture schools have been hit, especially those not fortunate enough to be 'recognised' by the board of education." "i seek no such recognition, sir," said miss dickinson stiffly. brother copas bowed. "forgive, ma'am, the intrusive ghost of a professional interest. i myself once kept a private school for boys. a precarious venture always, and it required no education act to wreck mine." "indeed?" miss dickinson raised her eyebrows in faint surprise, and anon contracted them. "had i known that you belonged to the scholastic profession--" she began, but leaving the sentence unfinished, appeared to relapse into thought. "believe me, ma'am," put in brother copas, "i mentioned it casually, not as hinting at any remission of your fees." "no, no. but i was thinking that it might considerably soften the--er--objection. you are not the child's parent, you say? nor grandparent?" "her godparent only, and that by adoption. in so much as i make myself responsible for her school fees, you may consider me her guardian. her father, brother bonaday, is a decayed gentleman, sometime of independent means, who married late in life, and, on top of this, was indiscreet enough to confide his affairs to a trusted family solicitor." "dear, dear! why did you not tell me all this to begin with?" demanded miss dickinson, rising. "shall we consider it agreed, then?--the child to come to me as soon as you wish." "i think we must first discover if she's willing," answered brother copas, rubbing his chin. "we will go to her." they found corona at the window of the boudoir. as the door opened she turned, ran to brother copas, and clung to him. "take me home! oh, please take me home!" "hey?" brother copas soothed her, patting the back of her head. "why, what is the matter, little maid? who has been frightening you?" "she turns them all into canaries--i know she does!" the child asserted, still shaking pitiably, but facing miss dickinson with accusation in her eyes. "you can tell it by her nose and chin. i--i thought you had gone away and left me with her." "you did not tell me she was hysterical," said miss dickinson. "it's news to me, ma'am. i'd best get her out into the fresh air at once." without waiting for permission, he swept corona out into the passage, and forth into the street. it is a question which felt the happier when they gained it, and stood drawing long breaths; but, of course, brother copas had to put on a severe face. "all very well, little maid!" "oh, i know you're disappointed with me," gasped corona. "i'm disappointed with myself. but it was all just like _jorinda and jorindel_; and if she's not a witch, and doesn't turn them into canaries, why does she keep all those cages?" she halted suddenly. "i hate to be a coward," she said. "if you'll come with me, uncle copas, i'll start back right here, and we'll go in and rescue them. it was the waiting i couldn't stand." "canaries?" brother copas stood and looked down on her. some apprehension of the absurd fancy broke on him, and he chuckled. "now you come to mention it, i dare say she _does_ turn 'em into canaries." "then we ought to go straight back and set them free," insisted corona. "if only we had the magic flower!" "i think i know who has it. . . . yes, you may take it from me, little one, that there's someone charged to put an end to miss dickinson's enchantments, and we may safely leave it to him." "who is he?" "the deliverer's name is county council. . . . but look here, child-if you make a fuss like this whenever i try to find a school for you--" "i won't make a fuss. and i _do_ want to go to school," interrupted corona. "i want to go to the greycoats." "the greycoats?" this was an ancient foundation in the city, in origin a charity-school, but now distinguished from the ordinary elementary schools in that its pupils paid twopence a week, and wore a grey uniform provided _per contra_ from the funds of the charity. "the greycoats?" repeated brother copas. "but i had a mind for you to fly higher, if you understand--" corona nodded. "and so i shall; that is, uncle, if you'll teach me latin, as you promised." she was easy in mind, since miss dickinson's canaries would be delivered. the name "county council" meant nothing to her, but it had affinity with other names and titles of romance--captain judgment, for instance, in _the holy war_, and county guy in the poetry book- ah! county guy, the hour is nigh-since uncle copas had said it, miss dickinson's hour was assuredly nigh. "this is not the way, though," corona protested. "we are walking right away from the greycoats!" brother copas halted. "i supposed that i was taking you back to st. hospital." "but you came out to put me to school, and i want to go to the greycoats." he pondered a moment. "ah, well, have it your own way!" they turned back toward the city. the greycoats inhabited a long, single-storeyed building on the eastern boundary of the cathedral close, the boys and girls in separate schools under the same high-pitched roof. as our two friends came in sight of it, corona-who had been running ahead in her impatience--hesitated of a sudden and turned about. "uncle copas, before we go in i want to tell you something. . . . i was really frightened--yes, really--in that wicked house. but i wanted to be a greycoat all the time. i want to wear a cloak that means i belong to merchester, same as you and daddy." "lord forgive me, she's proud of us!" murmured brother copas. "and i set out this morning to get her taught to despise us!" chapter xvi. the second letter. meanwhile certain small events not unconnected with this history were happening at st. hospital. at ten o'clock punctually mr. colt waited on the master. this was a part of the daily routine, but ninety-nine times in a hundred the chaplain's report resolved itself into a chat on the weather, the master's roses, some recent article in the _church times_ or the _guardian_. the talk was never very strenuous; for whereas mr. colt could never learn to distinguish one rose from another, on church affairs or on politics the master was hopelessly tolerant, antiquated, incurious even. what could one do with a dear old gentleman who, when informed of the latest, most dangerous promotion to a bishopric, but responded with "eh? 'so-and-so,' did you say? . . . yes, yes. i knew his father . . . an excellent fellow!" this morning, however, the chaplain wore a grave face. after a few words he came to business. "it concerns a letter i received this morning. the writer, who signs himself 'well wisher,' makes a disgusting allegation against old bonaday--an incredibly disgusting allegation. you will prefer to read it for yourself." mr. colt produced the letter from his pocket-book, and held it out. "eh?" exclaimed master blanchminster, receding. "another?" "i beg your pardon--?" the master adjusted his glasses, and bent forward, still without offering to touch the thing or receive it from mr. colt's hand. "yes, yes. i recognise the handwriting. . . . to tell the truth, my dear colt, i received just such a letter one day last week. for the moment it caused me great distress of mind." mr. colt was vexed, a little hurt, that the master had not consulted him about it. "you mean to say it contained--" "--the same sort of thing, no doubt: charges against brother bonaday and against one of the nurses: incredibly disgusting, as you say." "may i be allowed to compare the two letters? . . . i do not," said mr. colt stiffly, "seek more of your confidence than you care to bestow." "my dear fellow--" protested the master. "i merely suggest that, since it concerns the discipline of st. hospital--for which in the past you have honoured me with some responsibility--" "my dear fellow, you should see it and welcome; but the fact is--" here the master broke off. "i ought, no doubt, to have put it straight into the fire." "why?" asked mr. colt. "but the fact is, i gave it away." "gave it away! . . . to whom, may i ask?" "to brother copas, of all people," confessed the master with a rueful little chuckle. "yes, i don't wonder that you stare: yet it happened very simply. you remember the day i asked you to send him to me for a talk about the petition? well, he found me in distress over this letter, which i had just received, and on an impulse i showed it to him. i really wanted his assurance that the charge was as baseless as it was foul, and that assurance he gave me. so you may with an easy mind put your letter in the fire." "it would at any rate be a safer course than to give it away," said the chaplain, frowning. "a hit--a palpable hit! . . . i ought to have added that brother copas has a notion he can discover the writer, whom he positively asserts to be a woman. so i allowed him to take the thing away with him. i may as well confess," the old man added, "that i live in some dread of his making the discovery. of course it is horrible to think that st. hospital harbours anyone capable of such a letter; but to deal adequately with the culprit--especially if she be a woman--will be for the moment yet more horrible." "excuse me, master, if i don't quite follow you," said the chaplain unsympathetically. "you appear to be exercised rather over the writer than over brother bonaday, against whom the charge lies." "you have hit on the precise word," answered master blanchminster, smiling. "brother copas assures me--" "but is brother copas an entirely credible witness?" the master lifted his eyebrows in astonishment. "why, who should know better? he is brother bonaday's closest friend. surely, my dear fellow, i had thought you were aware of _that_!" in the face of this simplicity the chaplain could only grind his teeth upon a helpless inward wrath. it took him some seconds to recover speech. "on my way here," he said at length, "i made some small inquiries, and find that some days ago nurse branscome ceased her attendance on bonaday, handing over the case to our excellent nurse turner. this, of course, may mean little." "it may mean that brother copas has taken occasion to warn her." "it means, anyhow, that--whether prudently or by accident--she has given pause to the scandal. in this pause i can, perhaps, make occasion to get at the truth; always with your leave, of course." "there can be no question of my giving leave or withholding it. you have received a private letter, which you perceive i have no desire to read. you must act upon it as directed by your own--er-taste. and now shall we talk of something else?" he said it with a mild dignity which effectively closed the discussion and left mr. colt raging. in and about st. hospital nine observers out of ten would have told you that the chaplain held this dear, do-nothing old master in the hollow of his hand, and on nine occasions out of ten the chaplain felt sure of it. on the tenth he found himself mocked, as a schoolboy believes he has grasped a butterfly and opens his fingers cautiously, to find no prisoner within them. he could never precisely understand how it happened, and it never failed to annoy him heavily. after bidding the master good morning he went straight to brother bonaday's lodging. brother bonaday, now fairly convalescent, was up and dressed and seated in his arm-chair, whiling away the morning with a newspaper. in days of health he had been a diligent reader of dull books; had indeed (according to his friend copas--but the story may be apocryphal) been known to sit up past midnight with an antiquated _annual report of the registrar-general_, borrowed from the shelf of brother inchbald, whose past avocations had included the registering of births, deaths and marriages somewhere in wiltshire. but of late, as sometimes happens in old age, books had lost their savour for him, and he preferred to let his eyes rest idly on life's passing show as reflected in the _camera obscura_ of a halfpenny paper. he rose respectfully as the chaplain entered. "be seated, please," said mr. colt. declining a chair for himself, he planted his feet astraddle on the worn hearthrug. standing so, with his back to the grate, his broad shoulders blocking out the lower half of a picture of the infant samuel above the mantel-shelf, he towered over the frail invalid, concerning whose health he asked a few perfunctory questions before plunging into business. "you're wondering what brings me here. fact is," he announced, "i've come to ask you a plain question--a question it's my duty to ask; and i think you're strong enough to answer it without any beating about the bush on either side. for six months now i haven't seen you at holy communion. why?" brother bonaday's face twitched sharply. for a moment or two he seemed to be searching for an answer. his lips parted, but still no answer came. "i know, you know," said the chaplain, nodding down at him. "i keep a record of these things--names and dates." brother bonaday might have answered-"quite so--and _that_ is why." some churchmen--of the type for which mr. colt adequately catered-revel in professing their faith, and will parade for its holiest sacrament with an unabashed and hail-fellow sociability; and doubtless for these 'brass-band communicants' (as brother copas called them) a great deal may be said. but brother bonaday was one of those others who, walking among mysteries, must hush the voice and bow the head; to whom the elements are awful, and in whom awe begets a sweet and tender shame. to be docketed as having, on such and such a day at such and such an hour, partaken of them was to him an intolerable thought. to quote brother copas again, "these neo-catholics may well omit to fence the tables, confident in the protection of their own vulgarity." yet brother bonaday had another reason, on which the chaplain hit-though brutally and by accident--in his next question. "haven't anything on your conscience, hey?" brother bonaday had something on his conscience. his face twitched with the pain of it; but still he made no answer. "if so," mr. colt pursued, "take my advice and have it out." he spoke as one recommending the extraction of a tooth. "you're a protestant, i know, though you didn't sign that petition; and i'm not here to argue about first principles. i'm come as a friend. all i suggest is, as between practical men, that you just give the thing a trial. it may be pretty bad," suggested mr. colt, dropping his air of authority and picking up his most insinuating voice. "i hear some pretty bad things; but i'll guarantee your feeling all the better for a clean breast. come, let me make a guess. . . . it has something to do with this child of yours!" mr. colt, looking down from his great height, saw the invalid's face contracted by a sharp spasm, noted that his thin hands gripped upon the arms of the chair so tightly that the finger-nails whitened, and smiled to himself. here was plain sailing. "i know more than you guessed, eh? well, now, why not tell me the whole truth?" brother bonaday gazed up as if appealing for mercy, but shook his head. "i cannot, sir." "come, come--as to a friend, if you won't as to a priest? . . . hang it all, my good man, you might give me credit for _that_, considering the chance i'm holding out! you don't surely suppose that st. hospital will continue to suffer this scandal in its midst?" still as brother bonaday shook his head, the chaplain with a sign of impatience enlarged his hint. "copas knows: i have it on the best authority. was it he that dropped the hint to nurse branscome? or did she herself scent the discovery and give over attending on you?" "you won't--send her--away!" pleaded brother bonaday, thinking only of corona. his voice came in a whisper, between gasps for breath. mr. colt stared. "well, of all the calm requests--!" he began. but here the sound of a light running footstep cut him short. the door was pushed open, and on the threshold stood corona, flushed, excited. "daddy, guess! oh, but you'll never! i'm a real live greycoat, and if i don't tell timmy before you ask a single question i shall burst!" she came to a halt, her eyes on mr. colt. "'tis the truth," announced brother copas, overtaking her as she paused in the doorway. "we shot at a canary, and--good god!" he exclaimed, catching sight of brother bonaday's face. "slip away and fetch the nurse, child!" corona ran. while she ran brother copas stepped past mr. colt, and slid an arm under his friend's head as it dropped sideways, blue with anguish. he turned on the tall chaplain fiercely. "what devil's game have you been playing here?" chapter xvii. puppets. throughout the night brother bonaday hovered between life and death, nor until four days later did the doctor pronounce him out of danger--that is to say, for the time, since the trouble in his heart was really incurable, and at best the frail little man's remaining days could not be many. nurse turner waited on him assiduously, always with her comfortable smile. no trouble came amiss to her, and certainly nurse branscome herself could not have done better. in a sense, too, corona's first experiences of school-going befell her most opportunely. they would distract her mind, brother copas reflected, and tore up the letter he had written delaying her noviciate on the ground of her father's illness. they did; and, moreover, the head mistress of the greycoats, old miss champernowne, aware that the child's father was ill, possibly dying, took especial pains to be kind to her. corona was dreadfully afraid her father would die. but, in the main most mercifully, youth lives for itself, not for the old. at home she could have given little help or none. the brethren's quarters were narrow--even brother bonaday's with its spare chamber--and until the crisis was over she could only be in the way. she gave up her room, therefore, to nurse turner for the night watching, and went across to the nunnery to lodge with nurse branscome. this again was no hardship, but rather, under all her cloud of anxiety, a delightful adventure; for branny had at once engaged with her in a conspiracy. the subject--for a while the victim--of this conspiracy was her black doll timothy. as yet timothy knew nothing, and was supposed to suspect nothing, of her goings to school. she had carefully kept the secret from him, intending to take him aback with it when she brought home the greycoat uniform--frock and cloak and hood of duffle grey-for which miss champernowne had measured her. meanwhile it was undoubtedly hard on him to lie neglected in a drawer, and be visited but twice in the twenty-four hours, to have his garments changed. corona, putting him into pyjamas, would (with an aching heart) whisper to him to be patient for a little while yet, and all would come right. "it _is_ hard, branny," she sighed, "that i can't even take him to bed with me. . . . but it's not to be thought of. i'd be sure to talk in my sleep." "he seems to be a very unselfish person," observed branny. "at any rate, you treat him as such, making him wait all this while for the delight of seeing you happy." corona knit her brow. "now you're talking upsi-downly, like uncle copas," she said. "you don't mean that timmy's unselfish, but that i'm selfish. of course, you don't _realise_ how good he is; nobody does but me, and it's not to be es-pected. but all the same, i s'pose i've been thinking too much about myself." corona's was a curiously just mind, as has already been said. nurse branscome had a happy inspiration. "couldn't we make new clothes for timmy, and surprise him with them at the same time?" corona clapped her hands. "oh, branny, how beautiful! yes--a beauchamp gown, just like daddy's! why-ever didn't we think of it before?" "a _what_?" "a beauchamp gown. . . . do you know," said corona gravely, "it's a most 'stonishing thing i never thought of it, because-i'll tell you why. when i first came to st. hospital often and often i couldn't get to sleep for thinking how happy i was. daddy got worried about it, and told me it was a good cure to lie still and fancy i saw a flock of sheep jumping one after another through a hedge. . . . well, that didn't answer--at least, not ezactly; for you see i wanted to be _coaxed_ off, and i never took any partic'lar truck in sheep. but one night--you know that big stone by the gate of the home-park? the one uncle copas calls the hepping-stone, and says the great cardinal used to climb on to his horse from it when he went hunting?" (nurse branscome nodded.) "well, one night i closed my eyes, and there i saw all the old folks here turned into children, and all out and around the hepping-stone, playing leap-frog. . . . the way they went over each other's backs! it beat the band. . . . some were in beauchamp gowns and others in blanchminster--but all children, you understand? each child finished up by leap-frogging over the stone; and when he'd done that he'd run away and be lost among the trees. i wanted to follow, but somehow i had to stand there counting. . . . and that's all there is _to_ it," concluded corona, "'cept that i'd found the way to go to sleep." nurse branscome laughed, and suggested that no time should be lost in going off to call on mr. colling, the tailor, and begging or borrowing a scrap of the claret-coloured beauchamp cloth. within ten minutes--for she understood the impatience of children--they had started on this small expedition. they found in mr. colling a most human tailor. he not only gave them a square yard of cloth, unsoiled and indeed brand-new, but advised nurse branscome learnedly on the cutting-out. there were certain peculiarities of cut in a beauchamp gown: it was (he could tell them) a unique garment in its way, and he the sole repository of its technical secret. on their way back corona summarised him as "a truly christian tradesman." so the miniature gown was cut out, shaped, and sewn, after the unsuspecting timothy had been measured for it on a pretence of corona's that she wanted to discover how much he had grown during his rest-cure. (for i regret to say that, as one subterfuge leads to another, she had by this time descended to feigning a nervous breakdown for him, due to his outgrowing his strength.) best of all, and when the gown was finished, nurse branscome produced from her workbox a lucky threepenny-bit, and sewed it upon the breast to simulate a beauchamp rose. when corona's own garments arrived--when they were indued and she stood up in them, a greycoat at length from head to heel--to hide her own feelings she had to invent another breakdown (emotional this time) for timothy as she dangled the gown in front of him. "be a man, timmy!" she exhorted him. having clothed him and clasped him to her breast, she turned to nurse branscome, who had been permitted, as indeed she deserved, to witness the _coup de theatre_. "if you _don't_ mind, branny, i think we'll go off somewhere-by ourselves." she carried the doll off to the one unkempt corner of mr. battershall's garden, where in the shadow of a stone dovecot, ruinated and long disused, a rustic bench stood deep in nettles. on this she perched herself, and sat with legs dangling while she discoursed with timothy of their new promotion. "of course," she said, "you have the best of it. men always have." nevertheless, she would have him know that to be a greycoat was good enough for most people. she described the schoolroom. "it's something like a chapel," she said, "and something like a long whitewashed bird-cage, with great beams for perches. you could eat your dinner off the floor most days; and miss champernowne has the dearest little mole on the left side of her upper lip, with three white hairs in it. when she looks at you over her glasses it's like a bird getting ready to drink; and when she plays 'another day is done' on the harmonium and pitches the note, it's just the way a bird lifts his throat to let the water trickle down inside. she has the loveliest way of putting things, too. only yesterday, speaking of china, she told us that words would fail her to describe one-half the wonders of that enchanted land. . . . after that there's going to be no rest for me until i've seen china for myself. such a nice lot of children as they are, if it weren't for marty jewell. she sits next to me and copies my sums, and when i remind her of it she puts out her tongue; but she has a sister in the infant class at the end of the room with the same trick, so i s'pose it runs in the family. . . . i'm forgetting, though," she ran on. "you're brother timothy now, a beauchamp brother, and the lord knows how i'm to make you sensible of it! i heard brother clerihew taking a party around yesterday, and played around close to hear what he had to tell about the place. all he said was that if these old walls could speak what a tale might they not unfold? and then a lady turned round and supposed that the child (meaning me) was following them on the chance of a copper. so i came away. . . . i've my belief," announced corona, "brother clerihew was speaking through his hat. there's nobody but uncle copas knows anything about this place--him and the lord almighty; and as the chief engineer told me aboard the _carnatic_, when i kept asking him how soon we should get to england, he won't split under a quart. the trouble is, uncle copas won't lay up for visitors. manby, at the lodge, says he's too proud. . . . but maybe he'll take me round some day if i ask him nicely, and then you can come on my arm and pretend you're not listening. . . . no," announced corona, after musing awhile, "that would be deception. i'll have to go to him and make a clean breast of it." it occurred to her that brother manby was a friend of hers. he didn't know much, to be sure; but he was capable of entering into a joke and introducing timothy to the wayfarers' dole. she tucked the doll under her arm and wended towards the porter's lodge, where, as it happened, she met brother copas coming through the gateway in talk with the chaplain. the chaplain in fact had sought out brother copas, had found him in his customary haunt, fishing gloomily and alone beside the mere, and had opened his purpose for once pretty straightly, yet keeping another in reserve. "the master has told me he gave you an anonymous letter that reached him concerning brother bonaday. i have made up my mind to ask you a question or two quite frankly about it." "now what in the world can he want?" thought copas, continuing to whip the stream. aloud he said: "you'll excuse me, but i see no frankness in your asking questions before telling me how much you know." "i intended that. i have received a similar letter." "i guessed as much. . . . so you called on him with it and bullied him into another attack of _angina pectoris_? that, too, i guessed. well?" the chaplain made no answer for a moment. then he said with some dignity-"i might point out to you--might i not?--that both your speech and the manner of it are grossly insubordinate." "i know it. . . . i am sorry, sir; but in some way or another--by showing him your letter, i suppose--you have come near to killing my only friend." "i did not show him the letter." "then i beg your pardon." brother copas turned and began to wind in his line. "if you wish to talk about it, i recognise that you have the right, sir; but let me beg you to be brief." "the more willingly because i wish to consult you afterwards on a pleasanter subject. . . . now in this matter, i put it to you that-the master choosing to stand aside--you and i have some responsibility. try, first, to understand mine. so long as i have to account for the discipline of st. hospital i can scarcely ignore such a scandal, hey?" "no," agreed brother copas, after a long look at him. "i admit that you would find it difficult." he mused a while. "no," he repeated; "to be quite fair, there's no reason why you--who don't know bonaday--should assume him to be any better than the rest of us." "--while you, on your part, will naturally be eager to clear your friend." "if i thought the accusation serious." "do you mean to say that you have simply ignored it?" now this happened to be an awkward question; and brother copas, seeking to evade it, jumped (as they say) from the frying-pan into the fire. "tut, sir! the invention of some poisonous woman!" "you are sure the letter was written by a woman?" brother copas was sure, but had to admit that he lacked evidence. he did not confess to having laid a small plot which had failed him. he had received no less than eleven tenders for his weekly laundry, but not one of the applicants had written the 'w' in 'washing list' with that characteristic initial curl of which he was in search. "then you _have_ made some investigations? . . . nay, i don't wish more of your confidence than you choose to give me. so long as i know that you are not treating the business as negligible--" "i don't promise to inquire one inch farther." "but you will, nevertheless," concluded mr. colt with the patronising laugh of one who knows his man. "damn the fellow!" thought copas. "why cannot he be always the fool he looks?" "and now," pursued mr. colt blithely, "i want to engage your interest in another matter--i mean the pageant." "oh!" said brother copas. "is that still going forward?" "settled, my dear sir! when mr. bamberger once puts his hand to the plough. . . . a general committee has been formed, with the lord-lieutenant himself for president. the guarantee fund already runs to 1,500 pounds, and we shall get twice that amount promised before we've done. in short, the thing's to come off some time next june, and i am chairman of the performance committee, which (under mr. isidore bamberger) arranges the actual pageant, plans out the 'book,' recruits authors, performers, _et cetera_. there are other committees, of course: finance committee, ground and grand stand committee, costume committee, and so on; but ours is the really interesting part of the work, and, sir, i want you to join us." "you flatter me, sir; or you fish with a narrow mesh indeed." "why, i dare swear you would know more of the past history of merchester than any man you met at the committee-table." brother copas eyed him shrewdly. "h'm! ... to be sure, i have been specialising of late on the reformation period." "i--er--don't think we shall include any episode dealing specially with that period." "too serious, perhaps?" "our--er--object is to sweep broadly down the stream of time, embodying the great part our city played for hundreds of years in the history of our nation--i may say of the anglo-saxon race." "i shouldn't, if i were you," said brother copas, "not even to please mr. bamberger. . . . as a matter of fact, i _had_ guessed your object to be something of the sort," he added dryly. "as you may suppose--and as, indeed, is but proper in merchester-special stress will be laid throughout on the ecclesiastical side of the story: the influence of mother church, permeating and at every turn informing our national life." "but you said a moment ago that you were leaving out the reformation." "we seek rather to illustrate the _continuity_ of her influence." brother copas took snuff. "you must not think, however," pursued the chaplain, "that we are giving the thing a sectarian trend. on the contrary, we are taking great care to avoid it. our appeal is to one and all: to the unifying civic sense and, through that, to the patriotic. several prominent nonconformists have already joined the committee; indeed, alderman chope--who, as you know, is a baptist, but has a remarkably fine presence--has more than half consented to impersonate alfred the great. if further proof be needed, i may tell you that, in view of the coming pan-anglican conference, the committee has provisionally resolved to divide the proceeds (if any) between the british and foreign bible society and the society for the propagation of the gospel." "ah!" murmured brother copas, maliciously quoting falstaff. "'it was alway yet the trick of our english nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common.'" the chaplain did not hear. "i earnestly hope," said he, "you will let me propose you for my committee." "i would not miss it for worlds," said brother copas gravely. he had disjointed and packed up his rod by this time, and the two were walking back towards st. hospital. "you relieve me more than i can say. your help will be invaluable." brother copas was apparently deaf to this compliment. "you'll excuse me," he said after a moment, "but i gather that the whole scheme must be well under weigh, since you have arrived at allocating the proceeds. experience tells me that all amateurs start with wanting to act something; when they see that desire near to realisation, and not before, they cast about for the charity which is to deserve their efforts. . . . may i ask what part you have chosen?" "i had thoughts of alberic de blanchminster, in an episode of the 'founding of st. hospital.'" "alberic de blanchminster?" they had reached the outer court of the hospital, and brother copas, halting to take snuff, eyed the chaplain as if taking his measure. "but the committee, in compliment to my inches, are pressing me to take william the conqueror," said mr. colt almost bashfully. "i, too, should advise it, if we are to adhere to history; though, to be sure, from the sole mention of him in the chronicle, our founder alberic appears to have been a sportsman. '_ nam, quodam die, quia perdiderat accipitrem suum cum erat sub divo, detrexit sibi bracas et posteriora nuda ostendit caelo in signum opprobrii et convitii atque derisionis._'--you remember the passage?" he paused mischievously, knowing well enough that the chaplain would laugh, pretending to have followed the latin. sure enough, mr. colt laughed heartily. "about william the conqueror, though--" but at this moment corona came skipping through the archway. "uncle copas!" she hailed, the vault echoing to her childish treble. "you look as though you had mistaken mr. colt for a visitor, and were telling him all about the history of the place. oh! i know that you never go the round with visitors; but seeing it's only me and timmy-look at him, please! he's been made a beauchamp brother, not half an hour ago. if only you'd be guide to us for once, and make him _feel_ his privileges. . . . i dare say mr. colt won't mind coming too," she wound up tactfully. "shall we?" suggested the chaplain, after asking and receiving permission to inspect the doll. "confound it!" muttered brother copas to himself. "i cannot even begin to enjoy a fool nowadays but that blessed child happens along to rebuke me." aloud he said-"if you command, little one. . . . but where do we begin?" "at the beginning." corona took charge of him with a nod at the chaplain. "we're pilgrims, all four of us, home from the holy land; and we start by knocking up brother manby and just perishing for a drink." chapter xviii. the pervigilium. 'now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew! it is spring, it is chorussing spring: 'tis the birthday of earth, and for you! it is spring; and the loves and the birds wing together, and woo to accord where the bough to the rain has unbraided her locks as a bride to her lord. for she walks--she our lady, our mistress of wedlock,--the woodlands atween, and the bride-bed she weaves them, with myrtle enlacing, with curtains of green. look, list ye the law of dione, aloft and enthroned in the blue:- now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew!' "h'm, h'm--tolerable only! '_aloft and established in blue_'--is that better?" "uncle copas, whatever are you doing?" corona looked up from her page of irregular verbs, and across to her preceptor as he sat muttering and scribbling. "the idlest thing in the world, child. translating." "but you told me that next week, if i learned these verbs, you would let me begin to translate." "to be sure i did. you must go on translating and translating until, like me, you ought to know better. then you throw it all away." "i suppose i shall understand, one of these fine days," sighed corona. "but, uncle, you won't mind my asking a question? i really do want to find out about these things. . . . and i really do want to learn latin, ever since you said it was the only way to find out all that st. hospital means." "did i say that? i ought, of course, to have said that latin was worth learning for its own sake." "i guess," said corona sagely, "you thought you'd take the likeliest way with me." "o woman! woman! . . . but what was your question?" "sometimes i wake early and lie in bed thinking. i was thinking, only yesterday morning, if people are able to put into english all that was ever written in latin, why don't they do it and save other people the trouble?" "now i suppose," said brother copas, "that in the united states of america--land of labour-saving appliances--that is just how it would strike everyone?" he knew that this would nettle her. but, looking up hotly, she caught his smile and laughed. "well, but why?" she demanded. "because the more it was the same thing the more it would be different. there's only one way with latin and greek. you must let 'em penetrate: soak 'em into yourself, get 'em into your nature slowly, through the pores of the skin." "it sounds like sitting in a bath." "that's just it. it's a baptism first and a bath afterwards; but the more it's a bath, the more you remember it's a baptism." "i guess you have that right, though i don't follow," corona admitted. "there's _something_ in latin makes you proud. only yesterday i was gassing to three girls about knowing _amo, amas, amat_; and, next thing, you'll say, 'i'd like you to know ovid,' and i'll say,' mr. ovid, i'm pleased to have met you'--like what happens in the states when you shake hands with a professor. all the same, i don't see what there is in _amo, amas, amat_ to make the gas." "wait till you come to _cras amet qui nunquam amavit_." "is that what you were translating?" "yes." "then translate it for me, please." "you shall construe for yourself. cras means 'to-morrow.' _amet_--" "that's the present subjunctive. let me see--'he may love.'" "try again." "or 'let him love.'" "right. 'to-morrow let him love.' _qui?_" "'who.'" "_nunquam?_" "'never'--i know that too." "_amavit?_" "perfect, active, third person singular--'he has loved.'" "qui being the subject--" "'who--never--has loved.'" "right as ninepence again. 'to-morrow let him love who has never loved.'" "but," objected corona, "it seems so easy!--and here you have been for quite half an hour muttering and shaking your head over it, and taking you can't think what a lot of nasty snuff." "have i?" brother copas sought for his watch. "heavens, child! the hour has struck these ten minutes ago. why didn't you remind me?" "because i thought 'twouldn't be manners. but, of course, if i'd known you were wasting your time, and over anything so easy--" "not quite so easy as you suppose, miss. to begin with, the original is in verse; a late latin poem in a queer metre, and by whom written nobody knows. but you are quite right about my wasting my time. . . . what troubles me is that i have been wasting yours, when you ought to have been out at play in the sun." "please don't mention that," said corona politely. "it has been fun enough watching you frowning and tapping your fingers, and writing something down and scratching it out the next moment. what is it all about, uncle copas?" "it--er--is called the _pervigilium veneris_; that's to say _the vigil of venus_. but i suppose that conveys nothing to you?" he thrust his spectacles high on his forehead and smiled at her vaguely across the table. "of course it doesn't. i don't know what a vigil means; or venus-whether it's a person or a place; or why the latin is late, as you call it. late for what?" brother copas laughed dryly. "late for _me_, let's say. didn't i tell you i was wasting my time? and venus is the goddess of love: some day--alas the day!--you'll be proud to make her acquaintance. . . . _cras amet qui nunquam amavit_." "perhaps if you read it to me--" he shook his head. "no, child: the thing is late in half a dozen different ways. the young, whom it understands, cannot understand it: the old, who arrive at understanding, look after it, a thing lost. go, dear: don't let me waste your time as well as an old man's." but when she had gone he sat on and wasted another hour in translating- time was that a rain-cloud begat her, impregning the heave of the deep. 'twixt hooves of sea-horses a-scatter, stam peding the dolphins as sheep, lo! born of that bridal dione, rainbowed and bespent of its dew:- now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew! she, she, with her gem-dripping finger enamels the wreath of the year; she, she, when the maid-bud is nubile and swelling, winds--whispers anear, disguising her voice in the zephyr's--'so secret the bed! and thou shy? 'she, she, when the midsummer night is a-hush draws the dew from on high; dew bright with the tears of its origin, dew with its weight on the bough, misdoubting and clinging and trembling- 'now, now must i fall? is it now?' brother copas pushed the paper from him. "what folly is this," he mused, "that i, who have always scoffed at translations, sit here trying to translate this most untranslatable thing? pah! matthew arnold was a great man, and he stood up to lecture the university of oxford on translating homer. he proved excellently well that homer was rapid; that homer was plain and direct; that homer was noble. he took translation after translation, and proved--proved beyond doubting--that each translator had failed in this or in that; this or that being alike essential. then, having worked out his sum, he sat down and translated a bit or two of homer to encourage us, and the result was mere bosh." --"the truth being, he is guilty of a tomfoolery among principles at the start. if by any chance we could, in english, find the right way to translate homer, why should we waste it on translating him? we had a hundred times better be writing epics of our own." --"it cannot be done. if it could, it ought not. . . . the only way of getting at homer is to soak oneself in him. the average athenian was soaked in him as the average englishman is in the authorised version of the psalms. . . ." --"yet i sit here, belying all my principles, attempting to translate a thing more difficult than homer." --"it was she, this child, set me going upon it!" brother copas pulled the paper towards him again. by the end of another hour he had painfully achieved this:- "'go, maidens,' our lady commands, 'while the myrtle is green in the grove, take the boy to your escort.' but 'ah!' cry the maidens, 'what trust is in love keeping holiday too, while he weareth his archery, tools of his trade?' --'go: he lays them aside, an apprentice released--you may wend unafraid: see, i bid him disarm, he disarms. mother naked i bid him to go, and he goes mother-naked. what flame can he shoot without arrow or bow?' --yet beware ye of cupid, ye maidens! be ware most of all when he charms as a child: for the more he runs naked, the more he's a strong man-at-arms." chapter xix. merchester prepares. i must not overload these slight pages by chronicling at length how merchester caught and developed the pageant fever. but to mr colt must be given his share of the final credit. he worked like a horse, no doubt of it; spurred constantly on his tender side--his vanity--by the hard riding of mr. julius bamberger, m.p. he pioneered the movement. he (pardon this riot of simile and metaphor) cut a way through the brushwood, piled the first faggots, applied the torch, set the heather afire. he canvassed the bishop, the dean and chapter, the sunday schools, the church lads' brigade, the girls' friendly society, the boy scouts. he canvassed the tradespeople, the professional classes, the widowed and maiden ladies resident around the close. in all these quarters he met with success--varying, indeed, but on the whole gratifying. but the problem was, how to fan the flame to reach and take hold of more seasoned timber?--opulent citizens, county magnates; men who, once committed, would not retract; ponderable subscribers to the guarantee fund; neither tinder nor brushwood, but logs to receive the fire and retain it in a solid core. for weeks, for a couple of months, the flame took no hold of these: it reached them only to die down and disappoint. nor was mr. isidore, during this time, the least part of our chaplain's trial. mr. julius might flatter, proclaiming him a born organiser: but this was small consolation when mr. isidore (an artist by temperament) stamped and swore over every small hitch. "sobscribtions? zat is your affaire, whad the devil!" or again: "am i a dog to be bozzered by your general committees or your influential batrons? . . . you wandt a bageant, _hein?_ var'y well, i brovide it: it is i will mek a sogcess. go to hell for your influenzial batrons: or go to julius. he can lick ze boot, not i!" on the other hand, mr. julius, while willing enough to spend money for which he foresaw a satisfactory return, had no mind to risk it until assured of the support of local 'society.' he could afford some thousands of pounds better than a public fiasco. "we must have the county behind us," he kept chanting. afterwards, looking back on the famous merchester pageant, mr. colt accurately dated its success from the hour when he called on lady shaftesbury and enlisted her to open the annual sale of work of the girls' friendly society. sir john shaftesbury, somewhat late in life, had married a wife many years his junior; a dazzling beauty, a dashing horsewoman, and moreover a lady who, having spent the years of her eligible maidenhood largely among politicians and racehorses, had acquired the knack and habit of living in the public eye. she adored her husband, as did everyone who knew him: but life at shaftesbury court had its _longueurs_ even in the hunting season. sir john would (he steadily declared) as lief any day go to prison as enter parliament--a reluctance to which mr. bamberger owed his seat for merchester. finding herself thus headed off one opportunity of making tactful little public speeches, in raiments to which the press would give equal prominence, lady shaftesbury had turned her thoughts to good work, even before mr. colt called with his petition. she assented to it with a very pretty grace. her speech at the sale of work was charming, and she talked to her audience about the empire; reminded them that they were all members of one body; called them her "dear girl friendlies": and hoped, though a new-comer, in future to see a great deal more of them. they applauded this passage _de bon coeur_, and indeed pronounced the whole speech "so womanly!" at its close mr. colt, proposing a vote of thanks, insinuated something "anent a more ambitious undertaking, in which (if we can only engage lady shaftesbury's active sympathy) we may realise a cherished dream. i fear," proceeded mr. colt, "that i am a sturdy beggar. i can only plead that the cause is no mere local one, but in the truest sense national--nay imperial. for where but in the story of merchester can be found the earliest inspiration of those countless deeds which won the empire?" later, when lady shaftesbury asked to what he alluded, he discoursed on the project of the pageant with dexterity and no little tact. "what a ripping idea! . . . now i come to remember, my husband _did_ say casually, the other day, that mr. bamberger had been sounding him about something of the sort. but jack is english, you know, and a whig at that. the mere notion of dressing-up or play-acting makes him want to run away and hide. . . . oh, my dear sir, i know all about pageants! i saw one at warwick castle--was it last year or the year before? . . . there was a woman on horseback--i forget what historical character she represented: it wasn't queen elisabeth, i know, and it couldn't have been lady godiva because--well, because to begin with, she knew how to dress. she wore a black velvet habit, with seed-pearls, which sounds like queen henrietta maria. anyway, everyone agreed she had a perfect seat in the saddle. is that the sort of thing--'fair rosamund goes a-hawking with king, er, whoever-he-was?'" mr. colt regretted that fair rosamund had no historical connection with merchester. . . . no, and equally out of the question was mary, queen of scots laying her neck on the block. "besides, she couldn't very well do that on horseback. and maseppa was a man, wasn't he?" "if," said mr. colt diplomatically, "we can only prevail upon one or two really influential ladies to see the thing in that light, details could be arranged later. we have not yet decided on the episodes. . . . but notoriously where there's a will there's a way." lady shaftesbury pondered this conversation while her new car whirled her homewards. she had begun to wish that jack (as she called her lord) would strike out a bolder line in county affairs, if his ambition confined him to these. he was already (through no search of his own) chairman of the county council, and chairman of quarter sessions, and was pricked to serve as high sheriff next year. he ought to do something to make his shrievalty memorable . . . and, moreover, the lord-lieutenant was an old man. in the library that evening after dinner she opened fire. the small function at the girls' friendly had been a success; but she wished to do something more for merchester--"where we ought to be a real influence for good--living as we do so close to it." she added, "i hear that mr. bamberger's seat is by no means safe, and another general election may be on us at any moment. . . . i know how little you like mr. bamberger personally: but after all, and until _you_ will consent to take his place--mr. bamberger stands between us and the rising tide of socialism. i was discussing this with mr. colt to-day." "who is mr. colt?" asked sir john. "you must have met him. he is chaplain of st. hospital, and quite a personality in merchester . . . though i don't know," pursued lady shaftesbury, musing, "that one would altogether describe him as a gentleman. but ought we to be too particular when the cause is at stake, and heaven knows how soon the germans will be invading us?" the end was that sir john, who loved his young wife, gave her a free hand, of which she made the most. almost before he was aware of it, he found himself chairman of a general committee, summoning a sub-committee of ways and means. at the first meeting he announced that his lady had consented to set aside, throughout the winter months, one day a week from hunting, and offered shaftesbury hall as head-quarters of the costume committee. thereupon it was really astonishing with what alacrity not only the "best houses" around merchester, but the upper-middle-class (its damsels especially) caught the contagion. within a week "are you pageantising?" or, in more condensed slang, "do you padge?" became the stock question at all social gatherings in the neighbourhood of the close. to this a stock answer would be-"oh, i don't know! i suppose so." here the respondent would simulate a slight boredom. "one will have to mix with the most impossible people, of course"--lady shaftesbury had won great popularity by insisting that, in a business so truly national, no class distinctions were to be drawn--"but anyhow it will fill up the off-days this winter." lady shaftesbury herself, after some pretty deliberation, decided to enact the part of the empress maud, and escape on horseback from king stephen of blois. mr. colt and mr. isidore bamberger together waited on brother copas with a request that he would write the libretto for this episode. "but it was only last week you turned me on to episode vi--king hal and the emperor charles the fifth," copas protested. "we are hoping you will write this for us too," urged mr. colt. "it oughtn't to take you long, you know. to begin with, no one knows very much about that particular period." "the less known the better, if we may trust the _anglo-saxon chronicle_. a few realistic pictures of the diversions of the upper classes--" "hawking was one, i believe?" opined mr. colt. "yes, and another was hanging the poor by their heels over a smoky fire, and yet another was shutting them up in a close cell into which had been inserted a few toads and adders." "her ladyship suggests a hawking scene, in the midst of which she is surprised by king stephen and his, er, myrmidons--if that be the correct term--" "it is at least as old as achilles." "she escapes from him on horseback. . . . at this point she wants to know if we can introduce a water-jump." "nothing could be easier, in a blank verse composition," assented brother copas gravely. "you see, there is very little writing required. just enough dialogue to keep the thing going. . . . her ladyship is providing her own riding-habit and those of her attendant ladies, for whom she has chosen six of the most beautiful maidens in the neighbourhood, quite irrespective of class. the dresses are to be gorgeous." "they will form a pleasing contrast, then, to king stephen, whose riding-breeches, as we know, 'cost him but a crown.' . . . very well, i will 'cut the cackle and come to the hosses.' and you, mr. isidore? do i read in your eye that you desire a similar literary restraint in your episode of king hal?" "ach, yes," grinned mr. isidore. "_cut ze caggle_--cabital! i soggest in zat ebisode we haf a ballet." "a ballet?" "a ballet of imberial exbansion--ze first english discofferies ofer sea--ze natives brought back in brocession to mek sobmission--" "devilish pretty substitute for thomas cromwell and the reformation!" "it was _zere_ lay ze future of englandt, _hein_?" "i see," said brother copas thoughtfully; "provided you make the ballets of our nation, you don't care if your brother makes its laws." these preparations (he noted) had a small byproduct pleasantly affecting st. hospital. mr. colt, in his anxiety to enlist the whole-hearted services of the brethren (who according to design were to serve as a sort of subsidiary chorus to the pageant, appearing and reappearing, still in their antique garb, in a succession of scenes supposed to extend over many centuries), had suddenly taken the line of being 'all things to all men,' and sensibly relaxed the zeal of his proselytising as well as the rigour of certain regulations offensive to the more protestant of his flock. "you may growl," said brother copas to brother warboise: "but this silly pageant is bringing us more peace than half a dozen petitions." brother warboise was, in fact, growling because for three months and more nothing had been heard of the petition. "you may depend," said copas soothingly, "the bishop put the thing away in his skirt pocket and forgot all about it. i happen to know that he must be averse to turning out his skirt pockets, for i once saw him surreptitiously smuggle away a mayonnaise sandwich there. it was at a deanery garden party; and i, having been invited to hand the ices and look picturesque, went on looking picturesque and pretended not to see. . . . i ought to have told you, when you asked me to write it, that such was the invariable fate of my compositions." meanwhile, it certainly seemed that a truce had been called to the internal dissensions of st. hospital. on the pageant-ground one afternoon, in the midst of a very scratchy rehearsal, brother copas found himself by chance at the chaplain's side. the two had been watching in silence for a full five minutes, when he heard mr. colt addressing him in a tone of unusual friendliness. "wonderful how it seems to link us up, eh?" "i beg your pardon, sir?" "i was thinking, just then, of the st. hospital uniform, which you have the honour to wear. it seems--or mr. isidore has the knack of making it seem--the, er, _foil_ of the whole pageant. it outlasts all the more brilliant fashions." "poverty, sir, is perduring. it is in everything just because it is out of everything. we inherit time, if not the earth." "but particularly," said mr. colt, "i was thinking of the corporate unity it seems to give us, and to pass on, through us, to the whole story of merchester." "aye, we are always with you." afterwards brother copas repented that he had not answered more graciously: for afterwards, looking back, he perceived that, in some way, the pageant had actually helped to bring back a sense of "corporate unity" to st. hospital. even then, and for months later, he missed to recognise corona's share in it. what was she but a child? "is it true what i hear?" asked mrs. royle, intercepting him one day as he carried his plate of fast-cooling meat from the kitchen. "probably not," said brother copas. "they tell me bonaday's daughter has been singled out among all the school children--greycoats and others--to be queen of the may, or something of the kind, in this here pageant." "yes, that is a fact." "oh! . . . i suppose it's part of your sneering way to make little of it. _i_ call it an honour to st. hospital." "the deuce you do?" "and what's more," added mrs. royle, "she mustn't let us down by appearing in rags." "i hope we can provide against that." "what i meant to say," the woman persisted, "was that you men don't probably understand. if there's to be a dance, or any such caper, she'll be lifting her skirts. well, for the credit of st. hospital, i'd like to overhaul the child's under-clothing, and see that she goes shipshape and bristol fashion." brother copas thanked her. he began to perceive that mrs. royle, that detestable woman, had her good points--or, at any rate, her soft spot. it became embarrassing, though, when mrs. clerihew accosted him next day with a precisely similar request. "and i might mention," added mrs. clerihew, "that i have a lace stomacher-frill which was gove to me by no less than the late honourable edith, fifth daughter of the second baron glantyre. she died unmarried, previous to which she used frequently to _h_onour me with her confidence. this being a historical occasion, i'd spare it." yes; it was true. corona was to be a queen, among many, in the merchester pageant. it all happened through mr. simeon. mr. simeon's children had, one and all, gone for their education to the greycoats' school, which lies just beyond the west end of the cathedral. he loved to think of them as growing up within its shadow. . . . one tuesday at dinner the five-year-old agatha popped out a question-"daddy, if the cafederal fell down while we were in school, would it fall on top of us?" "god forbid, child. but why ask such a question?" "because when we went to school this morning some workpeople had dug a hole, close by that end--quite a big pit it was. so i went near the edge to look down, and one of the men said, 'take care, missy, or you'll tumble in and be drowned.' i told him that i knew better, because people couldn't build cafederals on water. he told me that was the way they had built ours, and he held my hand for me to have a look. he was right, too. the pit was half-full of water. he said that unless we looked sharp the whole cafederal would come down on our heads. . . . i don't think it's safe for me to go to school any more, do you?" insinuated small agatha. now it chanced that mr. simeon had to visit the greycoats that very afternoon. he had written a little play for the children--boys and girls--to act at christmas. it was not a play of the sort desiderated by mrs. simeon--the sort to earn forty thousand pounds in royalties; nor, to speak accurately, had he written it. he had in fact patched together a few artless scenes from an old miracle play-_the life of saint meriadoc_--discovered by him in the venables library; and had tinkered out some rhymes (the book being a prose translation from the breton original). "a poor thing," then, and very little of it his own--but miss champernowne opined that it would be a novelty, while the children enjoyed the rehearsals, and looked forward to the fun of "dressing-up." rehearsals were held twice a week, on tuesdays and thursdays, in the last hour of the afternoon session. this afternoon, on his way to the school, mr. simeon found that agatha had indeed spoken truth. five or six men were busy, digging, probing, sounding, around a large hole close under the northeast corner of the lady chapel. the foreman wore a grave face, and in answer to mr. simeon's inquiries allowed that the mischief was serious; so serious that the dean and chapter had sent for a diver to explore the foundations and report. the foreman further pointed out certain ominous cracks in the masonry overhead. just then the great clock chimed, warning mr. simeon away. . . . but the peril of his beloved cathedral so haunted him that he arrived at the school-door as one distraught. rehearsal always took place in the girls' schoolroom, the boys coming in from their part of the building to clear the desks away and arrange them close along the walls. they were busy at it when he entered. he saw: but- "he heeded not--his eyes were with his heart," and that was in the close outside--anthi, phile en patridi gaie. from the start he allowed the rehearsal to get hopelessly out of hand. the children took charge; they grew more and more fractious, unruly. miss champernowne chid them in vain. the schoolroom, in fact, was a small pandemonium, when of a sudden the door opened and two visitors entered--mr. colt and mr. isidore bamberger. "a--ach so!" intoned mr. isidore, and at the sound of his appalling guttural babel hushed itself, unable to compete. he inquired what was going forward; was told; and within five minutes had the children moving through their parts in perfect discipline, while with a fire of cross-questions he shook mr. simeon back to his senses and rapidly gathered the outline of the play. he terrified all. "bardon my interference, ma'am!" he barked, addressing miss champernowne. "i haf a burbose." the scene engaging the children was that of the youthful st. meriadoc's first school-going; where his parents (duke and duchess of brittany) call with him upon a pedagogue, who introduces him to the boys and girls, his fellow scholars. for a sample of mr. simeon's version- pedagogue- "children look on your books. if there be any whispering it will be great hindering, and there will be knocks." first scholar (_chants_)- "god bless a, band c! the rest of the song is d: that is all my lore. i came late yesterday, i played truant by my fay! i am a foul sinner. good master, after dinner i will learn more." second scholar- "e, s, t, that is _est_, i know not what comes next--" whilst the scholars recited thus, st. meriadoc's father and mother-each with a train of attendants--walked up and down between the ranks 'high and disposedly,' as became a duke and duchess of brittany. mr. isidore of a sudden threw all into confusion again. he shot out a forefinger and screamed--yes, positively screamed-"ach! zat is ze child--ze fourt' from ze end! i will haf her and no ozzer--you onderstandt?" here he swung about upon the chaplain. "ob-serf how she walk! how she carry her chin! if i haf not her for ze may queen i will haf non. . . . step vorwards, liddle one. whad is your name?" "corona." seeing that mr. isidore's finger pointed at her, she stepped forward, with a touch of defiance in her astonishment, but fearlessly. the touch of defiance helped to tilt her chin at the angle he so much admired. "cohrona--zat must mean ze chrowned one. cabital! . . . you are not afraid of me, _hein_?" "no," answered corona simply, still wondering what he might mean, but keeping a steady eye on him. why should she be afraid of this comic little man? "so? . . . i engage you. you are to be ze may queen in ze great merchester bageant. . . . but you must be goot and attend how i drill you. ozzerwise i dismees you." it appeared that mr. isidore had spent the afternoon with mr. colt, hunting the schools of merchester in search of a child to suit his fastidious requirements. he had two of the gifts of genius-unwearying patience in the search, unerring swiftness in the choice. mr. simeon, the rehearsal over, walked home heavily. on his way he paused to study the pit, and look up from it to the threatened mass of masonry. '_not in my time, o lord!_' and yet- "from low to high doth dissolution climb, and sink from high to low along a scale of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail . . . truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear the longest date . . . drop like the tower sublime of yesterday, which royally did wear his crown of weeds, but could not even sustain some casual shout that broke the silent air, or the unimaginable touch of time." but corona, breaking away from her playfellows and gaining the road to st. hospital, skipped as she ran homeward, treading clouds of glory. chapter xx. naughtiness, and a sequel. "she has behaved very naughtily," said brother copas. "i don't understand it at all," sighed brother bonaday. "nor i." "it's not like her, you see." "it was a most extraordinary outburst. . . . either the child has picked up some bad example at school, to copy it (and you will remember i always doubted that her sex gets any good of schooling)--" "but," objected brother bonaday, "it was you who insisted on sending her." "so i did--in self-defence. if we had not done our best the state would have done its worst, and put her into an institution where one underpaid female grapples with sixty children in a class, and talks all the time. now we didn't want corona to acquire the habit of talking all the time." here brother copas dropped a widower's sigh. "in fact, it has hitherto been no small part of her charm that she seldom or never spoke out of her turn." "it has been a comfort to have her company," put in brother bonaday, eager to say a good word for the culprit. "she spoke out of her turn just now," said brother copas sternly. "her behaviour to nurse turner was quite atrocious. . . . now either she has picked this up at school, or--the thought occurs to me--she has been loafing around the laundry, gossiping with the like of mrs. royle and mrs. clerihew, and letting their evil communications corrupt her good manners. this seems to me the better guess, because the women in the laundry are always at feud with the nurses; it's endemic there: and 'a nasty two-faced spy' smacks, though faintly, of the wash-tub. in my hearing mrs. clerihew has accused nurse branscome of 'carrying tales.' 'a nasty two-faced spy'--the child was using those very words when we surprised her, and the lord knows what worse before we happened on the scene." "nurse turner would not tell, and so we have no right to speculate." "that's true. . . . i'll confine myself to what we overheard. now when a chit of a child stands up and hurls abuse of that kind at a woman well old enough to be her mother, two things have to be done. . . . we must get at the root of this deterioration in corona, but first of all she must be punished. the question is, which of us will undertake it? you have the natural right, of course--" brother bonaday winced. "no, no--" he protested. "i should have said, the natural obligation. but you are frail just now, and i doubt if you are equal to it." "copas! . . . you're not proposing to _whip_ her?" brother copas chuckled grimly. but that the child was in the next room, possibly listening, he might have laughed aloud. "do they whip girls?" he asked. "i used to find the whipping of boys disgusting enough. . . . i had an assistant master once, a treasure, who remained with me six years, and then left for no reason but that i could not continue to pay him. i liked him so much that one day, after flogging a boy in hot blood, and while (as usual) feeling sick with the revulsion of it, i then and there resolved that, however much this trade might degrade me, this mr. simcox should be spared the degradation whilst in my employ. i went to his class-room and asked to have a look at his punishment-book. he answered that he kept none. `but,' said i, 'when you first came to me didn't i give you a book, and expressly command you, whenever you punished a boy, to write an entry, giving the boy's name, the nature of his offence, and the number of strokes with which you punished him?' 'you did, sir,' said simcox, 'and i have lost it.' 'lost it!' said i. 'you but confirm me in my decision that henceforth, when any boy in this school needs caning, i will do it with my own hands.' 'sir,' he replied, 'you have done that for these five years. forgive me, but i was pleased to find that you never asked to see the book; for i really couldn't bring myself to flog a boy merely for the sake of writing up an entry.' in short, that man was a born schoolmaster, and almost dispensed with punishments, even the slightest." "he ruled the boys by kindness, i suppose?" "he wasn't quite such a fool." "then what was his secret?" "bad temper. they held him in a holy terror; and it's all the queerer because he wasn't even just." brother bonaday shook his head. "i don't understand," he said; "but if you believe so little in punishment, why are we proposing to punish corona?" "obviously, my dear fellow, because we can find no better way. the child must not be suffered to grow up into a termagant--you will admit that, i hope? . . . very well, then: feeble guardians that we are, we must do our best." he knocked at the bedroom door and, after a moment, entered. corona sat on the edge of her bed, dry-eyed, hugging timothy to her breast. "corona!" "yes, uncle copas?" "you have been extremely naughty, and probably know that you have to be punished." "i dare say it's the best you can do," said corona, after weighing this address or seeming to do so. the answer so exactly tallied with the words he had spoken a moment ago that brother copas could not help exclaiming-"ah! you overheard us, just now?" "i may have my faults," said corona coldly, candidly, "but i am not a listener." "i--i beg your pardon," stammered brother copas, somewhat abashed. "but the fact remains that your behaviour to nurse turner has been most disrespectful, and your language altogether unbecoming. you have given your father and me a great shock: and i am sure you did not wish to do that." "i'm miserable enough, if that's what you mean," the child confessed, still hugging her golliwog and staring with haggard eyes at the window. "but if you want me to say that i'm sorry--" "that is just what i want you to say." "well, then, i can't. . . . nurse turner's a beast--a _beast_--a beast!" corona's face whitened, and her voice shrilled higher at each repetition. "--she hates branny like poison, and i hate _her_. . . . there! and now you must take and punish me as much as you please. what's it going to be?" she rocked her small body as she looked up with straight eyes, awaiting sentence. "you are to go to bed at once, and without any supper," said brother copas, keeping his voice steady on the words he loathed to utter. again corona seemed to weigh them. "that seems fair enough," she decided. "are you going to lock me in?" "that had not occurred to me." "you'd better," she advised. "and take the key away in your pocket. . . . is that all, uncle copas?" "that is all, corona. but as for taking the key, you know that i would far sooner trust to your honour." "you can trust to _that_, right enough," said she, getting off the edge of the bed. "i was thinking of daddy. . . . good night, uncle copas!--if you don't mind, i am going to undress." brother copas withdrew. he shut and locked the door firmly, and made a pretence, by rattling the key, of withdrawing it from the lock. but his nerve failed him, and he could not actually withdraw it. "suppose the child should be taken ill in the night: or suppose that her nerve breaks down, and she cries for her father. . . . it might kill him if he could not open the door instantly. or, again, supposing that she holds out until he has undressed and gone to bed? he will start up at the first sound and rush across the open quadrangle--lord knows if he would wait to put on his dressing-gown-to get the key from me. in his state of health, and with these nights falling chilly, he would take his death." so brother copas contented himself with turning the key in the wards and pointing to it. "she is going to bed," he whispered. "supperless, you understand. . . . we must show ourselves stern: it will be the better for her in the end, and some day she will thank us." brother bonaday eyed the door sadly. "to be sure, we must be stern," he echoed. as for being thanked for this severity, it crossed his mind that the thanks must come quickly, or he would probably miss them. but he muttered again, "to be sure-to be sure!" as brother copas tiptoed away and left him. on his way back to his lonely rooms, brother copas met and exchanged "good evenings" with nurse branscome. "you are looking grave," she said. "you might better say i am looking like a humbug and a fool. i have just been punishing that child--sending her to bed supperless. now call me the ass that i am." "why, what has corona been doing?" "does it matter?" he snarled, turning away. "she has been naughty; and the only way with naughty children is to be brutal." "i expect you have made a mess of it," said nurse branscome. "i am sure i have," said brother copas. corona undressed herself very deliberately; and, seating herself again on the edge of the bed, as deliberately undressed timothy and clothed him for the night in his pyjamas. "i am sorry, dear, that _you_ should suffer. . . . but i can't tell what isn't true, not even for your sake; and i can't take back what i said. nurse turner is a beast, if we starve for saying it--which," added corona reflectively, "i don't suppose we shall. i couldn't answer back properly on uncle copas, because when you say a thing to grown-ups they look wise and ask you to prove it, and if you can't you look silly. but nurse turner is a beast. . . . oh, timmy! let's lie down and try to get to sleep. but it _is_ miserable to have all the world against us." she remembered that she was omitting to say her prayers, and knelt down; but after a moment or two rose again. "it's no use, god," she said. "i'm very sorry, and i wouldn't tell it to anyone but _you_--and perhaps uncle copas, if he was different: but i can't say 'forgive us our trespasses' when i can't abide the woman." she had already pulled down the blind. before creeping to bed she drew the curtains to exclude the lingering daylight. as she did so, she made sure that her window was hasped wide. her bedroom (on the ground floor) looked out upon a small cabbage-plot in which brother bonaday, until warned by the doctor, had employed his leisure. it was a wilderness now. as a rule corona slept with her lattice wide to the fullest extent: and at any time (upon an alarm of fire, for example) she could have slipped her small body out through the opening with ease. to-night she drew the frame of the window closer than usual, and pinned it on the perforated bar; so close that her small body could not squeeze through it even if she should walk in her sleep. she was a conscientious child. she only forbore to close it tight because it was wicked to go without fresh air. she stole into bed and curled herself up comfortably. for some reason or other the touch of the cold pillow drew a tear or two. but after a very little while she slept, still hugging her doll. there was no sound to disturb her; no sound but the soft dripping, now and again, of a cinder in the grate before which brother bonaday sat, with misery in his heart. "corona!" the voice was low and tremulous. it followed on the sound of a loud sneeze. either the voice or the sneeze (or both) aroused her, and she sat up in bed with a start. like chaucer's canace, of sleep "she was full mesurable, as women be." "corona!" "is that you, daddy?" she asked, jumping out of bed and tiptoeing to the door. what the hour was she could not tell: but she knew it must be late, for a shaft of moonlight fell through a gap in the window-curtains and shone along the floor. "are you ill? . . . shall i run and call them up at the nunnery?" "i was listening. . . . i have been listening here for some time, and i could not hear you breathing." "dear daddy . . . is that all? go back to your bed--it's wicked of you to be out of it, with the nights turning chilly as they are. i'll go back to mine and try to snore, if that's any comfort." "i haven't been to bed at all. i couldn't . . . corona!" "you are not to turn the key!" she commanded in a whisper, for he was fumbling with it. "uncle copas pretended he was taking it away with him: or that was what i understood, and if he breaks an understanding it's _his_ affair." "i--i thought, dear, you might be hungry." "well, and suppose i am?" corona, now she came to think of it, was ravenous. "i've a slice of bread here, and a cold sausage. if you'll wrap yourself up and come out, we can toast them both: the fire is still clear." "as if i should think of it! . . . and it's lucky for you, daddy, the key's on your side of the door. you ought to be ashamed of yourself, out of bed at--what _is_ the time?" "past ten o'clock." "you are not telling me a fib, i hope, about keeping up a clear fire?" said corona sternly. "if you like, i will open the door just a little: then you can see for yourself." "cer--tainly not. but if you've been looking after yourself properly, why did you sneeze just now?" "'sneeze'? i never sneezed." silence, for a moment-"_somebody_ sneezed . . . i 'stinctly heard it," corona insisted. "now i come to think, it sounded--" there was another pause while, with a question in her eye, she turned and stared at the casement. then, as surmise grew to certainty, a little laugh bubbled within her. she stepped to the window. "good night, uncle copas!" she called out mischievously. no one answered from the moonlit cabbage-plot. in fact, brother copas, beating his retreat, at that moment struck his staff against a disused watering-can, and missed to hear her. he objurgated his clumsiness and went on, picking his way more cautiously. "the question is," he murmured, "how i'm to extort confession from bonaday to-morrow without letting him suspect . . ." while he pondered this, brother copas stumbled straight upon another shock. the small gate of the cabbage-plot creaked on its hinge . . . and behold, in the pathway ahead stood a woman! in the moonlight he recognised her. "nurse branscome!" "brother copas! . . . why, what in the world are you doing--at this hour--and here, of all places?" "upon my word," retorted copas, "i might ask you the same question. . . . but on second thoughts i prefer to lie boldly and confess that i have been stealing cabbages." "is that a cabbage you are hiding under your gown?" "it might be, if this place hadn't been destitute of cabbages these twelve months and more. . . . pardon my curiosity: but is that also a cabbage you are hiding under your cloak?" "it might be--" but here laughter--quiet laughter--got the better of them both. "i might have known it," said brother copas, recovering himself. "her father is outside her door abjectly beseeching her to be as naughty as she pleases, if only she won't be unhappy. and she-woman-like--is using her advantage to nag him." 'but if ne'er so fast you wall her--' "danae, immured, yet charged a lover for admission. corona, imprisoned, takes it out of her father for speaking through the keyhole." "you would not tell me what the child did, that you two have punished her." "would i not? well, she was abominably rude to nurse turner this afternoon--went to the extent of calling her 'a nasty two-faced spy.'" "was that all?" asked nurse branscome. "it was enough, surely? . . . as a matter of fact she went farther, even dragging your name into the fray. she excused herself by saying that she had a right to hate nurse turner because nurse turner hated you." "well, that at any rate was true enough." "hey?" "i mean, it is true enough that nurse turner hates me, and would like to get me out of st. hospital," said nurse branscome quietly. "you never told me of this." "why should i have troubled to tell? i only tell it now because the child has guessed it." brother copas leaned on his staff pondering a sudden suspicion. "look here," he said; "those anonymous letters--" "i have not," said nurse branscome, "a doubt that nurse turner wrote them." "you have never so much as hinted at this." "i had no right. i have no right, even now; having no evidence. you would not show me the letter, remember." "it was too vile." "as if i--a nurse--cannot look at a thing because it is vile! . . . i supposed that you had laid the matter aside and forgotten it." "on the contrary, i have been at some pains--hitherto idle--to discover the writer. . . . does nurse turner, by the way, happen to start her w's with a small curly flourish?" "that you can discover for yourself. the nurses' diary lies in the nunnery, in the outer office. we both enter up our 'cases' in it, and it is open for anyone to inspect." "i will inspect it to-morrow," promised brother copas. "now--this hospital being full of evil tongues--i cannot well ask you to eat an _al fresco_ supper with me, though"--he twinkled--"i suspect we both carry the constituents of a frugal one under our cloaks." they passed through an archway into the great quadrangle, and there, having wished one another good night, went their ways; she mirthfully, he mirthfully and thoughtfully too. next morning brother copas visited the outer office of the nunnery and carefully inspected the nurses' diary. since every week contains a wednesday, there were capital w's in plenty. he took tracings of half a dozen and, armed with these, sought nurse turner in her private room. "i think," said he, holding out the anonymous letter, "you may have some light to throw on this. i have the master's authority to bid you attend on him and explain it." he fixed the hour--2 p.m. but shortly after mid-day nurse turner had taken a cab (ordered by telephone) and was on her way to the railway station with her boxes. chapter xxi. reconciliation. "i am not," said the bishop, "putting this before you as an argument. i have lived and mixed with men long enough to know that they are usually persuaded by other things than argument, sometimes by better. . . . i am merely suggesting a _modus vivendi_--shall we call it a truce of god?--until we have all done our best against a common peril: for, as your petition proves you to be earnest churchmen, so i may conclude that to all of us in this room our cathedral stands for a cherished monument of the church, however differently we may interpret its history." he leaned forward in his chair, his gaze travelling from one to another with a winning smile. all the petitioners were gathered before him in the master's library. they stood respectfully, each with his hat and staff. at first sight you might have thought he was dismissing them on a pilgrimage. master blanchminster sat on the bishop's right, with mr. colt close behind him; mr. simeon at the end of the table, taking down a verbatim report in his best shorthand. "i tell you frankly," pursued the bishop, "i come rather to appeal for concord than to discuss principles of observance. if you compel me to pronounce on the points raised, i shall take evidence and endeavour to deal justly upon it: but i suggest to you that the happiness of such a society as this is better furthered by a spirit of sweet reasonableness than by any man's insistence on his just rights." "_fiat caelum ruat justitia_," muttered brother copas. "but the man is right nevertheless." "principles," said the bishop, "are hard to discuss, justice often impossible to deal. . . . 'yes,' you may answer, 'but we are met to do this, or endeavour to do it, and not to indulge in irrelevancy.' yet is my plea so irrelevant? . . . you are at loggerheads over certain articles of faith and discipline, when a sound arrests you in the midst of your controversy. you look up and perceive that your cathedral totters; that it was _her_ voice you heard appealing to you. `leave your antagonisms and help one another to shore me up--me the witness of past generations to the faith. generations to come will settle some of the questions that vex you; others, maybe, the mere process of time will silently resolve. but time, which helps them, is fast destroying us. you are not young, and my necessity is urgent. surely, my children, you will be helping the faith if you save its ancient walls.' i bethink me," the bishop went on, "that we may apply to merchester that fine passage of matthew arnold's on oxford and her towers: '_apparitions of a day, what is our puny warfare against the philistines compared with the warfare which this queen of romance has been waging against them for centuries, and will wage after we are gone?_'" he paused, and on an afterthought succumbed to the professional trick of improving the occasion. "it may even be that the plight of our cathedral contains a special lesson for us of st. hospital: '_if a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand_'" "tilly vally!" muttered brother copas, and was feeling for his snuff-box, but recollected himself in time. "you may say that you are old men, poor men; that it is little you could help. do not be so sure of this. i am informed, for instance, that the proceeds of our forthcoming pageant are to be devoted to the restoration fund, and not (as was originally intended) to missionary purposes." here mr. simeon, bending over his shorthand notes, blushed to the ears. it was he, good man, who had first thought of this, and suggested it to mr. colt; as it was mr. colt who had suggested it to the committee in the presence of reporters, and who, on its acceptance, had received the committee's thanks. "i am further told"--here the bishop glanced around and caught the eye of the chaplain, who inclined his head respectfully--"that a--er--representation of the foundation ceremony of st. hospital may be included among the--er--" "episodes," murmured mr. colt, prompting. "eh?--yes, precisely--among the episodes. i feel sure it would make a tableau at once impressive and--er--entertaining--in the best sense of the word. . . . so, you see, there are possibilities; but they presuppose your willingness to sink some differences and join heartily in a common cause. . . . or again, you may urge that to re-edify our cathedral is none of your business--as officially indeed it is none of mine, but concerns the dean and chapter. i put it to you that it concerns us all." here the bishop leaned back in his chair, on the arms of which he rested his elbows; and pressing his finger-tips together, gazed over them at his audience. "that, at any rate, is my plea; and i shall be glad, if you have a spokesman, to hear how the suggestion of a 'truce of god' presents itself to your minds." in the pause that followed, brother copas felt himself nudged from behind. he cleared his throat and inclined himself with a grave bow. "my lord," he said, "my fellow-petitioners here have asked me to speak first to any points that may be raised. i have stipulated, however, that they hold themselves free to disavow me here in your lordship's presence, if on any point i misrepresent them." the bishop nodded encouragingly. "well then, my lord, it is peculiarly hard to speak for them when at the outset of the inquiry you meet us with a wholly unexpected appeal . . . an appeal (shall i say?) to sentiment rather than to strict reason." "i admit that." "as i admit the appeal to be a strong one. . . . but before i try to answer it, may i deal with a sentence or two which (pardon me) seemed less relevant than the rest? . . . _if a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand_. true enough, my lord: but neither can it aspire." the bishop lifted his eyebrows. but before he could interpose a word brother copas had mounted a hobby and was riding it, whip and spur. "my lord, when a hellene built a temple he took two pillars, set them upright in the ground, and laid a third block of stone a-top of them. he might repeat this operation a few times or a many, according to the size at which he wished to build. he might carve his pillars, and flourish them off with acanthus capitals, and run friezes along his architraves: but always in these three stones, the two uprights and the beam, the trick of it resided. and his building lasted. the pillars stood firm in solid ground, into which the weight of the cross-beam pressed them yet more firmly. the whole structure was there to endure, if not for ever, at least until some ass of a fellow came along and kicked it down to spite an old religion, because he had found a new one. . . . but this gothic--this cathedral, for example, which it seems we must help to preserve--is fashioned only to kick itself down." "it aspires." "precisely, my lord; that is the mischief. when the greek temple was content to repose upon natural law--when the greek builder said, 'i will build for my gods greatly yet lowlily, measuring my effort to those powers of man which at their fullest i know to be moderate, making my work harmonious with what little it is permitted to me to know'--in jumps the rash christian, saying with the men of babel, _go to, let us build us a city and a tower whose top may reach unto heaven_; or, in other words, 'let us soar above the law of earth and take the kingdom of heaven by storm.' . . . with what result?" "'sed quid typhoeus et validus mimas contra sonantem palladis aegida . . . ?'" "the gothic builders, like the titans, might strain to pile pelion on olympus. _vis consili expers_, my lord. from the moment they take down their scaffolding--nay, while it is yet standing--the dissolution begins. all their complicated structure of weights, counterweights, thrusts, balances, has started an internecine conflict, stone warring against stone, the whole disintegrating--" "excuse me, brother--" "copas, my lord." "excuse me, brother copas," said the bishop with a smile, "if i do not quite see to what practical conclusion we are tending." "there is a moral ahead, my lord. . . . thanks to mr. colt's zeal, we have all begun to aspire along our different lines, with the result that st. hospital has become a house divided against itself. now, if i may say it modestly, _i_ think your lordship's suggestion an excellent one. we are old poor men--what business have we, any longer, with aspiration? it is time for us to cease from pushing and thrusting at each other's souls; time for us to imitate the greek beam, and practise lying flat. . . . i vote for the truce, my lord; and when the time comes, shall vote for extending it." "you have so odd a way of putting it, brother--er--copas," his lordship mildly expostulated, "that i hardly recognise as mine the suggestion you are good enough to commend." brother copas's eye twinkled. "ah, my lord! it has been the misfortune of my life to follow socrates humbly as a midwife of men's ideas, and be accused of handing them back as changelings." "you consent to the truce, at any rate?" "no, no!" muttered old warboise. copas turned a deaf ear. "i vote for the truce," he said firmly, "provided the one condition be understood. it is the _status quo ante_ so far as concerns us protestants, and covers the whole field. for example, at the sacrament we receive the elements in the form which life-long use has consecrated for us, allowing the wafer to be given to those brethren who prefer it. will the master consent to this?" master blanchminster was about to answer, but first (it was somewhat pitiful to see) turned to mr. colt. mr. colt bent his head in assent. "that is granted," said the master. "nor would we deny the use of confession to those who find solace in it--" "yes, we would," growled brother warboise. "--provided always," pursued copas, "that its use be not thrust upon us, nor our avoidance of it injuriously reckoned against us." "i think," said the master, "brother copas knows that on this point he may count upon an honourable understanding." "i do, master. . . . then there is this new business of compulsory vespers at six o'clock. we wish that compulsion removed." "why?" snapped mr. colt. "you would force me to say, sir, 'because it interferes with my fishing.' well, even so, i might confess without shame, and answer with walton, that when i would beget content and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of almighty god i will walk the meadows by mere, 'and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other various little living creatures that are not only created but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the god of nature, and therefore trust in him.' . . . but i am speaking here rather on behalf of brother warboise--if he will leave off nudging me in the small of the back. it happens that for a number of years brother warboise has daily, at this hour, paid a visit to a sick and paralysed friend--" "he is not a friend," rasped out brother warboise. "on the contrary--" "shall we," interposed the master, "agree to retain the service on the understanding that i am willing to hear any reasonable plea for non-attendance? i need hardly say, my lord, that visiting the sick would rank with me before any formal observance; and," he added, with the hint of a smile which brother copas caught, "even to less christian excuses i might conceivably be willing to listen." so, piece by piece, the truce was built up. . . . when the petitioners had thanked his lordship and withdrawn, and mr. simeon, having gathered up his notes, presently followed them out, the bishop, the master, and the chaplain sat for half an hour talking together. the time came for mr. colt to take his leave, being due at a pageant rehearsal. when he was gone the bishop suggested a quiet stroll in the home-park, and the two old divines fared forth to take the benediction of evening, still keeping good grave converse as they paced side by side. "my dear eustace," said the bishop (they were friends of long standing, and in private used christian names in place of titles), "confess, now that this business is over, it was not so bad as you feared." the master respired the cool air with a quiet sigh. "no, walter, it was not so bad as i feared. but having ruled all these years without question, you understand--" "you have certainly not ruled all these years for nothing. they were honest fellows, and made it pretty plain that they loved you. it does not rankle, i hope?" "no." master blanchminster drew another deep breath and emitted it as if expelling the last cloudy thought of resentment. "no," he repeated; "i believe i may say that it rankles no longer. they are honest fellows--i am glad you perceived that." "one could read it in all of them, saving perhaps that odd fellow who acted as spokesman. brother--er--copas? . . . he lectured me straightly enough, but there is always a disposition to suspect an eccentric." "he was probably the honestest man in the room," answered master blanchminster with some positiveness. "i am the more glad to hear it," said the bishop, "because meeting a man of such patent capacity brought so low--" "i assure you, he doesn't even drink--or not to excess," the master assured him. they were passing under the archway of the porter's lodge. "but hallo!" said the bishop, as they emerged upon the great quadrangle, "what in the world is going on yonder?" again, as the master had viewed it many hundreds of times, the sunset shed its gold across the well-kept turf between long shadows cast by the chimneys of the brethren's lodgings. as usual, in the deep shadow of the western front were gathered groups of inmates for the evening chat. but the groups had drawn together into one, and were watching a child who, solitary upon the grass-plot, paced through a measure before them 'high and disposedly.' "brayvo!" shrilled the voice of mrs. royle, champion among viragoes. "now, at the turn you come forward and catch your skirts back before you curtchey!" "but what on earth does it all mean?" asked the bishop, staring across from the archway. "it's--it's bonaday's child--he's one of our brethren: as i suppose, rehearsing her part for the pageant." corona's audience had no eyes but for the performance. as she advanced to the edge of the grass-plot and dropped a final curtsey to them, their hands beat together. the clapping travelled across the dusk of the quadrangle to the two watchers, and reached them faintly, thinly, as though they listened in wonder at ghosts applauding on the far edge of elysian fields. chapter xxii. mr. simeon makes a clean breast. "i won't say you sold the pass," snarled brother warboise, "though i might. the fact is, there's no trusting your cleverness. you see a chance of showing-off before the bishop, and that's enough. off you start with a lecture on architecture (which he didn't in the least want to hear), and then, when he finds a chance to pull you up, you take the disinterested line and put us all in the cart." "you hit it precisely," answered brother copas, "as only a protestant can. his eye is always upon his neighbour's defects, and i never cease to marvel at its adeptness. . . . well, i do seem to owe you an apology. but i cannot agree that the bishop was bored. to me he appeared to listen very attentively." "he affected to, while he could: for he saw that you were playing his game. his whole object being to head off our petition while pretending to grant it, the more nonsense you talked, within limits, the better he was pleased." brother copas pondered a moment. "upon my word," he chuckled, "it was something of a feat to take a religious cock-pit and turn it into an old men's mutual improvement society. since the wesleyans took over the westminster aquarium--" "you need not add insult to injury." "'injury'? my good warboise, a truce is not a treaty: still less is it a defeat. . . . now look here. you are in a raging bad temper this evening, and you tell yourself it's because the bishop, with my artless aid, has--as you express it--put you in the cart. now i am going to prove to you that the true reason is a quite different one. for why? because, though you may not know it, you have been in a raging bad temper ever since this business was broached, three months ago. why again? i have hinted the answer more than once; and now i will put it as a question. _had zimri peace, who slew his master?_" "i do not understand." "oh yes, you do! you are in a raging bad temper, being at heart more decent than any of your silly convictions, because you have wounded for their sake the eminent christian gentleman now coming towards us along the river-path. he has been escorting the bishop for some distance on his homeward way, and has just parted from him. i'll wager that he meets us without a touch of resentment. . . . ah, brother, you have cause to be full of wrath!" sure enough the master, approaching and recognising the pair, hailed them gaily. "eh? brother copas--brother warboise--a fine evening! but the swallows will be leaving us in a week or two." for a moment it seemed he would pass on, with no more than the usual nod and fatherly smile. he had indeed taken a step or two past them as they stood aside for him in the narrow path: but on a sudden thought he halted and turned about. "by the way--that sick friend of yours, brother warboise. . . . i was intending to ask about him. paralysed, i think you said? do i know him?" "he is not my friend," answered brother warboise gruffly. "his name is weekes," said brother copas, answering the master's puzzled look. "he was a master-printer in his time, an able fellow, but addicted to drink and improvident. his downfall involved that of brother warboise's stationery business, and brother warboise has never forgiven him." "dear, dear!" master blanchminster passed a hand over his brow. "but if that's so, i don't see--" "it's a curious story," said brother copas, smiling. "it's one you have no right to meddle with, any way," growled brother warboise; "and, what's more, you can't know anything about it." "it came to me through the child corona," pursued brother copas imperturbably. "you took her to weekes's house to tea one afternoon, and she had it from weekes's wife. it's astonishing how these women will talk." "i've known some men too, for that matter--" "it's useless for you to keep interrupting. the master has asked for information, and i am going to tell him the story--that is, sir, if you can spare a few minutes to hear it." "you are sure it will take but a few minutes?" asked master blanchminster doubtfully. "eh, master?" brother copas laughed. "did you, too, find me somewhat prolix this afternoon?" "well, you shall tell me the story. but since it is not good for us to be standing here among the river damps, i suggest that you turn back with me towards st. hospital, and where the path widens so that we can walk three abreast you shall begin." "with your leave, master, i would be excused," said brother warboise. "oh, no, you won't," brother copas assured him. "for unless you come too, i promise to leave out all the discreditable part of the story and paint you with a halo. . . . it began, sir, in this way," he took up the tale as they reached the wider path, "when the man weekes fell under a paralytic stroke, warboise took occasion to call on him. perhaps, brother, you will tell us why." "i saw in his seizure the visitation of god's wrath," said warboise. "the man had done me a notorious wrong. he had been a swindler, and my business was destroyed through him." "mrs. weekes said that even the sight of the wretch's affliction did not hinder our brother from denouncing him. he sat down in a chair facing the paralytic, and talked of the debt: 'which now,' said he, 'you will never be able to pay.' . . . nay, master, there is better to come. when brother warboise got up to take his leave, the man's lips moved, and he tried to say something. his wife listened for some time, and then reported, 'he wants you to come again.' brother warboise wondered at this; but he called again next day. whereupon the pleasure in the man's face so irritated him, that he sat down again and began to talk of the debt and god's judgment, in words more opprobrious than before. . . . his own affairs, just then, were going from bad to worse: and, in short, he found so much relief in bullying the author of his misfortunes, who could not answer back, that the call became a daily one. as for the woman, she endured it, seeing that in some mysterious way it did her husband good." "there was nothing mysterious about it," objected brother warboise. "he knew himself a sinner, and desired to pay some of his penance before meeting his god." "i don't believe it," said copas. "but whether you're right or wrong, it doesn't affect the story much. . . . at length some friends extricated our brother from his stationery business, and got him admitted to the blanchminster charity. the first afternoon he paid a visit in his black gown, the sick man's face so lit up at the sight that warboise flew into a passion--did you not, brother?" "did the child tell you all this?" "aye: from the woman's lips." "i was annoyed, because all of a sudden it struck me that, in revenge for my straight talk, weekes had been wanting me to call day by day that he might watch me going downhill; and that now he was gloating to see me reduced to a blanchminster gown. so i said, 'you blackguard, you may look your fill, and carry the recollection of it to the throne of judgment, where i hope it may help you. but this is your last sight of me.'" "quite correct," nodded copas. "mrs. weekes corroborates. . . . well, master, our brother trudged back to st. hospital with this resolve, and for a week paid no more visits to the sick. by the end of that time he had discovered, to his surprise, that he could not do without them--that somehow weekes had become as necessary to him as he to weekes." "how did you find that out?" asked brother warboise sharply. "easily enough, as the child told the story. . . . at any rate, you went. at the door of the house you met mrs. weekes. she had put on her bonnet, and was coming that very afternoon to beseech your return. you have called daily ever since to talk about your debt, though the statute of limitations has closed it for years. . . . that, master, is the story." "you have told it fairly enough," said warboise. "now, since the master knows it, i'd be glad to be told if that man is my friend or my enemy. upon my word i don't rightly know, and if he knows he'll never find speech to tell me. sometimes i think he's both." "i am not sure that one differs very much from the other, in the long run," said copas. but the master, who had been musing, turned to warboise with a quick smile. "surely," he said, "there is one easy way of choosing. take the poor fellow some little gift. if you will accept it for him, i shall be happy to contribute now and then some grapes or a bottle of wine or other small comforts." he paused, and added with another smile, still more penetrating-"you need not give up talking of the debt, you know!" by this time they had reached the gateway of his lodging, and he gave them a fatherly good night just as a child's laugh reached them through the dusk at the end of the roadway. it was corona, returning from rehearsal; and the chaplain--the redoubtable william the conqueror--was her escort. the two had made friends on their homeward way, and were talking gaily. "why, here is uncle copas!" called corona, and ran to him. mr. colt relinquished his charge with a wave of the hand. his manner showed that he accepted the new truce _de bon coeur_. "is it peace, you two?" he called, as he went past. brother warboise growled. _what hast thou to do with peace? get thee behind me_, the growl seemed to suggest. at all events, it suggested this answer to brother copas-"if you and jehu the son of nimshi start exchanging roles," he chuckled, "where will weekes come in?" master blanchminster let himself in with his latchkey, and went up the stairs to his library. on the way he meditated on the story to which he had just listened, and the words that haunted his mind were wordsworth's- "alas! the gratitude of men hath oftener left me mourning." a solitary light burned in the library--the electric lamp on his table beside the fire-place. it had a green shade, and for a second or two the master did not perceive that someone stood a pace or two from it in the penumbra. "master!" "hey!"--with a start--"is it simeon? . . . my good simeon, you made me jump. what brings you back here at this hour? you've forgotten some paper, i suppose." "no, master." "what then?" by the faint greenish light the master missed to observe that mr. simeon's face was deadly pale. "master, i have come to make confession--to throw myself on your mercy! for a long time--for a year almost--i have been living dishonestly. . . . master, do you believe in miracles?" for a moment there was no answer. master blanchminster walked back to an electric button beside the door, and turned on more light with a finger that trembled slightly. "if you have been living dishonestly, simeon, i certainly shall believe in miracles." "but i mean _real_ miracles, master." "you are agitated, simeon. take a seat and tell me your trouble in your own way--beginning, if you please, with the miracle." "it was that which brought me. until it happened i could not find courage--" mr. simeon's eyes wandered to this side and that, as though they still sought a last chance of escape. "the facts, if you please?" the master's voice had of a sudden become cold, even stern. he flung the words much as one dashes a cupful of water in the face of an hysterical woman. they brought mr. simeon to himself. his gaze shivered and fixed itself on the master's, as in a compass-box you may see the needle tremble to magnetic north. he gripped the arms of his chair, caught his voice, and went on desperately. "this afternoon it was. . . . on my way here i went around, as i go daily, by the cathedral, to hear if the workmen have found any fresh defects. . . . they had opened a new pit by the south-east corner, a few yards from the first, and as i came by one of the men was levering away with a crowbar at a large stone not far below the surface. i waited while he worked it loose, and then, lifting it with both hands, he flung it on to the edge of the pit. . . . by the shape we knew it at once for an old gravestone that, falling down long ago, had somehow sunk and been covered by the turf. there was lettering, too, upon the undermost side when the man turned it over. he scraped the earth away with the flat of his hands, and together we made out what was written." mr. simeon fumbled in his waistcoat, drew forth a scrap of paper, and handed it to the master. "i copied it down then and there: no, not at once. at first i looked up, afraid to see the whole building falling, falling upon me--" the master did not hear. he had unfolded the paper. adjusting his spectacles, he read: "_god have mercy on the soul of giles tonkin. obiit dec. 17th, 1643. no man can serve two masters_." "a strange text for a tombstone," he commented. "and the date--1643? that is the year when our city surrendered in the parliament wars. . . . who knows but this may have marked the grave of a man shot because he hesitated too long in taking sides . . . or perchance in his flurry he took both, and tried to serve two masters." "master, i am that man. . . . do not look at me so! i mean that, whether he knew it or not, he died to save me . . . that his stone has risen up for witness, driving me to you. ah, do not weaken me, now that i am here to confess!" and leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands spread to hide his face, mr. simeon blurted out his confession. when he had ended there was silence in the room for a space. "tarbolt!" murmured the master, just audibly and no more. "if it had been anyone but tarbolt!" there was another silence, broken only by one slow sob. "_for either he will hate the one and love the other; or else he will hold to the one and despise the other_. . . simeon, which was i?" mr. simeon forced himself to look up. tears were in his eyes, but they shone. "master, can you doubt?" "i am sorry to appear brutal," said master blanchminster, coldly and wearily, "but my experiences to-day have been somewhat trying for an old man. may i ask if, on taking your resolution to confess, you came straight to me; or if, receiving just dismissal from my service, you yet hold canon tarbolt in reserve?" mr. simeon stood up. "i have behaved so badly to you, sir, that you have a right to ask it. but as a fact i went to canon tarbolt first, and said i could no longer work for him." "sit down, please. . . . how many children have you, mr. simeon?" "seven, sir. . . . the seventh arrived a fortnight ago--yesterday fortnight, to be precise. a fine boy, i am happy to say." he looked up pitifully. the master stood above him, smiling down; and while the master's stature seemed to have taken some additional inches, his smile seemed to irradiate the room. "simeon, i begin to think it high time i raised your salary." chapter xxiii. corona's birthday. the may-fly season had come around again, and corona was spending her saturday--the greycoats' holiday--with brother copas by the banks of mere. they had brought their frugal luncheon in the creel which was to contain the trout brother copas hoped to catch. he hoped to catch a brace at least--one for his sick friend at home, the other to replenish his own empty cupboard: for this excursion meant his missing to attend at the kitchen and receive his daily dole. there may have been thunder in the air. at any rate the fish refused to feed; and after an hour's patient waiting for sign of a rise-without which his angling would be but idle pains--brother copas found a seat, and pulled out a book from his pocket, while corona wandered over the meadows in search of larks' nests. but this again was pains thrown away; since, as brother copas afterwards explained, in the first place the buttercups hid them, and, secondly, the nests were not there!--the birds preferring the high chalky downs for their nurseries. she knew, however, that along the ditches where the willows grew, and the alder clumps, there must be scores of warblers and other late-breeding birds; for walking here in the winter she had marvelled at the number of nests laid bare by the falling leaves. these warblers wait for the leaves to conceal their building, and winter will betray the deserted hiding-place. so brother copas had told her, to himself repeating- "_cras amorum copulatrix inter umbras arborum inplicat casas virentes de flagello myrteo_...." corona found five of these nests, and studied them: flimsy things, constructed of a few dried grasses, inwoven with horsehair and cobwebs. before next spring the rains would dissolve them and they would disappear. she returned with a huge posy of wild flowers and the information that she, for her part, felt hungry as a hunter. . . . they disposed themselves to eat. "do you know, uncle copas," she asked suddenly, "why i have dragged you out here to-day?" "did i show myself so reluctant?" he protested; but she paid no heed to this. "it is because i came home here to england, to st. hospital, just a year ago this very afternoon. this is my thanksgiving day," added corona solemnly. "i am afraid there is no turkey in the hamper," said brother copas, pretending to search. "we must console ourselves by reflecting that the bird is out of season." "you didn't remember the date, uncle copas. did you, now?" "i did, though." brother copas gazed at the running water for a space and then turned to her with a quick smile. "why, child, _of course_ i did! . . . and i appreciate the honour." corona nodded as she broke off a piece of crust and munched it. "i wanted to take stock of it all. (we're dining out of doors, so please let me talk with my mouth full. i'm learning to eat slowly, like a good english girl: only it takes so much time when there's a lot to say.) well, i've had a good time, and nobody can take _that_ away, thank the lord! it--it's been just heavenly." "a good time for all of us, little maid." "honest indian? . . . but it can't last, you know. that's what we have to consider: and it mayn't be a gay thought, but i'd hate to be one of those folks that never see what's over the next fence. . . . of course," said corona pensively, "it's up to you to tell me i dropped in on st. hospital like one of solomon's lilies that take no thought for to-morrow. but i didn't, really: for i always knew this was going to be the time of my life." "i don't understand," said copas. "why should it not last?" "i guess you and i'll have to be serious," she answered. "daddy gets frailer and frailer. . . . you can't hide from me that you know it: and please don't try, for i've to think of--of the _afterwards_, and i want you to help." "but suppose that i have been thinking about it already--thinking about it hard?" said brother copas slowly. "ah, child, leave it to me, and never talk like that!" "but why?" she asked, wondering. "because we old folks cannot bear to hear a child talking, like one of ourselves, of troubles. that has been our business: we've seen it through; and now our best happiness lies in looking back on the young, and looking forward for them, and keeping _them_ young and happy so long as the gods allow. . . . never search out ways of rewarding us. to see you just going about with a light heart is a better reward than ever you could contrive for us by study. child, if the gods allowed, i would keep you always like master walton's milkmaid, that had not yet attained so much age and wisdom as to load her mind with any fears of many things that will never be, as too many men too often do. but she cast away care--" "i think she must have been a pretty silly sort of milkmaid," said corona. "likely she ended to slow music while the cows came home. but what worries me is that i'm young and don't see any way to hurry things. miss champernowne won't let me join the cookery class because i'm under the age for it: and i see she talks sense in her way. even if i learnt cookery and let down my skirts, who's going to engage me for a cook-general at _my_ time of life?" "nobody, please god," answered brother copas, copying her seriousness. "did i not tell you i have been thinking about all this? if you must know, i have talked it over with the master . . . and the long and short of it is that, if or when the time should come, i can step in and make a claim for you as your only known guardian. my dear child, st. hospital will not let you go." for a moment corona tried to speak, but could not. she sat with her palms laid on her lap, and stared at the blurred outline of the chalk-hills--blurred by the mist in her eyes. two great tears welled and splashed down on the back of her hand. "the years and years," she murmured, "before i can begin to pay it back!" "nay"--brother copas set down his half-filled glass, took the hand and gently wiped it with the sleeve of his frayed gown; and so held it, smoothing it while he spoke, as though the tear had hurt it--"it is we who are repaying you. shall i tell you what i told the master? 'master,' i said, 'all we brethren, ever since i can remember, have been wearing gowns as more or less conscious humbugs. christ taught that poverty was noble, and such a gospel might be accepted by the east. it might persevere along the mediterranean coast, and survive what st. paul did to christianity to make christianity popular. it might reach italy and flame up in a crazed good soul like the soul of st. francis. it might creep along as a pious opinion, and even reach england, to be acknowledged on a king's or a rowdy's death-bed--and alberic de blanchminster,' said i, '(saving your presence, sir) was a rowdy robber who, being afraid when it came to dying, caught at the christian precept he has most neglected, as being therefore in all probability the decentest. but no englishman, not being on his death-bed, ever believed it: and we knew better--until this child came along and taught us. the brethren's livery has always been popular enough in the streets of merchester: but she--she taught us (god bless her) that it can be honoured for its own sake; that it is noble and, best of all, that its _noblesse oblige_' . . . ah, little maid, you do not guess your strength!" corona understood very little of all this. but she understood that uncle copas loved her, and was uttering these whimsies to cover up the love he revealed. she did better than answer him in words: she nestled to his shoulder, rubbing her cheek softly against the threadbare gown. "when is your birthday, little one?" "i don't know," corona confessed. "mother never would tell me. she would get angry about birthdays, and say she never took any truck with them. . . . but, of course, everyone ought to have a birthday, of sorts, and so i call this my real one. but i never told you that--did i?" "i heard you say once that you left a little girl behind you somewhere in the states, but that you only came to yourself the day you reached england." "yes; and i _do_ feel sorry for that other little girl sometimes!" "you need not. she'll grow up to be an american woman: and the american woman, as everybody knows, has all the fun of the fair. . . . to-day is your birthday, then; and see! i have brought along a bottle of claret, to drink your health. it isn't--as the irish butler said--the best claret, but it's the best we've got. your good health, miss corona, and many happy returns!" "which," responded corona, lifting her cupful of milk, "i looks towards you and i likewise bows. . . . _would_ you, by the way, _very_ much object if i fetched timothy out of the basket? he gets so few pleasures." for the rest of the meal, by the clear-running river, they talked sheer delightful nonsense. . . . when (as brother copas expressed it) they had "put from themselves the desire of meat and drink," he lit a pipe and smoked tranquilly, still now and again, however, sipping absent-mindedly at his thin claret. "but you are not to drink more than half a bottle," corona commanded. "the rest we must carry home for supper." "so poor a vintage as this, once opened, will hardly bear the journey," he protested. "but what are you saying about supper?" "why, you wouldn't leave poor old daddy quite out of the birthday, i hope! . . . there's to be a supper to-night. branny's coming." "am i to take this for an invitation?" "of course you are. . . . there will be speeches." "the dickens is, there won't be any trout at this rate!" "they'll be rising before evening," said corona confidently. "and, anyway, we can't hurry them." from far up stream, where the grey mass of the cathedral blocked the vale, a faint tapping sound reached them, borne on 'the cessile air.' it came from the pageant ground, where workmen were hammering busily at the grand stand. it set them talking of the pageant, of corona's 'may queen' dress, of the lines (or, to be accurate, the line and a half) she had to speak. this led to her repeating some verses she had learnt at the greycoats' school. they began- "i sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers." and corona was crazy over them, because (as she put it) "they made you feel you were smelling all england out of a bottle." brother copas told her of the man who had written them; and of a lovelier poem he had written _to meadows_- "ye have been fresh and green, ye have been filled with flowers, and ye the walks have been where maids have spent their hours. "you have beheld how they with wicker arks did come to kiss and bear away the richer cowslips home. . . . "but now we see none here--" he broke off. "ah, there he gets at the pang of it! other poets have wasted pity on the dead-and-gone maids, but his is for the fields they leave desolate." this puzzled corona. but the poem had touched her somehow, and she kept repeating snatches of it to herself as she rambled off in search of more birds' nests. left to himself, brother copas pulled out book and pencil again, and began botching at the last lines of the _pervigilium veneris_- "her favour it was filled the sail of the trojan for latium bound; her favour that won her aeneas a bride on laurentian ground; and anon from the cloister inveigled the vestal, the virgin, to mars, as her wit by the wild sabine rape recreated her rome for its wars with the ramnes, quirites, together ancestrally proud as they drew from romulus down to our ceesar--last, best of that bone and that thew.- now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew!" brother copas paused to trim his pencil, which was blunt. his gaze wandered across the water-meadows and overtook corona, who was wading deep in buttercups. "proserpine on the fields of enna!" he muttered, and resumed- "love planteth a field; it conceives to the passion, the pang, of his joy. in a field was dione in labour delivered of cupid the boy: and the field in its fostering lap from her travail receiv'd him: he drew mother's milk from the delicate kisses of flowers; and he prospered and grew.- now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew!" "why do i translate this stuff? why, but for the sake of a child who will never see it--who if she read it, would not understand a word?" "lo! behold ye the bulls, with how lordly a flank they besprawl on the broom! --yet obey the uxorious yoke and are tamed by dione her doom. or behear ye the sheep, to the husbanding rams how they bleat to the shade! or behear ye the birds, at the goddess' command how they sing unafraid!- be it harsh as the swannery's clamour that shatters the hush of the lake; be it dulcet as where philomela holds darkling the poplar awake, so melting her soul into music, you'd vow 'twas her passion, her own, she chanteth--her sister forgot, with the daulian crime long-agone. hush! hark! draw around to the circle . . . ah, loitering summer, say when for me shall be broken the charm, that i chirp with the swallow again? i am old: i am dumb: i have waited to sing till apollo withdrew. --so amyclae a moment was mute, and for ever a wilderness grew.- now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew!" "_perdidi musam tacendo_," murmured brother copas, gazing afield. "only the young can speak to the young. . . . god grant that, at the right time, the right prince may come to her over the meadows, and discourse honest music!" _splash!_ he sprang up and snatched at his rod. a two-pound trout had risen almost under his nose. chapter xxiv. finis coronat opus. the great day dawned at last: the day to which all merchester had looked forward for months, for which so many hundreds had been working, on which all must now pin their hopes: the opening day of pageant week. i suppose that never in merchester's long history had her citizens so frequently or so nervously studied their weather-glasses. "tarbolt, of all people!" murmured brother copas one afternoon in the venables free library. he had just met the canon coming down the stairs, and turned to watch the retreating figure to the doorway. "i am suffering from a severe shock," he announced five minutes later to mr. simeon, whom he found at work in paradise. "did you ever know your friend tarbolt patronise this institution before?" "never," answered mr. simeon, flushing. "well, i met him on the stairs just now. for a moment i knew not which alternative to choose--whether your desertion had driven him to the extreme course of reading a book or two for himself, or he had come desperately in search of you to promise that if you returned, all should be forgiven. . . . no, you need not look alarmed. he came in search of a newspaper." "but there are no newspapers in the library." "quite so: he has just made that discovery. thereupon, since an animal of that breed cannot go anywhere without leaving his scent behind him, he has scrawled himself over half a page of the suggestion' book. he wants this library to take in _the times_ newspaper, 'if only for the sake of its foreign correspondence and its admirable weather-charts.' signed, 'j. tarbolt.' what part is the humbug sustaining, that so depends on the weather?" "he takes bishop henry of blois in the fourth episode. he wears a suit of complete armour, and you cannot conceive how much it--it--improves him. i helped him to try it on the other day," mr. simeon explained with a smile. "maybe," suggested brother copas, "he fears the effect of rain upon his 'h's.'" but the glass held steady, and the great day dawned without a cloud. good citizens of merchester, arising early to scan the sky, were surprised to find their next-door neighbours already abroad, and in consultation with neighbours opposite over strings of flags to be suspended across the roadway. mr. simeon, for example, peeping out, with an old dressing-gown cast over his night-shirt, was astounded to find mr. magor, the contiguous pork-seller, thus engaged with mr. sillifant, the cheap fruiterer across the way. he had accustomed himself to think of them as careless citizens and uncultured, and their unexpected patriotism gave him perhaps less of a shock than the discovery that they must have been moving faster than he with the times, for they both wore pyjamas. they were kind to him, however: and, lifting no eyebrow over his antiquated night-attire, consulted him cheerfully over a string of flags which (as it turned out) mr. magor had paid yesterday a visit to southampton expressly to borrow. i mention this because it was a foretaste, and significant, of the general enthusiasm. at ten in the morning fritz, head waiter of that fine old english coaching-house, "the mitre," looked out from the portico where he stood surrounded by sporting prints, and announced to the young lady in the bar that the excursion trains must be "bringing them in hundreds." by eleven o'clock the high street was packed with crowds that whiled away their time with staring at the flags and decorations. but it was not until 1.0 p.m. that there began to flow, always towards the pageant ground, a stream by which that week, among the inhabitants of merchester, will always be best remembered; a stream of folk in strange dresses--knights in armour, ladies in flounces and ruffs, ancient britons, greaved roman legionaries, monks, cavaliers, georgian beaux and dames. it appeared as if all the dead generations of merchester had arisen from their tombs and reclaimed possession of her streets. they shared it, however, with throngs of modern folk, in summer attire, hurrying from early luncheons to the spectacle. in the roadway near the pageant ground crusaders and nuns jostled amid motors and cabs of commerce. for an hour this mad medley poured through the streets of merchester. come with them to the pageant ground, where all is arranged now and ready, waiting the signal! punctually at half-past two, from his box on the roof of the grand stand, mr. isidore gave the signal for which the orchestra waited. with a loud outburst of horns and trumpets and a deep rolling of drums the overture began. it was the work of a young musician, ambitious to seize his opportunity. after stating its theme largely, simply, in sixteen strong chords, it broke into variations in which the audience for a few moments might read nothing but cacophonous noise, until a gateway opened in the old wall, and through it a band of white-robed druids came streaming towards the stone altar which stood--the sole stage "property"--in the centre of the green area. behind them trooped a mob of skin-clothed savages, yelling as they dragged a woman to the sacrifice. it was these yells that the music interpreted. the pageant had opened, and was chanting in high wild notes to its own prelude. almost before the spectators realised this, the arch-druid had mounted his altar. he held a knife to the victim's throat. but meanwhile the low beat of a march had crept into the music, and was asserting itself more and more insistently beneath the disconnected outcries. it seemed to grow out of distance, to draw nearer and nearer, as it were the tramp of an armed host. . . . it _was_ the tramp of a host. . . . as the arch-druid, holding his knife aloft, dragged back the woman's head to lay her throat the barer, all turned to a sudden crash of cymbals; and, to the stern marching-tune now silencing all clamours, the advance-guard of vespasian swung in through the gateway. . . . so for an hour saxon followed roman, dane followed saxon, norman followed both. alfred, canute, william--all controlled (as brother copas cynically remarked to brother warboise, watching through the palings from the allotted patch of sward which served them for green-room) by one small jew, perspiring on the roof and bawling orders here, there, everywhere, through a gigantic megaphone; bawling them in a _lingua franca_ to which these mighty puppets moved obediently, weaving english history as upon a tapestry swiftly, continuously unrolled. "which things," quoted copas mischievously, "are an allegory, philip." to the waiting performers it seemed incredible that to the audience, packed by thousands in the grand stand, this scolding strident voice immediately above their heads should be inaudible. yet it was. all those eyes beheld, all those ears heard, was the puppets as they postured and declaimed. the loud little man on the roof they saw not nor heard. "which things again are an allegory," said brother copas. the brethren of st. hospital had no episode of their own. but from the time of the conquest downward they had constantly to take part in the moving scenes as members of the crowd, and the spectators constantly hailed their entry. "our coat of poverty is the wear to last, after all," said copas, regaining the green-room and mopping his brow. "we have just seen out the plantagenets." in this humble way, when the time came, he looked on at the episode of henry the eighth's visit to merchester, and listened to the blank verse which he himself had written. the pageant committee had ruled out the reformation, but he had slyly introduced a hint of it. the scene consisted mainly of revels, dances, tournays, amid which a singing man had chanted, in a beautiful tenor, henry's own song of _pastime with good companye_.- "pastime with good companye, i love and shall until i die: grudge who lust, but none deny, so god be pleased, thus live will i. for my pastance, hunt, sing and dance, my heart is set. all goodly sport for my comfort who shall me let?" with its chorus- "for idleness is chief mistress of vices all. then who can say but mirth and play is best of all?" as to the tune of it their revels ended, henry and catherine of aragon and charles the emperor passed from the sunlit stage, one solitary figure--the blind bishop of merchester--lingered, and stretched out his hands for the monks to come and lead him home, stretched out his hands towards the cathedral behind the green elms. "being blind, i trust the light. ah, mother church! if fire must purify, if tribulation search thee, shall i plead _not in my time, o lord_? nay let me know all dark, yet trust the dawn--remembering the order of thy services, thy sweet songs, thy decent ministrations--levite, priest and sacrifice--those antepasts of heaven. we have sinn'd, we have sinn'd! but never yet went out the flame upon the altar, day or night; and it shall save thee, o jerusalem! jerusalem!" "and i stole that straight out of jeremy taylor," murmured brother copas, as the monks led off their bishop, chanting- "crux, in caelo lux superna, sis in carnis hac taberna mihi pedibus lucerna- "quo vexillum dux cohortis sistet, super flumen mortis, te, flammantibus in portis!" --"while i wrote that dog-latin myself," said brother copas, musing, forgetful that he, the author, was lingering on the stage from which he ought to have removed himself three minutes ago with the rest of the crowd. "ger' out! get off, zat olt fool! what ze devil you mean by doddling!" it was the voice of mr. isidore screeching upon him through the megaphone. brother copas turned about, uplifting his face to it for a moment with a dazed stare. . . . it seemed that, this time, everyone in the grand stand must have heard. he fled: he made the most ignominious exit in the whole pageant. the afternoon heat was broiling. . . . he had no sooner gained the green-room shade of his elm than the whole of the brethren were summoned forth anew; this time to assist at the spousals of queen mary of england with king philip of spain. and this episode (number vii on the programme) was corona's. he had meant--and again he cursed his forgetfulness--to seek her out at the last moment and whisper a word of encouragement. the child must needs be nervous. . . . he had missed his chance now. he followed the troop of brethren back into the arena and dressed rank with the others, salaaming as the mock potentates entered, uttering stage cheers, while inwardly groaning in spirit. his eye kept an anxious sidewise watch on the gateway by which corona must make her entrance. she came. but before her, leading the way, strewing flowers, came score upon score of children in regiments of colour--pale blue, pale yellow, green, rose, heliotrope. they conducted her to the may queen's throne, hung it with wreaths, and having paid their homage, ranged off, regiment by regiment, to take their station for the dance. and she, meanwhile? . . . if she were nervous, no sign of it betrayed her. she walked to her throne with the air of a small queen. . . . _vera incessu patuit--corona_; walked, too, without airs or _minauderies_, unconscious of all but the solemn glory. this was the pageant of her beloved england, and hers for the moment was this proud part in it. brother copas brushed his eyes. in his ears buzzed the verse of a psalm- she shall be brought unto the king in raiment of needle-work: the virgins that be her fellows shall bear her company . . . the orchestra struck up a quick-tripping minuet. the regiments advanced on curving lines. they interwove their ranks, making rainbows of colour; they rayed out in broadening bands of colour from corona's footstool. through a dozen of these evolutions she sat, and took all the homage imperially. it was not given to her, but to the idea for which she was enthroned; and sitting, she nursed the idea in her heart. the dance over--and twice or thrice as it proceeded the front of the grand stand shook with the clapping of thousands of hands, all agitated together as when a wind passes over a wheatfield--corona had to arise from her throne, a wreath in either hand, and deliver a speech before queen mary. the length of it was just a line and three-quarters- "lady, accept these perishable flowers queen may brings to queen mary. . . ." she spoke them in a high, clear voice, and all the grand stand renewed its clapping as the child did obeisance. "first-class!" grunted brother warboise at copas's elbow. "pity old bonaday couldn't be here to see the girl!" "aye," said copas; but there was that in his throat which forbade his saying more. so the pageant went on unfolding its scenes. some of them were merely silly: all of them were false to fact, of course, and a few even false to sentiment. no entry, for example, received a heartier round of british applause than did nell gwynn's (episode ix). tears actually sprang to many eyes when an orange-girl in the crowd pushed forward offering her wares, and nell with a gay laugh bought fruit of her, announcing "_i_ was an orange-girl once!" brother copas snorted, and snorted again more loudly when prebendary ken refused to admit the naughty ex-orange-girl within his episcopal gates. for the audience applauded the protest almost as effusively, and again clapped like mad when the merry monarch took the rebuke like a sportsman, promising that "the next bishopric that falls vacant shall be at this good old man's disposal!" indeed, much of the pageant was extremely silly. yet, as it progressed, brother copas was not alone in feeling his heart lift with the total effect of it. here, after all, thousands of people were met in a common pride of england and her history. distort it as the performers might, and vain, inadequate, as might be the words they declaimed, an idea lay behind it all. these thousands of people were met for a purpose in itself ennobling because unselfish. as often happens on such occasions, the rite took possession of them, seizing on them, surprising them with a sudden glow about the heart, sudden tears in the eyes. this _was_ history of a sort. towards the close, when the elm shadows began to stretch across the green stage, even careless spectators began to catch this infection of nobility-this feeling that we are indeed greater than we know. in the last act all the characters--from early briton to georgian dame--trooped together into the arena. in groups marshalled at haphazard they chanted with full hearts the final hymn, and the audience unbidden joined in chorus- "o god! our help in ages past, our hope for years to come, our shelter from the stormy blast and our eternal home!" "where is the child?" asked brother copas, glancing through the throng. he found her in the thick of the press, unable to see anything for the crowd about her, and led her off to a corner where, by the southern end of the grand stand, some twenty brethren of st. hospital stood shouting in company- "a thousand ages in thy sight are like an evening gone, short as the watch that ends the night before the rising sun." "she can't see. lift her higher!" sang out a voice--brother royle's. by happy chance at the edge of the group stood tall good-natured alderman chope, who had impersonated alfred the great. the brethren begged his shield from him and mounted corona upon it, all holding it by its rim while they chanted- "the busy tribes of flesh and blood, with all their hopes and fears, are carried downward by the flood and lost in following years. "time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away; they fly forgotten, as a dream dies at the opening day. "o god! our help in ages past, our hope for years to come; be thou our guard while troubles last and our perpetual home!" corona lifted her voice and sang with the old men; while among the excited groups the swallows skimmed boldly over the meadow, as they had skimmed every summer's evening before and since english history began. conclusion. brother copas walked homeward along the river-path, his gaunt hands gathering his beauchamp robe behind him for convenience of stride. ahead of him and around him the swallows circleted over the water-meads or swooped their breasts close to the current of mere. beside him strode his shadow, and lengthened as the sun westered in a haze of potable gold. in the haze swam evening odours of mints, grasses, herbs of grace and virtue named in old pharmacopoeias as most medicinal for man, now forgotten, if not nameless. the sunset breathed benediction. to many who walked homeward that evening it seemed in that benediction to enwrap the centuries of history they had so feverishly been celebrating, and to fold them softly away as a garment. but brother copas heeded it not. he was eager to reach st. hospital and carry report to his old friend. "upon my word, it was an entire success. . . . i have criticised the bambergers enough to have earned a right to admit it. in the end a sort of sacred fury took hold of the whole crowd, and in the midst of it we held her up--corona--on a shield--" brother bonaday lay panting. he had struggled through an attack sharper than any previous one--so much sharper that he knew the end to be not far distant, and only asked for the next to be swift. "--and she was just splendid," said brother copas. "she had that unconscious way of stepping out of the past, with a crown on her head. my god, old friend, if i had that child for a daughter--" brother bonaday lay and panted, not seeming to hear, still with his eyes upturned to the ceiling of his narrow cell. they scanned it as if feebly groping a passage through. "i ought to have told you," he muttered.--"more than once i meant-tried--to tell you." "hey?" brother copas bent lower. "she--corona--never was my child. . . . give me your hand. . . . no, no; it's the truth, now. her mother ran away from me . . . and she, corona, was born . . . a year after . . . in america . . . coronation year. the man--her father--died when she was six months old, and the woman . . . knowing that i was always weak--" he panted, very feebly. brother copas, still holding his hand, leaned forward. "then she died, too. . . . what does it matter? her message. . . . 'bluff,' you would call it. . . . but she knew me. she was always decided in her dealings . . . to the end. i want to sleep now. . . . that's a good man!" brother copas, seeking complete solitude, found it in the dusk of the garden beyond the ambulatory. there, repelling the benediction of sunset that still lingered in the west, he lifted his face to the planet jupiter, already establishing its light in a clear space of sky. "lord!" he ingeminated, "forgive me who counted myself the ironeist of st. hospital!" 