CAPTIVITY

by

M. LEONORA EYLES

Author of _Margaret Protests_

1922

TO E. J. R-S. 

You have often said that you could never write a book. You have writtenthis one just as surely as Beatrice wrote the Vita Nuova for Dante. Until I talked with you I did not know that our lives are the pathwayfor God's feet; I had not realized that Trinity of body, brain andspirit; and it had never come to me before how, for each other's sake, we must set a censor, very strong and austere, upon our secret thoughts. I have learnt these things from you; the gold of your thoughts haspassed through the crucible of my experience to make a book. Perhaps alittle of the gold has been left clinging to the crucible--and for thatI have to thank you, my dear. 

Margaret Leonora Eyles. 

Bexhill-on-Sea, _1st February, 1920. _

"Man comes into life to seek and find his sufficient beauty, toserve it, to win and increase it, to fight for it; to face anythingand dare anything for it, counting death as nothing so long as thedying eyes still turn to it. And fear and dulness and indolence andappetite--which, indeed, are no more than fear's three crippled brotherswho make ambushes and creep by night--are against him, to delay him, tohold him off, to hamper and beguile and kill him in that quest. "

H. G. Wells ("The History of Mr. Polly"). 

Captivity

CHAPTER I

As long as Marcella could remember, the old farm-house had lain inshadows, without and within. 

Behind it rose the great height of Ben Grief, with his gaunt face gashedhere by glowering groups of conifers, there by burns that ran down tothe River Nagar like tears down a wrinkled old face. Marcella had readin poetry books about burns that sang and laughing waters that clatteredto the sea for all the world like happy children running home fromschool. But the waters on Ben Grief neither laughed nor sang. Sometimesthey ran violently, as though Ben Grief were in a rage of passionateweeping; sometimes they went sullenly as though he sulked. 

It was upon Ben Grief that Marcella looked when she went to bed at nightand when she wakened in the morning in her little stark room at the backof the house. There was another window in the room from which she couldhave seen the sea, but Aunt Janet had had a great mahogany wardrobeplaced right across it, and only the sound of the sea, creepingsometimes, lashing most often, came to her as she lay in bed, remindingher that the sea was there all the time. 

In front of the house rose Lashnagar, the home of desolation, abillowing waste of sand rising to about a thousand feet at the crest. Curlews called and sea-gulls screamed over Lashnagar; heather grew uponit, purple and olive-green; fennel and cooch and henbane sprang side byside with dwarfed stink-nettles, stunted by the salt sand in which theywere rooted. But the soil was not deep enough for trees or bushes totake root. 

In Marcella's lifetime men had been lost on Lashnagar, and sheep anddogs, adventuring too far, had never come back. Legend had it thathundreds of years ago Lashnagar had been a quiet little village nestlinground Castle Lashcairn, the home of Marcella's folks. That was in theyear before Flodden Field, a hot, dry time that began with Lady Day andlasted till the Feast of All Souls without rain or storm. In that hotsummer a witch-woman, very beautiful, had come to Lashnagar to win thesoul of Andrew Lashcairn, winning with his soul his bed and his board. Awild wooing it was, and a wilder wedding. All the wooing had been doneby the woman--as was the way of the Lashcairn women ever afterwards--inthe dry heat of that unnatural summer when the sap dried in the treesand the marrow in men's bones, while the heated blood surged throughtheir veins more quickly than ever before. On the Feast of All Souls, the wedding day, a copper sun rose in a sky of blood and lead, and allthe folks of Lashnagar drank deeply to drive away impending horror. Thatnight, after they slept, while Andrew Lashcairn lay awake in thewitch-woman's arms, a great wind came in from the sea, sweeping beforeit the salt sand of the dunes, covering the village and the castle andthe old feet of Ben Grief where sheep and cattle fed. The witch-woman, with her lord and a few servants, fought and battled a way through thestorm of sand and stones to settle where the last of the wind-blowndesert piled on the knees of Ben Grief. The next year Andrew rode awayto the fight at Flodden Field. Unknown to him, the witch-woman who lovedhim rode close to his heels. 

There his pennant, with its sun in splendour and its flaunting "Bymyself I stand, " went down. When the hush of death fell on the noise ofbattle the witch-woman crawled by night among the dead to find her lordlying with one arm thrown carelessly over his dead horse's neck. It wasthere, companioned only by the dead, that the witch-woman's twins--a boyand a girl--were born. And it pleased their mother's grim humour tocreep about the battlefield in the darkness until she found banners andtrappings of the Southrons, whom she hated, to act as birth-clothes forher son and daughter when she carried them back mile after mile tobrooding Lashnagar. It was the boy who was Marcella's ancestor. 

Lashnagar was her nursery. On Lashnagar she had seen queer things. Onenight, when everyone was asleep and the path of the full moon layshining across the sea, she went up on to Lashnagar with the shadows ofthe flowering henbane clean-cut and inky about her feet. Half-way up agreat jagged hole lay gashed. Peering into it--she had never seen itbefore--she could distinguish the crumbling turret of a church, the roofof a house and the stiff tops of trees buried partly in a soft sea ofsand in the middle of which was a depression. The heathery ground onwhich she kneeled began to crack very gently, and, with beating heart, she started back, realizing that the hillside was hollow, formed here ofrotted trees thinly overgrown with turf and sand. Next morning she heardthat a shepherd was missing, and then she guessed with horror themeaning of the chasm and the soft depression. 

Next day she went back to gaze fascinated at the hole, only to find thatalready the dry sand had almost filled it, quite covering the crackedplace where she had kneeled, the turret and the roof. She told no onebut Hunchback Wullie, an old man who tended the green-wood fires in thehuts on the beach, where fish were cured. Excepting her mother, he wasMarcella's only friend--he it was who had soaked her mind in the legendsof Lashnagar and the hills around; he it was who had taught her thebeautiful things learnt by those who grow near to the earth and humbleliving things. 

She ran down the hillside to him that day, her eyes--the blue-grey eyesof her people--wide with horror, her long, straight, fair hair, that shewore in two Marguerite plaits, loosened and swinging in the wind. Hunchback Wullie was in the first hut, threading the herrings throughtheir gills on the long strings that went from side to side high upunder the roof. His ruddy brown beard glistered with the shining scalesof the fish, for he had a habit of standing by the hut door looking outto sea and stroking his beard, when another man would have smoked andrested. 

"Things never come tae an ending, lassie, " he said, his little red-browneyes looking out over the grey water. "Either for good or for illthey're always gaun on. They may be quiet like Lashnagar for years, an'then something crops out--like yon crumbling last night that killedyoung Colin. But it's not always evil that crops out, mind ye. "

Marcella did not go on Lashnagar again for months. The next time Wulliewas with her, and half-way up the incline they found apple blossomgrowing about one foot from the ground on a little sapling with acrabbed, thick trunk. 

"Why, look at that little apple tree, Wullie--how brave of it! I'm goingto root it up and take it to my garden. It can never live here in thesand and the wind. "

Wullie sat down and watched her, smiling a little and stroking his beardas she dug with her hands in the friable soil. For a long time she dug, but the sapling went deeper and deeper, and at last she sat down hot andtired. 

"D'ye ken what ye're daein', lassie?" he said, looking at the pink andwhite bloom reflectively. "Ye're diggin' doon intae death! Yon flooer'sthe reaping of a seedtime many a hundred years gone by. If ye was taedig doon an' doon all the day ye'd find yon apple tree buried deep i'th' sand. The last time it fruited was afore Flodden, when Lashcairnswere kings--"

"What, Wullie, a poor old tree buried all those years, pushing up tolight like this? How could it?" said Marcella, staring at it fascinated. 

"I've tauld ye afore, Marcella. There's no ending tae things! Sometimesthe evil comes cropping oot, like when men get caught an' buried onLashnagar. Sometimes it's something bonny, like yon flooer. Yon applewas meant to live an' bear fruit; the bonny apple's juist themakeweight. It's the seed that matters all the time--the life thatslides along the tree's life. Yon tree was buried before its seedtime, and all these years it struggled, up an' up, till it broke through intothe light of the sun. Like God strugglin' at the end through a man'sflesh--"

Marcella stared at him: Wullie often talked like this, and she onlyunderstood very vaguely what he meant. But she could grasp the idea ofsomething trying to struggle through desperately, and looked pityinglyat the little frail plume of blossom. 

"And after all these years, to struggle through on this bleak hill! Poorlittle tree!" she said. 

"That happens often to folk's lives. They come struggling through taesomething very rough and hard. But it's the struggling that matters. Yontree may only have one fruit that will seed. And so life goes on--"

He stroked his beard and stared over the sea to where the brown-sailedherring boats of his brother and his nephew were coming in through themorning sunlight. 

"It's a bit sad, isn't it?" Marcella said dreamily. "It seems hard onthe tree somehow, Wullie. Just as if the poor tree was only a path forthe new tree to walk along--"

"Well, that's all life is--a path for other life to walk along. "

"I wish you'd explain better, Wullie, " she said, staring from him to theplant. 

"Explaining's never any use, lassie. Folks have to live things to findthem out. " He stood up slowly. "There's the boats comin' in, an' I mustget on back to the huts. Ye'll learn, Marcella--ye'll come tae it someday that ye're only a path yerself for things to walk along--"

"Wullie--_what_ things?" she demanded. 

"Other folks, maybe. Maybe God, " he said, and went off to the huts. 

Overcome by the pathos of the little hopeful tree, Marcella carriedbaskets of soil from the farm and pots of water to lay them round aboutit. She planted stakes round it to keep off the force of the wind. Butthat year the flowering bore no fruit. And Wullie smiled at her attemptsto help the tree. 

"The roots are doon too deep, lassie, " he said. "Sae deep ye canna reachthem. There's little ye can dae for tree or man, Marcella, but juist nothinder them. All we can do, the best of us, is to put a bit of soil an'watter half-way up a tree trunk an' hope we're feeding the roots--"

"Then what can anyone do?" she said, looking at the pitiful littletree, stripped now of its leaves in the autumn chill. 

"I tauld ye--juist not hinder. An' lie as quiet as ye can because ye'rea path--"

It was in this way that Marcella got her education. Most of the timeWullie talked above her head save when he told her of the habits ofanimals and plants, of the winds and the seasons. Her mother, before shewas too ill, had taught her to read and that was all. Even her mother, drawn in upon herself with pain, talked above her head most of the time, too. The girl turned herself loose in the big room at the farm wherebooks were stored and there she spent days on end when the weather wastoo wild to be braved. It was a queer collection of books. All Scott'snovels were there; she found in them an enchanted land. She lived them, she fed on them. She never read herself into the woman's part in them. Only Jeannie Deans really met her requirements as a "part" and she leftmuch to be desired in the way of romance and beauty. Most often she wasyoung Lochinvar or Rob Roy; sometimes Coeur de Lion led her onfull-blooded adventure. There were quaint old books of Norse and Kelticlegend, musty, leather-bound books with wood-cut illustrations and long"s's" in the printing. There was Fox's Book of Martyrs: there were manytales of the Covenanters, things hard, austere and chill. 

One summer a young student came to the farm for the harvest. He was apeasant lad, a penniless bursary student at Edinburgh University. In theLong Vacation, he worked at his native farming, reading voraciously allthe time and feeding sparingly, saving his wages against the comingbleak winter in his fireless attic in an Edinburgh wynd. He talked toMarcella, dogmatically, prodigiously, unanswerably. On her legends andfairy-tales and poetry he poured contempt. He read the "Riddle of theUniverse" and the "Kritic of Pure Reason, " orating them to Marcella asthey worked together in the harvest field. She did not even understandtheir terminology. He had a quite unreasoning belief in the stolidlyutilitarian of German philosophers and laid siege to Marcella'smysticism, but after he went back one day she discovered a box of hermother's poetry books and so Tennyson, Shelley and Keats shone into herlife and, reading an ancient copy of "David and Bethsaibe, " she gatheredthat the Bible Aunt Janet read sourly had quite human possibilities. This box of books was her first glimpse of a world that was not a longtale of stern fights; it was her first glimpse of something softlysensuous instead of austere and natural and passionate. 

Marcella never knew quite how her folks came to live at the farm; it hadhappened when she was three years old and she took for granted her worldof crumbling, decayed splendours. Hunchback Wullie had told her thatthe old grey house on Ben Grief used to be her home, and that the landsall about had belonged to her father. But they were his no longer andshe was forbidden to pass the old grey house, or even to speak of it. 

Andrew Lashcairn, Aunt Janet, two women servants and a man who neverseemed to have any wages for their work lived with Marcella at the farm. The man and Aunt Janet planted things in the garden, but on the poorland, among the winds they never grew very well. Oats grew, thin andtough, in the fields, and were ground to make the daily porridge;sometimes one of the skinny fowls that picked and pecked its hungry waythrough life round about the cattle pen and the back door was killed fora meal; sometimes Marcella ran miles away up Ben Grief when one of thelean pigs screamed its life out in a stream of blood in the yard. Sheused to feel sorry for the beasts about the farm; the cows seemed tohave such huge, gaunt bodies and looked at her with such mournful eyeswhen she went through the croft in which they were eating the scantygrass. The two old horses who did the ploughing and the harvestinghad ribs that she could count, that felt sharp when she stroked theirpatient sides. The cows lowed a great deal--very plaintively and deep;the pigs squealed hungrily every time a pail clattered in the kitchen orsteps passed their sty door. 

One dreadful day they squealed all the time while Marcella's littleEnglish mother lay on her couch in the window that looked overLashnagar, and cried. She had lain on this couch for nearly two yearsnow, whiter and thinner every day. Marcella adored her and used to kissher white, transparent hands, and call her by the names of queens andgoddesses in the legends she had read, trying to stretch her own tenyears of experience to match her mother's thirty-five so that she couldbe her friend. And this day when Rose Lashcairn cried because the beastswere crying with hunger and there was no food for them, Marcella thoughtof Jeannie Deans and Coeur de Lion and Sir Galahad. Buckling on herarmour in the shape of an old coat made of the family plaid, and a Tamo' Shanter, she went out to do battle for the helpless creatures whowere hungry, and stop her mother's tears. 

It was a three-mile walk to the little town. There was a corn factor'sshop there at which her father dealt. She walked in proudly. It wasmarket day and the place was full of people. 

"Andrew Lashcairn says ye'll please to be sending up a sack of meal anda sack of corn the day, " she said calmly to the factor who looked at herbetween narrowing eyes. The factor was a man imported to the district:he had not the feudal habit of respect for decayed lordship. 

"Indeed he does? And why disna Andrew Lashcairn come tae dae his ownbegging?"

Marcella stared at him and her eyes flashed with indignation though herknees were trembling. 

"He is not begging, Mr. Braid. But the beasts are crying for food andhe's needin' the corn the night. "

The people in the shop stopped talking about prices and listenedgreedily. They knew what Marcella did not. 

"Then ye'll tell him tae go on needin'. When he's paid for the lastsack, an' the one afore that, he'll be gettin' more. "

"But of course he'll pay, " she cried. "My father is busy, and he can'tmind things always. If you ask him, he'll pay. "

The man laughed. 

"He will, fine he will! No, Mistress Marcella, ye can tell yer fathernot tae go sendin' children beggin' for credit whiles he hugs his bar'l. The corn's here safe enough when he chooses to pay for't. "

Marcella went homewards, her mind a maelstrom of conflict. She knewnothing about money; it had never occurred to her that her father hadnone, and the cryptic allusion to the "bar'l" was even more puzzling. She knew that her father was a man to be feared, but he had always beenthe same; she expected nothing else of him, or of fathers generally. Sheknew that he lived most of his time in the little room looking out onLashnagar and she had certainly seen the "bar'l"--a thirty-six gallonbarrel being taken into that room. She did not know that it held whisky;if she had known, it would have conveyed nothing to her. She knew thatthe green baize door leading to the passage from which her father's roomopened must never be approached; she knew that her father had frequentfits of Berserk rage when the little English mother cowered and faintedand things were smashed to splinters. In one such rage, when Marcellawas seven years old, he had seen her staring and frowning at him, andthe rage he always felt against her because she, the last of his race, was a girl and not a boy, had crystallized. That time he had flung heracross the room, breaking her thin little arm. She remembered everafterwards how he had picked her up, suddenly quietened, and set andbandaged the arm without the suspicion of tenderness or apology orshame, but with cool skill. All the time she heard his teeth grinding, and watched his red-rimmed grey eyes blazing. She gathered that heconsidered his women-folk belonged to him, and that he could break theirarms at will. 

Other things she remembered, too--cries in the night from her mother'sroom when she had been a tiny mite and thought they were the cries ofbanshees or ghosts; she remembered a terrible time nearly three yearsago when she must not sit on her mother's knee and lay her head on herbreast because of cruel pain there; she remembered the frightening scenethere had been when surgeons had come and stayed in her mother's roomfor hours; how they had gone past her where she cowered in the passage, smelling a queer, sweet, choking smell that came out when they openedthe door. In the book room she had heard raised voices when theEdinburgh surgeon had said, "In my opinion it was caused by a blow--itcannot have come in that particular position except by injury--a blow, Mr. Lashcairn. "

There had been a Berserk rage then, and violence before which thedoctors had been driven away. 

All these things Marcella remembered during her lonely three-mile walkin the winter twilight, and for the first time they co-ordinated withother things, broke through her mist of dream and legend and stood outstark like the summit of Ben Grief. 

That night she was more than usually tender to her mother. Kneelingbeside her bed, she put her strong young arms under the bedclothes andheld her very tight. Through her nightgown she felt very frail--Marcellacould touch the sharp bones, and thought of the poor starved cows. 

"My queen, my beautiful, " she whispered in her mother's ear. "I'm goingto be Siegfried and save you from the dragon--I'm going to take youaway, darling--pick you right up in my arms and run away with you--"

She stopped, choked by her intensity, while her mother stroked herruffled hair and smiled faintly. 

"You can't take people up in your arms and snatch them out of life, childie, " she said. And then they kissed good night. 

As she went to her little cold room Marcella heard the padding of feetoutside in the croft, and grunts and squeals. The hungry beasts, as alast resort, had been turned loose to pick up some food in thefrost-stiffened grass; incredulous of the neglect they haunted thefarm-house, the pigs lively and protestant, the cows solemn and patheticand patient. Marcella had taken her piece of oatcake and cheese atsupper-time out to the door. But it was no use to the beasts. The littleblack pig gobbled it in a mouthful and squealed for more. In her agonyof pity something dawned on her. 

"I suppose, " she said to herself, as she stood shivering, looking overrimed Lashnagar, "that Jesus was as sorry for His disciples as I am forthese poor beasts. He knew they'd be so hungry when He had gone awayfrom them. So He gave them His body and blood--it was all He had togive. "

She got into bed, but the thought stayed with her. It was to come backagain many years afterwards, illuminating. 

That night she heard steps about the house--her father's heavysteps--but she felt tired, and fell asleep. It was midnight when herfather opened her door and came into the room. 

"Marcella, are you asleep?" he said in his beautiful voice that alwaysmade her wish he would let her love him. 

"No, " she said, starting to wakefulness. 

"You've no mother now, Marcella, " he said, and turned away. She heardhim stalk heavily up the passage. 

When she ran along after him Aunt Janet was holding a hand-mirror overher mother's mouth and looking at it carefully. She had red-rimmed eyes. Marcella stood still, staring, and thought how white her mother's earwas against the faded blue of her old flannel jacket over which herlong black hair lay in two long plaits. Then her father came in and senther down to the village for the old woman who attended to the births anddeaths of people. She went over the croft, among the hungry cows thatstared at her, one after one as she passed. Later, when the woman hadgone, and the two servant women were crying in the kitchen while theydrank scalding tea and spilt it down their aprons from trembling hands, Andrew Lashcairn and Aunt Janet sat in the book-room with all RoseLashcairn's papers spread out before them. Marcella sat for a whilewatching. 

There were letters, smelling of the lavender and rue that lay amongthem. They were tied in little bundles with lavender ribbons. There werelittle thin books of poetry, a few pressed flowers, a few ribbons thathad decked Baby Marcella, a tiny shirt of hers, a little shoe, aConfirmation book. All these they threw into the fire, and read some bigcrackling papers with seals and stamps upon them. Then Marcella creptaway along the passages through which the wind whistled while the rats, hungry as everything else about Lashnagar, scuttled behind thewainscotings. 

She opened her mother's door. A candle was burning on the table by thebedside. A sheet covered the bed. Underneath it she could trace theoutline of her mother's body. As she came across the room, walkingsoftly, as she always did, to avoid the loose board that had so oftenjerked her mother back to wakefulness and pain, it seemed to her thatall the loving kindness of the world had gone from her. From then untilher mother was buried she never left her. 

CHAPTER II

After his wife's death Andrew Lashcairn was harder, colder. Fits ofglowering depression took the place of rage, and he never went behindthe green baize door, though the barrel stayed there. He seemed to haveconceived the idea of making Marcella strong; perhaps he was afraid thatshe would be frail as her mother had been; perhaps he tried to persuadehimself that her mother's illness and death were constitutional frailtyrather than traumatic, and in pursuance of this self-deception he triedto suggest that Marcella had inherited her delicacy and must behardened. Divorced from his den and his barrel by his own will-power hehad to find something to do. And he undertook Marcella as an interest inlife. 

Things were going a little better at the farm because of RoseLashcairn's money: more cows came, and sacks of meal and cornreplenished the empty coffers in the granary. Marcella still dividedher time when she could between the book-room, Lashnagar and Wullie'ssmoking-hut; but every morning Andrew Lashcairn tore her out of bed atfive o'clock and went with her through snows and frosts, and, later, through the fresh spring mornings to teach her to swim in the wildbreakers of the North Sea. Many a girl would have died; Marcella provedherself more a child of the Lashcairns than of her little English motherby living and thriving on it. Her father sent her to work in the fieldswith the men, but forbade her to speak to any of the village women whoworked there, telling her to remember that her folks were kings whentheirs were slaves. One night, when the snow drifted in from Lashnagaron to her bed, she closed her window, and he, with a half return of theold fury, pushed it out, window-frame and all. Ever after that Marcellaslept in a cave of winds. It never occurred to her to rebel against herfather. She accepted the things done to her body with complete docility. Over the things that happened to her mind her father could have nocontrol. 

But his Spartan training had a queer effect upon her. Always meagrelyfed, always knowing the very minimum of comfort, she became oblivious tofood or comfort for herself; she became unconscious, independent of herbody save as a means of locomotion, but she cared immensely for otherpeople's. She shivered to think of Wullie's brother Tammas and his sonJock out fishing in the night with icy salt water pouring over chafedhands, soaking through their oilskins; she cried after a savagely silentmeal of herrings and oatcake when she had not noticed what she waseating, to think of the villagers with nothing but herrings andoatcakes. She hated to think of things hungry, things in pain. She evenfelt a great, inarticulate pity for her father. For all his stridingautocracy and high-handedness there was something naïve and childishabout him that clutched at her heart. He was like Ben Grief, alone andbare when the winds tore. 

He was thorough, was Andrew Lashcairn. Finding the young student's"Riddle of the Universe" in the book-room one day he read it idly. Itstarted him on a course of philosophy in which he determined to includeMarcella. From Edinburgh came boxes of books--and a queer assortment ofbooks they were. Locke and Berkeley, James' "Natural Religion, " Renan's"Life of Christ, " a very bad translation of Lucretius; Frazer's "GoldenBough, " a good deal of Huxley and Darwin, and many of the modernwriters. They were something amazingly new to him, and Marcella used towatch him sitting in the fireless book-room with a candle flickeringwhile the wind soughed round the house and in through every chink in theworn walls. His fine grey eyes were deep sunken; when he looked upsuddenly there was sometimes a little light of madness in them that madeher recoil instinctively; his thick hair was greyish, whitening over thetemples; his high Keltic cheekbones were gaunter than ever, his foreheadand mouth lined with past rages. He had never held a religion--theLashcairn religion had been a jumble of superstition, ancestor-worshipand paganism on which a Puritan woman marrying a Lashcairn in themiddle seventeenth century had grafted her dour faith. It hadflourished--something hard and dictatorial about it found good soilon the Lashcairn stock. 

So modern Rationalism had a stern fight with Andrew, struggling with themadness of the Kelt, the dourness of the Puritan. It held him for a yearand no more, for a thing unemotional could not grip a thing soexcitable. In that year Marcella was bidden read all the books herfather read, and believe them. When she evaded them she was forced toread them aloud, with a dictionary at her side, and discuss themintelligently with him. If she answered at random, with her heart andher eyes away at the huts with Wullie, he would throw at her head thenearest thing that came to his hand--a book, a faggot of wood, a cup oftea--or order her to bed without any food. Marcella had to follow himon these excursions into philosophic doubt, sacrificing her pet calfof legend and poetry every day in the temple of Rimmon, handcuffed tohim as she did it. But Andrew Lashcairn did everything with suchthoroughness that he seemed to use up a certain set of cells in hisbrain exhaustively, and thus procure revulsion. A man who can drink halfa gallon of whisky a day for years consistently, and stop without amoment's notice, can do most things. Andrew took Rationalism as he tookwhisky; he forced it upon his household. 

In all this time her chief joy was to be found in writing long lettersto her dead mother, whom she imagined to be living somewhere between thesunshine and the rain, an immanent presence. These letters she burntusually, though sometimes she made little boats of them and floated themout to sea, and sometimes she pushed them into the shifting sandsthrough fissures on Lashnagar. They comforted her strangely; they wereadoration and love crystallized. Her only friendliness came fromHunchback Wullie, when she could escape from the book-room and run downto his hut. 

It was a hard winter, this winter of philosophic doubt for souls andbodies both. The wild gales kept the fishing-boats at home; the wildweather had played havoc with the harvests, and often Marcella knew thatWullie was hungry, though he never told her so. Whenever she went to thehut she would manage to be absent from a meal beforehand, and going toJean, would ask for her ration of whatever was going. Down in the hutshe and Wullie would sit round the fire of driftwood, reaching downdried herrings from the roof and toasting them on spits of wood fortheir feast. And they would talk while the sea crept up and down outsidewhispering, or dashed almost at the door shrieking. 

One night as they sat toasting their fish and watching the saltdriftwood splutter and crackle with blue flames, Marcella askedWullie what he thought of philosophic doubt. 

"I've been reading a book to father to-day, Wullie, that says we are allunreal--that we are not here really, but only a dream. "

Wullie sat back a little, turned the fish on his spit without speaking, and then said:

"Well, maybe we are. Maybe all life's a dream. But all the same it is adream dreamed by God. "

"I think that's what the book says, but they use such hard words. "

"I wouldna fash, lassie. There's not much we do understand, any of us. That's where I think books fall short--they explain things just as faras the writer understands. And whiles he doesna understand very far, buthe's got a trick of putting things nicely. Most things you know withoutunderstanding: you do them blindly and someday you see they've beenright. That's what I mean about God making us a pathway. I feel that Hehas been walking along my life; I couldna prove it to ye, Marcella. Butone day He'll suddenly turn round when He gets to the end of me andsmile and thank me for carrying Him along a bit. "

"I like to know things beforehand, " she objected. 

"Ye winna. Right at the end ye'll be able to look down yer life and seethe shining marks of His feet all over ye. An' the more ye struggle andfuss the less He can take hold of ye, and get a grup on ye with Hisfeet--"

"I'd like to feel sure they were God's, and not any other sort of feet, "she said slowly, leaving her fish to go cold, though she was veryhungry. 

"Ye'll find, at the end, Marcella, that there's no feet but God's canmake shining marks on your life. Other things will walk over ye. Theymay leave marks of mud, or scars. But the footsteps of God will burnthem all off in the end. I canna prove it, Marcella. But ye'll see itsome day. D'ye mind yon apple that came flooering up through Lashnagar?"

Marcella nodded. It had borne fruit two years now. 

"It knew nothing: it was just still and quiet when something told it topush on. And then life came along it--like a path. If it had known, itcouldna help the life any--"

She nodded again. She felt she understood now. 

At the end of the year things began to go badly again at the farm. Themoney was almost exhausted; the oat crop failed and one of the cows waslost on Lashnagar, where she had been tempted by hunger to find morefood. One of the serving women, falling ill, went to Edinburgh to becured and never came back; paint, blistered and scarred from the doorsand window frames by the weather, was not replaced; the holes gnawed andtorn by the hungry rats in wainscot and floor were never patched andfood was more scarce than ever. Aunt Janet sat, a dourly silent ghost, while Marcella read to Andrew, listening sickly to the beasts clamouringfor their scanty meals. And one night, when he had been out alone alongBen Grief and seen his lands and his old grey house, Lashcairn theLandless, as they called him, went back to his barrel. 

For three days he lived behind the green baize door. On the fourth hecame out with his red-rimmed eyes ablaze, his gaunt face pinched, hishair bedraggled. And that night a little old man, Rose's cousin fromWinchester, came to see them. He had never seen the mad family intowhich his cousin had married; he had not seen her since she was a gentlelittle thing in pinafores, with a great family of wax dolls. He did notknow that she was dead. Aunt Janet made no explanations; his small blackeyes took in all the decay and famine of the place; his neat blackSabbatical coat looked queerly out of place in the book-room with itsscarred oak refectory table, its hard oak chairs and its dusty bannerhung from the ceiling above where Andrew Lashcairn sat. When his hostcame into the room he pulled himself to his full five feet five and histhin white face went even whiter. Andrew, in his frenzy, cursed him andGod and the world, and, in the old Berserk rage, dashed over the heavytable on which Aunt Janet had set a poor meal for the stranger. 

It was a wild, bizarre picture; the fire, fanned by the fierce windsthat swept down the open chimney, kept sending out puffs of smoke thatwent like grey wraiths about the room; the top of the table rutted byhundreds of years' fierce feeding; the shattered crockery andforlorn-looking mess of food on the floor. Aunt Janet and Marcellashrunk away--her father never got one of his rages but the girl feltold agony in her broken arm--but the little white-faced cousin stood infront of Andrew's gaunt frame, which seemed twice his size. 

"What's the matter, Cousin Andrew?" he asked mildly. Then, turning tothe others, he said gently: "Go away for a little while. I'll have atalk with Andrew about little Rose. "

They went away with Andrew's curses following them along the windypassage. Marcella waited in sympathy with the little man's arms, butafter a while a murmur of normal conversation came from the room andwent on until two o'clock in the morning. At last the little old cousincame to where Marcella and Aunt Janet shivered in the kitchen, and saidsimply:

"Andrew has cast his burden on the Lord, and now he can go on his waysinging. "

Marcella began to cry from sheer nervousness. She had not the faintestidea what the cousin meant, but she was to know it as time went by. ForAndrew got religion as he got everything else--very thoroughly--and, just as he had superimposed Rationalism on his house and bent it beforehis whisky furies, now he tried to religionize it. 

After two days the cousin went away and never came again. Almost itseemed as though he had never been, for he wrote not at all, simplygoing his serene, white-faced way through their lives for two days andtwo nights and dropping out of them. Marcella, telling Wullie about it, received his explanation. 

"It's what I tauld ye afore, lassie. We're not things or people, really. We're juist paths. "

"Was it God who came along that night?" asked Marcella doubtfully. Wullie thought it was. But she found her father's religion even moredifficult than any of his other obsessions. It made him eager andpathetic. He had never tried to make drunkards of people; Marcella hehad impatiently tried to make a rationalist; but now he spent all histime trying to convert them. His household was veneered with evangelism. The kindly desire to save brands from the burning sent him to thevillage praying and quoting the Word to those who once thought him aking, later a terror, and now could not understand him. Men coming fromthe fields and the boats were asked questions about their peace withGod, and in the little chapel where once the Covenanters had met, AndrewLashcairn's voice was raised in prayers and exhortations so long and soburning that he often emptied the place even of zealots before he hadtired himself and God. 

All the time Marcella ached with pity for him now that she feared him nolonger. He seemed so naive, so wistful to her, this strange father whomshe could never understand, but who seemed like a child very keen on agame of make-believe. Things went from bad to worse, but they sat downto their meal of oatcake and milk uncomplaining, after a long grace. Itwas never the way of the Lashcairns to notice overmuch the demands ofthe body. And now they sat by the almost bare refectory table, and noneof them would mention hunger; Andrew did not feel it. His zeal fed him. Marcella, however, took to going down oftener to the huts and alwaysWullie, who sensed these things, toasted fish--three or four at atime--over the embers, and roasted potatoes in the bed of ashes. 

It was in the summer following this last obsession that Andrew was takensuddenly ill. One evening, praying with blazing ardour for the souls ofthe whole world, consciousness of unbearable weight came upon him. Standing in the little chapel he felt that he was being pressed to hisknees and there, with a terrible voice, he cried:

"Yes, Lord, put all the weight of Thy cross upon me, Thy poorservant--Thy Simon of Cyrene who so untimely, so unhelpfully hath foundThee. "

Those watching believed that they saw the black shadow of a cross laidover his bowed shoulders. But then, like Andrew, they were Kelts whocould see with eyes that were not apparent. Andrew was carried home tohis bed, and Dr. Angus, the same doctor he had driven forth in violencefrom his wife's sickness, came to him. 

Thorough in body as in soul, Andrew seemed called upon to bear all thewoes of the world. Sometimes, watching him lying there with closed eyesand lips that moved faintly as he prayed for courage, Marcella wishedshe could see him once again come tearing into the room in a passionof destruction. His gentleness, his pathos, and the way he talked soquietly to God with his beautiful voice, almost tore her in two withpity. 

Many nights his illness made it impossible for him to lie down, and thenhe would stand, wrapped in a blanket--for his dressing-gown had longsince been torn to shreds--his hands clutching the post of his ancientbed, his eyes gazing deeply at the faded sun in splendour on thetapestry back of the bed while he read slowly the old boastful motto, "By myself I stand. " And the girl, lying on a little couch where shetook turns with Aunt Janet in nursing him through the night, would hearhim talking to God by the hour. 

"Not by myself, O Lord, but in Thy might. Thou art my Rock and myFortress, my Defence on my right hand, my strong shield in whom Itrust--"

Silence--except for the grating of rats in the ceiling as they tried tognaw the beams, and the moaning of the wind. Then the musical voicewould say, with infinite tenderness:

"He hath said thy foot shall not be moved. Thy keeper shall never, neverslumber nor sleep. O Lord, I am not asking Thee a very great thing, foralready Thou hast done wondrous things for me. This is a little thing, OThou that never sleepest! Give me ten minutes' rest, ten minutes' sleep. To Thee a thousand years are but as yesterday. To me, O Lord, in thisweariness, a night is as a thousand years. "

Helped by Marcella he would clamber into bed again, shutting his eyes, waiting on the Lord, only to start up as the pumping of his worn-out, strained heart almost choked him. And then, leaning back on heapedpillows he would look out through the dark window and say, very humbly:

"Most patient hast Thou been with me, Oh Lord, when Thou wast seekingme so far. Most patient must I be with Thee--I, who have no claim uponThy mercy save Thy own most holy kindliness to me. "

And so the night would wear on; sometimes he would talk to God, sometimes to Marcella, telling her how he had hated her because she wasnot a boy and seemed, to his great strength, too much like her frailEnglish mother to be of any use in the world. 

"We're a great folk, we Lashcairns, Marcella, " he would say, his sunkeneyes brightening. "A great name, Marcella. I wanted you Janet, forthere has always been a Janet Lashcairn since the wild woman came toLashnagar. But Rose would have you Marcella--a foreign name to us, " andhe sighed heavily. "I hated you, Marcella, because I wanted a boy to winback everything we have lost. Lashcairn the Landless whose landsstretched once from--Marcella, what am I saying? O Lord, Thou knowestthat in nothing do I glory save in the Cross of Jesus Christ. O Lord, Simon of Cyrene, Thy cross-bearer, has naught to boast save only theburden Thy grace has laid upon him. Be patient with me, O Lord--veryhardly dies the vanity of the flesh. "

Andrew was always glad when it was Marcella's turn to stay with him atnight, for he liked her to read to him; she read the epistles of Paulespecially and F. W. H. Myers' "St. Paul" until she knew them almost byheart. In St. Paul Andrew saw much of himself: especially could he seehimself on the Damascus road when a blinding light came down. 

Three of the five cows were sold to buy the medicines and the patentfoods he did not seem to notice. Duncan, the farm man who never got anywages, went out at night to work with Jock and Tammas in their boat, andat every month end he handed to Aunt Janet the money he got to buythings for his master. Though he was on his bed Andrew did not forgethis proselytising and Duncan and Jean were brought into the bedroomevery night while Marcella read the New Testament, and her fatherprayed. He prayed for her soul and the souls of Duncan and Jean;Marcella would kneel between the two of them, with the smell of thefish from Duncan and the scent of the byres from Jean's shoes and herclothes stealing round her while her father prayed. She was bewilderedby him: very often, when he prayed long and she was falling asleep afterher wakeful night, she would feel impatient with him, especially when heprayed loud and long that she might be brought to a conviction of sin. He puzzled her unendurably; sometimes her old docility to his autocracymade her feel that she really must be the miserable sinner he picturedher. Sometimes her common sense told her she could not be. Then, on topof the impatience and revolt, would come aching pity for his weakness, his tenderness to God, the apologies he made for God who was so hard, sojust in His dealings with him. 

He seemed often to resent his illness bitterly; he had never knownanything but an almost savage strength. Now he lay watching his illnesswith a curious mixture of fierce resentment and proprietorial pride. Hespent a good deal of his time trying to think of ways in which he couldcircumvent the choking sensation that often came to him. Marcellabrought some comfort by placing the kitchen ironing board across thebed, resting on the backs of two chairs so that he could lean forward onit. Sometimes he slept so, his grey head jerking forward and backward inhis weariness. 

One night, when he could not sleep, he got out of bed and, leaningon Marcella's shoulders, began to walk about. The moon was risingdesolately over Lashnagar, and he stood for a long time in the windowlooking at the dead waste of it all. Suddenly he shivered. 

"Father, ye're cold, " said Marcella quickly. "Let me put on your socks. It's a shame of me to let you stand barefoot so long. "

He sat down on the deep window-seat, and the moonlight streamed in uponhis feet as she knelt beside him. 

"Why, you are getting fat, father, " she said. "I can hardly get yoursocks on! And I thought your face looked thinner to-day. What a goodthing--if you get fat. "

"Fat, Marcella?" he said in a strange, faint voice. "That's what thedoctor's been expecting. It's the last lap!"

"What do you mean, father? Isn't it better for you to be getting fatnow?"

He smiled a little and, bending down, pressed his fingers on theswollen ankle. The indentations stayed there. She thought of the softdepression on Lashnagar where the young shepherd had gone down. 

"We'll just walk about a bit, Marcella, " he said, his hand pressingheavily on her shoulder. "I thought my legs felt very tired and heavy. This is the last lap of the race. When my hands get fat like that myheart will be drowned, Marcella. "

"Father, what _do_ you mean?" she cried frantically, but he told hernothing. There were no medical books in the house which she could read. She had to be content, as Wullie had said, to go on to the end knowingnothing, while things trod along her life. 

"It's a damned sort of death, Marcella, for a Lashcairn. Lying inbed--getting stiffer and heavier--and in the end drowned. We like to goout fighting, Marcella, killing and being killed. Did I ever tell you ofTammas Lashcairn and how he tore a wolf to pieces in the old grey houseon Ben Grief?"

He talked quickly and strangely, disjointed talk out of which she wovewild tales of the deaths of her people in the past. 

After he had got back into bed and she stooped over him, trying to chafewarmth into his cold feet, he looked at her more kindly than he had everlooked before. 

"All my life I have cursed you because you were a girl. I cursed yourmother because she gave me no son. And now I thank God that you are nota man, to carry on the old name. "

"Why, father?" she asked, her eyes frightened and puzzled. 

"The Lord deals righteously. I shall sleep now, " was all he said. 

It was Wullie who told her what her father had meant. They were up onBen Grief watching the swollen streams overflowing with melted snow andstorm-water. Marcella looked wan and tired; her eyes were ringed withblack shadows. As usual she was hungry, but Wullie had left potatoesburied under the green-wood fire, and they would feast when they gotback. 

"Why is it father is glad I'm not a boy?" she asked him. 

It was a long time before he told her. 

"The Lashcairns are a wild lot, lassie--especially the men folk. Theykill and they rule others and they drink. It's drink that's ruined them, because drink is the only thing they canna rule. That's the men folk I'mtalking of. Your great-grandfather lost all his lands that lie aboutCarlossie. The old grey house and the fields all about Ben Grief andLashnagar were lost by your father. All he's got now is Lashnagar andthe farm-house. And Lashnagar canna be sold because it hasna any value. Else he'd have sold it, to put it in his bar'l. "

She said nothing. Her tired eyes looked out over the farm and thedesolate hill, her hair, streaming in the wind, suddenly wrapped herface, blinding her. As she struggled with it, light came, and she turnedto Wullie. 

"It was the barrel, then, that made father ill?"

"It was so. "

"And grandfather, and his father--did they get ill, too, through thebarrel?"

He shook his head, and she snatched at his arm roughly. 

"Wullie, ye're to tell me. I'm telling ye ye're to tell me, Wullie. Inever heard of them. How did they die? I shall ask father if you don'ttell me. "

"Your great-grandfather killed his son in a quarrel, when your fatherwas a bit laddie of four. The next day he was found dead beside hisbar'l in the cellar. "

The storm-water went swirling down by their feet, brown and frothing. Itwent down and down as though Ben Grief were crying hopelessly for thiswild people he had cradled. 

"I see, now, why he's glad I'm not a boy. Wullie--do all the Lashcairnsdie--like that?" and she pictured again her father waiting, as he putit, to be drowned in his bed while a procession of killed and killingancestors seemed to glide before her eyes over the rushing water. 

"The men folk, yes. They canna rule themselves. "

"And the women?" she said sharply, realizing that she and Aunt Janetwere all that were left. 

"They keep away from the bar'l. "

"Yes, I couldn't imagine Aunt Janet doing that, " she said, smilingfaintly. "Or me. "

"Some of the women rule themselves, " he said tentatively. "There wasthe witch-woman first--and later there was the Puritan woman. They seemto mother your women between them. There's never any telling which it'llbe. "

"Aunt Janet--" began Marcella. 

"She's ruled herself. Some of the Lashcairn women wouldna think ofruling themselves. Then they go after the man they need, like thewitch-woman. And--take him. "

Marcella frowned. 

"It sends them on strange roads sometimes, " said Wullie, and would sayno more. 

It was Marcella's rest night, and tired as she was, she lay thinkinglong in the silence. It was a strangely windless night, but her thoughtswent whirling as though on wings of wind. Thoughts of fate, thoughts ofscepticism jostled each other: pictures came; she saw the apple treebreaking through Lashnagar; she saw a landslide many years ago on BenGrief that had torn bare strange coloured rocks in the escarpment. Justas she fell asleep, worn out, she thought that perhaps somethingbeautiful might outcrop from her family, something different, somethingtransforming. And then she was too tired to think any more and went tosleep. 

CHAPTER III

The "last lap" was not a very long one; it grew in distress as the dayswent on. The worn-out heart that the Edinburgh doctor had graphicallydescribed as a frail glass bubble, in his attempt to make AndrewLashcairn nurse his weakness, played cruel tricks with its owner. Itchoked him so that he could not lie down; it weakened him so that hecould not stand up. He would gasp and struggle out of bed, leaning onMarcella so heavily that she felt she could not bear his weight for morethan another instant. But the weight would go on, and somehow fromsomewhere she would summon strength to bear it. But after a while hisfrail strength would be exhausted, and he would have to fall back on thebed, fighting for breath and with every struggle increasing the sense ofsuffocation. But all the time, when his breath would let him, he wouldpray for courage--as time went on he prayed more for courage to bear hisburden than for alleviation of it, though sometimes a Gethsemane prayerwould be wrung from him. 

"O Lord, " he would whisper, his trembling hand gripping the girl's armuntil it bruised the flesh, "I am the work of Thy hands. Break me ifThou wilt. But give me courage not to cry out at the breaking. "

One night when it became impossible, because of the stiffness andheaviness of his swollen legs, for him to walk about, he prayed fordeath, and Marcella, forced to her knees by his passionately pleadingeyes, sobbed at his words. 

"Lord, I am trying hard to be patient with Thee, " he gasped. "But I amman and Thou art God. I cannot match Thy patience with mine. I am tryingso hard not to cry out beneath Thy hand. But give me more courage--morecourage, O Lord, or I must play the coward. Take Thy cup from me untilto-morrow, when I shall have more strength to lift it to my lips--or letme die, Lord, rather than crack like this. "

Then, after a pause, words were wrung from his lips. 

"Justice--not mercy. I would not take mercy even from Thee. The fullrigour of Thy law--"

There was no alleviation, and Marcella, kneeling there, wished that sheand her father could die together. The horror of helplessness wassearing her soul. 

Next day came agonizing pain which made every movement a death. But theEdinburgh doctor who came brought relief for the pain, and, talking withDr. Angus, the Carlossie doctor, mentioned, among other technicalities, the name of a drug--"digitalis. " That afternoon Marcella went back inthe doctor's trap to get the new medicine, and it gave relief. Whenever, after that, the choking came back, Andrew would cry out for digitalis, which seemed to him the elixir of life. Sometimes he would pray forcourage; sometimes, cracking suddenly, he would pray for digitalis andsend Marcella often at midnight with a pleading note to the doctor togive him the drug and a little soothing for his heart that was runningaway with him. 

Now that he could not move about he still thought of the souls of thepeople in the village, and sent a message to them, pleading with them tocome and see him. And they, remembering him as the laird, with a sort offeudal obedience, came and stood about his bed, to be stormed at orprayed with according to Andrew's mood. But always after one of thesemissionary efforts he would suffer agonies of suffocation when he hadforgotten, for a while, that his heart was a bubble of glass. 

It was an unreal world, this shadowed world of the old farm. It centredround Andrew Lashcairn's bed--he was its sun, its king, its autocratstill. But things material had slipped from him--or rather, materialinterests were all centralized in his tortured body. At first during hisillness he had worried about the farm, sending messages to Duncan muchmore than he had done during the days when he was shut behind the greenbaize door. But now all the farm had slipped from him. He was alone withhis body and his soul and God. Most often his soul cried out. Sometimeshis body broke through and showed its pains and the strength of olddesires. 

As he grew weaker he tried to grasp out at strength. Aunt Janet, who had"ruled herself" to nervelessness, had nothing of the mother, the nursein her make-up; there was no tenderness in what she did for him. It wasnot that she had any spirit of getting her own back on Andrew for histyranny, his impoverishment, his ill-usage of her in the past. She wouldhave given him her last crumb of food if she had thought of it. But athing atrophied as she was could not think or feel, and so he wentwithout the small tendernesses that would have come to him had Rose, thesoft little Englishwoman, lived. She sat up with him night after nightpatiently. She gave him milk, and she and Marcella went without it thathe should have enough. She gave him the inevitable porridge and broth, but he turned away from the things he had eaten all his life in disgust. 

"Is there any sort of thing I could have to put a little grip into me, doctor?" he asked, and was ordered beef-tea, various patent foods andeggs, all things very difficult to come by on the stern hillside. 

"It seems to me, Janet, if I could have some of these foods and drugsthey advertise so much I might get some strength to bear it, " he said. So she got him half a dozen of the different well-advertised things totry. He had them arrayed on a table by his bed, and took immensepleasure in reminding her or Marcella when it was time for them. Thedoctor, who guessed that money was scarce, suggested that Aunt Janetshould sell some of the old oak furniture, and to her surprise a manfrom London thought it worth while, from her description, to come allthe way to Lashnagar to look at it. She loved it because it enshrinedthe family story; the scratches on the refectory table showed whereheavy-clad feet had been planted as Lashcairns of old had pledged eachother in fiery bowls. The heavy oak chairs had each a name and ahistory, but until the man from London came Aunt Janet had not realizedtheir value. So they went away, taken quietly and stealthily out of thehouse for fear Andrew should know. In the book-room only a few bookswere left to keep the dusty pennant a melancholy companionship. 

But the patent foods and drugs did no good; they reminded Marcellairresistibly of the soil and water she had laid hopefully round thebursting apple tree. As he lay once, with all the wheels of life runningat half rate after a sedative, he said to Marcella, who had beenreading to him:

"I feel as if I'm not in my body, Marcella. Oh, Marcella, help me to geta grip on my body! I can't make it do what I'm tellin' it to do! Look!"and he held up one gaunt arm feebly, to let it drop a minute later. "Look! Marcella--once I could break men with my hands!"

She stared at him, choking. There was nothing she could think to say. Inher mother's weakness her lips had overflowed with tendernesses; for herfather she could only feel a terrified, inarticulate pity. It was notsympathy. She could not understand enough to sympathize. It was the samesort of hungry, brooding pity she used to feel for the hungry beasts onthe farm. 

"Marcella, do you think if I were to eat a lot of meat I'd be stronger?"he asked hopefully. "Oh, make me stronger!--give me something, " andsuddenly raising himself in bed, he threw his arms about her and, withhis grey head on her shoulder, sobbed desolately. She held him, strokinghis head, aching to find words, but utterly dumb with terror. And when, later, they got him the food he craved, he could not eat it. Turningfrom it in disgust, he prayed:

"There is nothing left, but only Thou, O Lord. No longer art Thou myshield and buckler, for no longer can I fight. Thou hast laid me verylow, O Lord. Thou hast made me too weak to fight longer; Thou hastbruised me so that I cannot live save in pain; Thou hast laid me verylow. "

There was a long silence. His eyes, faded from the bright blue-grey thatused to flash with fire, were dull and almost colourless as he laylooking at the faded tapestry of the bed canopy. 

"When I pray for courage, Lord, Thou givest pain--Thou givest weakness. When I pray for strength Thou givest a great hunger and a sinking intothe depths. And then in Thy loving kindness Thou givest Thy body andblood--for my comfort. "

The room grew darker. The fire flickered and spurted as the salt driedout of the driftwood and burnt in blue tongues of flame. Marcellashivered, listening to the distant beat of the sea. The house was verysilent, with that dead silence that falls on houses where many of therooms are unfurnished. The stir and clamour of the beasts outside hadgone forever. Outside now was only one old cow, kept to give milk forAndrew. The barren fields lay untended, for Duncan went to the fishingto bring a little handful of coins to the master he feared and loved, and Jean went softly about the kitchen in the shadows. 

Suddenly Andrew spoke, and Marcella started, drawing a little nearer tohim. 

"Do ye mind, Marcella, when we read yon books from Edinburgh--and youused to be such an idiot, and make me so mad?"

"I mind it, " she nodded, thinking painfully of those hard books. 

"There was something in one of them that I seized on with a bitterscorn. It was explaining how the idea of the sacrament of the Body andBlood of Christ had grown up. It said how savages, when they saw one ofthe tribe better than themselves, would kill him and eat him to makethemselves as good as he. I liked that fine, Marcella. I was bitter inthose days. "

"Horrible!" said Marcella with a shiver. "I like to think of the LastSupper, and the Holy Grail--mother used to read about it all to me--sheused to tell me all about Parsifal and the Love Feast. "

"Yes, little Rose was wiser than those books. Ye see, Marcella, itseems to me there is a time when ye're led by something inside ye to dothings. Like Christ was led to preach, though perhaps he didn't quiteknow why. The word was taken out of his mouth--and like I was led to yonbarrel. Things come out of you, right out of deep inside you. Maybethey're God, maybe they're a beast deep down. " He paused, and movedimpatiently. "It's hard to piece thoughts together when you're weak. Canyou finish my thought for me, Marcella? It's getting muddled--down undersand and stones like Castle Lashcairn under Lashnagar. "

Marcella hesitated. Then she told him Wullie's idea about the path. 

"He says other things beside God walk along our lives, but in the endGod's footmarks burn out all the rest. "

Andrew nodded again and again. 

"I suppose Christ was a pathway. I remember reading something aboutthat. 'My humanity is the path whereby men must travel to God, ' but I'mtoo tired to piece it all out. "

"Yes. It says that in the Bible, of course. 'I am the Way--' Only Isuppose there comes a time when God has got to the end of you, and thenyou're not a path any longer. And all that's left then is to give yourbody and blood and get out of the way of others. "

"Yes. I can grasp that. I feel that God has walked along me and allthe other footmarks have gone. Now, when I am weak, and hungering forstrength, He gives His body and blood. Yes, I think I understandthat--in a glass darkly. Some day I'll come to it more clearly. "

That night, when he held out his hand for a cup of milk, Marcellanoticed that it was swollen like his feet; the left hand was bony andflexible and still a little brown. The right hand was thick and puffedand very white. When he stretched his fingers to take the cup she sawthat they were stiff and difficult to move. He shook his head anddropped his hand on to the sheet, looking at it reflectively. 

"The last lap is nearly done, Marcella. This poor old heart of mine willbe drowned very soon, now. "

Marcella began to cry and her father looked at her as though surprised. Suddenly he leaned over and stroked her hair. She cried all the more; itwas the first tender thing she could remember his doing to her, thefirst caress he had ever given her. 

"I wish I'd been good to ye, Marcella--I think often, now, of that poorwee broken arm, and how ye used to cower away from me! I wish I'd got agrip on myself sooner. "

"Oh, if you make me love you any more, father, I'll be torn in bits, "she cried, and sobbed, and could not be comforted. It was her only breakfrom inarticulateness--it surprised herself and her father almost asthough she had said something indecent. 

When he knew, quite definitely, that he was dying and need not conservehis strength, some of the old tyranny came back to Andrew Lashcairn. Butit was a kindly, rather splendid tyranny, the sort of tyranny thatmakes religious zealots send unbelievers to the stake, killing the bodyfor the soul's sake. Much of the evangelism the little white-faced cousinhad superimposed upon his mind that night of wild passions had gone now, burnt up as he drew nearer to simple, beautiful, essential things. 

As the Feast of All Souls, the time when ghosts thronged on Lashnagar, drew near he brooded in silence for hours. Through one of his chokingattacks he lay passive, scarcely fighting for breath; only once did heturn supplicating eyes on Aunt Janet, mutely demanding the drug thatsoothed. And when he was able to speak again, he told them what he hadbeen thinking. 

"I want to tell people, " he said, speaking very rapidly. "The mantle ofprophecy has fallen upon me. "

"Ye've tauld us, Andrew--and that's enough, " said Aunt Janet, who had nopatience with his frequent swift rushes towards a climax. 

"I'm going to tell the others. I'm going to testify to the power of Hismight, " he said just as grimly, gripping his stiff, cold hands together. 

"Yell be getting upset, Andrew, an' then we'll be having a time withye, " said Aunt Janet. 

"I'll not be getting upset. I'll just be dying, " he said gravely, and, calling Marcella, sent her to the village, summoning all the people tocome up to the farm on All Souls' Night at seven o'clock. 

"I must tell them, Marcella, " he said passionately, pleading for herunderstanding which she could not give, for she could not understand inthe least. "I have never done anything for anyone. I must do something. "

"I'm afraid you'll be worse for it, father, " she said, hesitant. "And sois Aunt Janet--poor Aunt Janet. She's so anxious about you, and she's sotired, you know. "

He shook that thought off impatiently. 

"I'll be master in my own house, " he cried, with some little return tothe old Andrew. "I know it will make me worse! I know I'm dying! There, I ought not to frighten you, Marcella! I've frightened you enough in mylife. But surely when I've lived for myself I can die for others. "

And she knew that it was no use talking to him. Indeed, she would nothave dared to cross his will. In the night he prayed about it. 

"Lord, I must tell these others how I set beasts in Thy way when Thouwouldn't have made my life Thy path. I must tell them how I never knewliberty till Thou hadst made me Thy slave, how I never knew lightnesstill I carried Thy cross, how I was hungering and thirsting until I wasfed with Thy Body and Blood--"

He broke off and talked to Marcella, words that seemed eerie andterrible to her. 

"To-morrow, Marcella, is the day when the ruin came on Lashnagar. To-morrow I shall die--"

"Oh, father!" she cried helplessly. 

"I was once His enemy, Marcella. I must let them see me at His feet now, kissing His hand--His man--the King's man--"

He brooded for an hour, gasping for breath. Marcella felt worn outmentally and physically. Her eyes ached for want of sleep, she felt theoppression and burden of the atmosphere that seemed full of ghosts andfears, and to add to her misery she was having her first taste of painin a crazing attack of neuralgia. Anniversaries, to a mind stored withlegend and superstition, have immense signification. She felt that herfather's prediction of his death on All Souls' Day was quite reasonable. But none the less fear was penetrating through her mists of wearinessand fatalism, hand in hand with overwhelming pity. 

"I shall die to-morrow, Marcella. He gave His body and blood. In the endthat is all one can do. "

In the afternoon she went to bed, worn out. Jean had made some sort ofburning plaster with brown paper and something that smelt pleasantlyaromatic. It eased the pain of her face and sent her to sleep. Herfather had told her calmly that he was going to be dressed and meet thevillagers downstairs. He seemed almost himself as he ordered her to takehis old worn clothes from the press and lay them on a chair by his bed. She did not expostulate; no one thought of expostulating with AndrewLashcairn. 

It was dark when she wakened and dressed hurriedly. Running down to thekitchen to tell Jean the pleasant effects of her plaster she found itwas half-past six. 

"Andrew Lashcairn's doon, " said Jean, looking scared. 

"Who helped him?" asked Marcella, lifting the lid of the teapot thatstood on the hearth. She poured into it some water from the singingkettle, and after a minute poured a cup of weak tea, which she drankthirstily. 

"He wasna helpit--not with han's. The mistress was frettin', wonderin'what she'd be tellin' him aboot the furniture i' th' book-room. An' hejuist cam' in, luikit roond, and laught. I lighted a fire i' there forhim, for it's cauld. But he went off doon the passage, gruppin' hisstick. "

"Is he lying down? Oh dear, I wish I hadn't slept so long! It would havebeen better for him if I'd been there with him. "

"No, he isna to his bed. He's gone through the green baize door. An'it's a' that dusty! I havena bin in tae clean sin' the day he tuik taehis bed. Always the mistress has said I maun leav' it. An' noo themaster's gaun in. "

"Never mind, Jean, he won't notice, " said Marcella, feeling a littleincredulous that Jean should be caring about dust now. It seemed as muchout of place as her worrying about the mark the plaster had made on herface. "I'm going to get him out. He'll be frozen in there. "

"He cam' in tae me and said that the folks was tae have meat and drink!Meat and drink! An' whaur's it tae come frae?" asked Jean in despair. 

Marcella flushed a little then and said quickly:

"I expect he was back in the past, Jean. But perhaps he's more for thefolks than meat and drink, really. "

But as she ran along the gusty passage to the green baize door allher pride rose savagely to think that guests should come, biddenautocratically to the house, and go away unfed. And that the servant, the one poor staunch, unpaid servant, should grieve about it. But shesoon lost that thought as she knocked at the green baize door and couldget no answer. 

"Father! Yell be cold in there. Do come out!"

She waited, and at last he answered her steadily and clearly. 

"I'm coming at the right time, Marcella. I have my watch. "

"But you'll be so cold, " she protested. 

"I'll be colder yet, soon, " he said calmly, and she was forced to goaway. She guessed that Andrew's sense of dramatic fitness made him wishto make his last entry on the stage alone. So she went back to her roomand stood looking out over Lashnagar, where the autumn mists stalked andmowed at each other and fluttered and jostled and fought. 

Before seven o'clock the book-room was full of people, soakedthrough with the mist. They were the people Marcella had known all herlife--fisher-folk, farm labourers, crofters--and she felt a momentaryexultant pride to think that, at a word from her father, they hadthronged to his house. There seemed something fitting in their coming onAll Souls' Night into this bare room with the tattered pennant and thecrackling wood fire that flickered on their weather-beaten faces. Theircoming obediently to be talked to by her father for the good of theirsouls gave her a sense of savage exaltation for the moment. Then she sawHunchback Wullie and Tammas and Jock, and went across to talk to them. 

"Is the Lashcairn better, then?" asked Wullie. She shook her head. 

"He says he's going to die to-night, Wullie--All Souls' Night, " she saidin a low voice. 

Wullie nodded comprehension. 

Aunt Janet came into the room, her thin face set and grim, her rustydress of old black satin all cracking, and her great cairngorm broochmarking her from the rest in capes and homespun. They drew away fromher; she had never tried to associate with them; in her detachment shehad never been human to them as Andrew had been in his wildness and hisweakness, and now she walked silently across the room and sat down. Thefirelight shone out fiercely as she savagely poked the logs, and with amotion ordered young Jock, who stood near, to throw more wood to theflames. It shone on gnarled hands gripping gnarled sticks, on rugged, ruddy faces, on white and sandy hair, on bright blue eyes, old andyoung. And then the door opened sharply and Andrew Lashcairn stoodthere, leaning on his stick. 

Everyone but Aunt Janet stared at him as the firelight flamed up to blueand purple flame, lighting his gaunt face. But Aunt Janet, like a fate, sat gazing up the misty side of Lashnagar through the uncovered window. Andrew stood still, looking from one to the other. Then he took twosteps forward. 

"Jamie Mactavish and Andrew Gray are not here, " he said sternly, asthough he were a schoolmaster calling the roll. Explanations of theabsence murmured out and he came inside, pushing the door to. 

Marcella, standing by Wullie, was shivering with nervous dread, andsuddenly noting his red-rimmed eyes, blazing and wild, she clutchedWullie's arm. 

"Wullie--look at him!" she whispered. 

"He's been at the bar'l, " muttered Wullie, and with a cry she startedforward. But Wullie caught her back gently. 

"He knows what he's daein', lassie, " he whispered, watching Andrew'sface expectantly, and the girl stood petrified beside him. It came toher very certainly that her father had realized he had not strength tomake what he called his allegiance to God, and that at the last he hadsought the momentary strength of the whisky that he knew would shatterhis glass heart. 

"That's why he knew he would die to-day, " her voice whispered, choked intears. She felt that she was in the grip of things that were bending andbreaking her life as they liked. 

And then her father spoke, letting his stick clatter to the ground, andlifting his swollen white hands. 

"Friends, " he said loudly, "ye have all known me in the old days. Iasked ye here to-night to tell ye how I went along the Damascus road andcast my burden on the Lord. . . . He is not hard to deal with. . . . There'sbeasts in us, all of us. They lift their heads out of us and jabber andclamour at us; they tear at us with their claws, but if we throwourselves on God's strength He crushes the life out of the beasts. Wecan do nothing till we stop fighting and lean on Him. He is kinder thanall our hopes, kinder than all our fears--"

His voice stopped with shot-like suddenness and his hands fell to hisside as he swayed. Marcella, Wullie and several others rushed to hisside. He fell, dragging the hunchback with him. His eyes, not blazingnow, but dimming as quickly as though veils had been drawn across them, sought Marcella as he struggled for breath. 

"Father--dear, " she said, putting her arm under his grey head as AuntJanet walked across the room. "Dear--" she whispered, almost shyly, forit was a word that she never used except in whispers to her mother. 

"I knew we'd have a doing with ye, Andrew, " said Aunt Janet, bendingstiffly in her satin frock. He could not hear. He looked at her andturned to Marcella again. 

"If ye--" he began, and suddenly felt very heavy on the girl'ssupporting arm. 

The people crept away talking quietly then. It seemed right that AndrewLashcairn had died in the midst of them all on All Souls' Night. 

CHAPTER IV

After her father's death Marcella had more time to become aware of thereally tangible shadows about the farm. In fact, she wakened to ageneral awareness about the time of her eighteenth birthday, ratherlater than most girls. 

She was extraordinarily young; she was inevitably romantic. Living whatamounted to the life of a recluse, it was only to be expected that sheshould live her illusions and dreams. Her mind was a storehouse offolklore, romance, poetry and religion; her rationalistic readings hadnot in any way become part of her, though facts and ratiocinations, bymere feat of memory, were stored in her mind as irrelevances andunrealities that came elbowing their way through her dreams just asfantastic thoughts come as one falls asleep. 

Never, in all her life, had she known what physical pleasure was; herbed was hard and very thinly covered--one night her father had takenaway and locked up a blanket because he said she must be hardened. Ithad never occurred to her that food could be a pleasure; it was justsomething that happened, a recurrence of potatoes, porridge, oatcake andbroth. Only when she had been swimming in the fierce waves or battlingin the winds on Ben Grief with Wullie did she realize the pleasure ofhunger, and that was easily satisfied in the smoking hut when theHunchback raked aside the ashes and brought out roast potatoes ortoasted fish that he took down from the roof. 

Not knowing other girls she had no one to talk to her about clothes. Before Rose Lashcairn was ill she had taken great pleasure in dressingher little girl; soft things, woven of silk and wool, came from Londonfor her, soft shoes and stockings and frocks of fine texture andbeautiful colour that seemed strange and exotic on Lashnagar. But thesewere worn out and never replaced--except for her mother's funeral shenever wore shoes, summer or winter. Her feet and legs were brown andquite invulnerable to stones or brambles. Her father did not realizethat she needed clothes; her aunt was too much sunk in shadows to noticethe child's appearance. And, reading her legends and romances, it wasnatural that Marcella should live them and dress them. In a press in hermother's room were clothes brought from the old grey house, theaccumulation of days when fabrics were made as heirlooms. There wereplaids and brocades and silks: there was lace from Valenciennes andlinen from Cambrai, yellow with age. There were muslins that a Lashcairnhad brought when he adventured to India with Clive. Rose often wept overthem. Several times Marcella's dreams nearly cost her her life, for, living them so utterly, she became detached from the physical world. Onetime, when a stormy golden sun went down behind black clouds, shining onan ancient pile of grey stones that stood on a little spit of land nearthe bar of the river, she was reminded of Tennyson's "Morte d'Arthur. "She heard the ripples lapping on the reeds and, with an imaginary SirBedivere at her elbow, hurried back to the farm to dress herself as aScottish edition of King Arthur in kilts that had belonged to hergrandfather. She worshipped the shine of the moon on the great jewel ather breast as she stepped into the little frail boat, very tired after along day's wandering on Ben Grief without food. To a Kelt death is athing so interpenetrating life that thought of it brought no fear;there was a sort of adventurous anticipation about it. She cast astick--her sword Excalibur--into midstream and waited for the arm "cladin white samite, mystic, wonderful. " That it did not appear meant verylittle to her. It certainly did not mean that it was not there. Ratherit meant that she could not see it. So she lay in the little boat andquite certainly she saw the grave Queens at the head, leading her to theIsland Valley of Avilion. Watching the moonlight glittering on her jewelshe was hypnotized to sleep, rocked by the soft motion of the littleboat. The current of the stream took her out to sea, the turn of thetide washed her back again, and she wakened at dawn famished withhunger, drenched with the icy water the little boat had shipped. She wastoo good a swimmer to drown and, after a valiant struggle, she came toland two miles from home. 

Her romance was never killed by misadventures. The very next day sheclimbed Ben Grief and lighted a ring of fire round his wrinkled brow bycarrying up loads of dried heather and grass through which she foughther way to the rescue of a dream Brunnhilde, sleeping within the fire. She reached home that night with scorched clothes and hair, andsmoke-smarting eyes. But such mishaps were only part of the adventure, as inevitable as storms in winter and wounds in battle. These dreamswere in the days before her father's Rationalism kept her chainedindoors: his evangelism sowed seeds that took root and flowered into adesire that she might be a wild-eyed, flame-tongued John the Baptist, making straight the way of the Lord. When this dream came to her ittransmuted all the other dreams; from so deep down inside her that itseemed a voice of someone autocratic standing beside her came theconviction that to be a John the Baptist meant to be a martyr and ananchorite. For days after her father's death she wandered on the hills, preaching deliverance to the screaming gulls, who would not be quietlike St. Francis' birds when he preached. Many days she took food withher and deliberately refused to eat it, walking miles after she was wornout in a considered attempt at the subjection of the flesh, after themanner of saints of old. Sometimes she preached peace to the desolateghosts on Lashnagar, but they did not seem to listen. 

Then, just after this, several things happened to bring her thoughtsaway from dreams to a realization of herself as a concrete, circumscribed being. Wullie had warned her of this. 

"Ye're up in the clouds, now, Marcella, like a wraith. Some day ye'llcome down to airth. And it'll be with sic' a bang that ye'll find ye'revery solid. " She had not understood him. 

For six weeks after her father's funeral she had almost maddeningneuralgia. One day, meeting Dr. Angus in the village she stopped tospeak to him. Indeed, it was impossible to pass him, for he had boughtRose Lashcairn's little mare who, even after six years, rememberedMarcella and stood with eager, soft eyes while the girl stroked hervelvet nose and satin sides. This was the first time the doctor had seenMarcella since the funeral and she had been weighing on his mind: heguessed at more than the Lashcairns would ever have told him of theircircumstances; he had sent in no bill for Andrew's illness and, out ofhis own pocket, had paid the Edinburgh specialist. Marcella knew nothingof this--if she thought of it at all, she would have thought that thedoctor just happened, as everything else in her life, by chance. 

"Marcella, you're not looking the thing, " he said. "Hop up beside me. I've not seen you for ages. Let us have a talk. I've to drive along toPitleathy and I'll drop you here on my way back. "

She sprang in beside him and told him about the neuralgia. 

"I had it first when I used to sit up with father. Now I have it all thetime--and dreadful headaches. I never knew what aches meant before. I'mafraid when Jean used to say she had the headache I wasn't so kind toher as I expect her to be to me. "

"We never are, " said the doctor bluntly. "But have you not told AuntJanet about the headaches?"

"Oh no--she'd think it was silly. "

"Then I'd tell Jean, Marcella, " said the doctor hurriedly. "If you'renot feeling well, just tell Jean, and maybe she'll be bringing you alongto see me. " Then he added. "But to-night I'll send the lad along withmedicine for the neuralgia. "

They talked about her father, then, and presently she surprised him bysaying earnestly:

"Doctor, why is it that people get ill?"

He laughed and chuckled at her puzzled frown. 

"Well! There's a question to ask a man after his dinner. Do you know ittook me the best part of seven years at the hospital to learn the answer?And even now my knowledge is not what you might call exhaustive. "

"It seems so queer--mother being ill, and father; then Jean's headachesand my neuralgia. And Wullie all twisted up. "

The doctor let the reins drop on the horse's neck and lighted a very oldpipe. He had very little chance of a talk, and was glad to talk, even toa girl. 

"Just in those people you've mentioned, Marcella, you've almost everycause of illness. " He paused, puffed at the pipe and went on, "Wullie--he was born like it. "

"Yes. I know. It seems all wrong. "

"It is wrong. It's a mistake, " said the doctor slowly. 

"Whose mistake?" she asked quickly. 

"Ah, there you have me, Marcella. It was to answer questions like thatthat men invented the devil, I believe; they like to say he put the gritin the machine that turned out Wullie, and made him like that out ofperversity. "

"But what do you say?" she said, looking into his face. 

"I don't know. I think several things. For one thing, I like to imaginethat God, or Nature, whichever you like to call it--isn't a perfectmachine yet, and that we human beings can step in to help a bit. "

"But how?"

"Wullie's father, I've heard, was drowned before he was born, and hismother was too proud to tell when she was hungry. She used to go outevery night and take his place with the fishing boats, rowing, sittingcramped, drawing the nets. We can help there by stopping that sort ofthing. "

Marcella watched him, wide-eyed. She was completely mystified but sofull of questions that she could not find which one to ask first. 

"That's what I'd have said when I was at the hospital, a young man. Inthose days I dealt much more with cells and bodies than--than I do now. Queer thing, Marcella--youngsters go for physiology mostly. When theyget older they see that there's more in psychology. I'm old now. MaybeI'm more foolish, but I've a feeling, right down at my marrow, that I'mwiser. I like to think that Wullie's an example of the law ofcompensation and, by losing physical strength and beauty, has gained abeautiful soul. But for the Lord's sake don't go telling anyone I--adoctor--talked such arrant nonsense, " he added with a laugh as he puffedat his pipe. 

"It seems wrong to me, " said Marcella slowly. "I can't see why abeautiful mind and body shouldn't be part of each other. "

"You've never been introduced to your body yet, Marcella, nor shakenhands with it. It's never popped up and made faces at you. When it doesyou'll find folks like Wullie have a good deal to be thankful for. Yourfather, for instance--"

He stopped short, coughed loudly and pulled up the horse to a sharptrot. 

"Yes. The barrel, " she said gravely. 

"Who's been telling you that?"

"Wullie. I asked him. "

"I wouldn't have told you, yet. But it's right you should know. You sawhow it was with your father. Whisky ruled him. It rules all your menfolklike that. It wasn't till his body grew weak with sickness--andsickness, mind you, caused by the whisky--that he got it in hand. Then, you see, it was too late. He conquered a wounded foe. And, of course, hedied. If he'd got religion earlier, perhaps--and, after all, that's onlyanother obsession. "

"Poor father, " she whispered. 

"If your father, without religion or anything, could have conquered, Marcella, he'd have been a very heroic figure. He'd have left footprintsin the sand of time, as the poet said. "

Marcella nodded. This was the first time the idea of conscious heroismcame to her. She said rather breathlessly:

"But are bodies _wicked_, doctor? Lots of people seem to think so. AuntJanet thinks people's bodies are _wrong_. All saints seem to think thattoo. "

"They're very splendid and bonny if you can keep them in hand. Christtaught that bodies--Humanity, that is--are the veils of God. It's onlywhen bodies get out of hand that they go wrong and put a man in hell. Iexpect the idea of Trinity-worship that we get in most religions was anunconscious aiming at this truth, that to be a perfect human being youmust be the Trinity--body, brain and spirit. But we're not up to thatTrinity yet, lassie, by a long chalk. "

"When I used to read those scientific books, and those queerphilosophies to father, it seemed to me that bodies were all thatmattered. That was when I was reading biology books and lectures. Itseemed so useless to me--just living, and handing on life, and living nomore. "

"That was the idea when I was at the hospital. At a hospital, ofcourse, bodies do count tremendously. But in my day more than nowbecause we were in the reactionary stage from blood-letting, incantations and so on. I remember how Biology came to me with asense of crystal precision and inevitability in those days. "

He paused. Marcella asked rather doubtfully:

"But do you think that Biology is wrong?"

"Oh, Marcella, your 'rights' and 'wrongs' are so funny, if you only knewit! You might as well say, 'Is fire wrong?' It's there. There's nogetting away from it. When I was a wee laddie at home I had to writecopy-book lessons on Saturday afternoons to keep me out of mischief. OneI wrote so often that it keeps coming into my mind in the most foolishway often. 'Fire is a good servant but a bad master. ' That was thesentence. The times I've written it, thick down strokes, thin upstrokes!Well, that's like any of these ologies--biology especially. It's a goodteacher. You don't have to let it be a taskmaster. "

"I'd like to learn ologies, doctor. I'd like to learn to the roots ofthings. All the things I know--legends, history, poetry, haven't anyroots at all. Professor Kraill's a biologist, isn't he?"

"Well, yes--rather a heterodox one, but he's getting believed now. Buthow on earth did you know?" he said, turning on her in surprise. 

"There was an advertisement of a book of his lectures. It was called'Questing Cells' and father got it. I had to read it to him--with adictionary at almost every line, because I didn't understand it. Itshowed me that, though I am muddled now, there is such a thing asclearness in the world. It seemed to me that if I knew all the thingsProfessor Kraill knows things might be like a crystal ball--all thethings in the world, you know, beautifully clear and rounded off. I reada lot of books to father after that and got muddled again. But I neverlost the feel of Professor Kraill's book. I couldn't tell you a word ofit now, but it's like the memory of a most beautiful music. I love him. I'd love to hear him--to see him. He's the wisest man in the world. "

"Heaven forbid!" said the doctor, laughing a little. 

"Why? Don't you admire him?"

"Immensely, though he's heterodox. But he's just what I was sayingto you just now--an example of a man who isn't the Trinity. Being abiologist, he's run all to body and brain. He's let his spirit getfamished a bit. Queer things--one hears, too--inevitable things. "

"How do you mean?" she cried, quick to defend her hero, but eager withcuriosity about him. 

"Oh, things you wouldn't understand. He's given up his chair at theUniversity. "

There was a long silence. Then Marcella said definitely:

"Anyway, he's splendid. I love him. " The doctor laughed and told herit was a good thing she wasn't a student if she fell in love withprofessors from their lectures. 

"Well, go on with what you were saying, " she said imperiously, and thedoctor began to think that he had not quite reckoned with Marcella'spassion for getting to the roots of things. But he expounded his theoryto her, telling her that before many years things that were miracles inthe time of Christ would be scientific bagatelles in the hospitals. 

"We've been having a materialistic time, Marcella, ever since Huxley andDarwin. Now we're coming to the swing of the pendulum. The body and itsappetites have got very strong. Soon we'll have them beat by the mind. "

There was a long silence. Then, with a suddenness that disconcerted thedoctor, she asked him what Wullie had meant by saying that the Lashcairnwomen took the man they needed, and went on strange roads. 

He filled and lit his pipe before he answered her. 

"If I told you you wouldn't understand. You'll come to it in time. Whenyou do, remember what I said to you. If you don't keep your body in handit's going to run away with you, like it ran away with your father intoyon barrel. See?"

"No, " she said doubtfully. "Do you mean be like Aunt Janet?"

"God forbid! No, not like Aunt Janet. You'll see when you come to it, Marcella. But remember that the nearest most of us ever get to theperfect Trinity is a thing of shreds and patches. People don't manageto be perfect. "

"Christ?" ventured Marcella. 

"No. He was brain and spirit without a body. "

"Why, doctor, how about when He fasted in the wilderness--and the painon the cross?"

"Bodily pain is much easier to bear than bodily desire, Marcella. Yourpoor father would have found it easier to be crucified than to bear hislonging for whisky. And Aunt Janet--ask her. "

"She wouldn't tell me. "

"No, I suppose she wouldn't. When she was young she saw a man shewanted. And he was a man she couldn't have. Until she got dead as she isnow I expect she'd have thought crucifixion a thing easier to bear. No, there's no one perfect. All we are, any of us, is either a soul or abody or a brain developed at the expense of all the rest. We get greatholes torn in us, just as if wolves had been clawing at us. And it's thebody that makes the most dreadful tears. Most people don't see this. Yousee, the body's hungers are the most appeasable--and being the mostappeasable one can't see why they shouldn't be yielded to. "

He stopped talking as they drove into the main street of Pitleathy, andwhile he was with his patient at a little house in the middle of thestreet Marcella sat thinking. Loose ends of his talk floated about inher grasping mind and she collected them to make him fasten them downwhen he came back. 

"Do you know, doctor, you've muddled me, " she said as they turnedhomewards in the teeth of the wind. 

"I'm sorry for that, Marcella. You'd better forget what I've said. Sitting alone so much I talk to myself, and I forgot I was talkingto a bit lassie like you. Forget things you don't understand. "

"And then get more puzzled later on, when they crop up?" she said. "No. I want you to tell me, now. I want to know, now, why mother was ill--andwhy Jean and I have headaches. "

"Your mother was ill through an accident, " he said gravely. "I don'twish to talk about that. And as for Jean and you--well, it's what weexpect of women. Man has made his women-folk invalids. "

"Doctor!" she gasped. 

"Women are always getting ill more or less. Their natural place in thescheme of things makes them weaker. In the beginning of things theywere in a dangerous world; as the vehicle of the new life it was notwell that they should take their place amidst the same dangers as themen. Otherwise the race might have died out. So they were adapted bynature to a softer life. Their brains are smaller, their nerves moresensitive. If they'd been made as strong as men, physically, nothingwould have kept them from fighting and exploring and getting killed. "

"But--but--how awful! And you mean I'll have headaches and things alwaysbecause I'm a woman?"

"Because you're a woman and, to quote your Professor, biologicallyimportant. Important to the race, that is--not intrinsically important. To keep you out of dangers and hardships--and mischief, " he said, chuckling as he watched her indignant face. 

"Well, then I won't be a woman! Coddled! I never heard anything sodisgusting! Doctor, I'm going to be a Siegfried, a John the Baptist!I'm going to be a man!"

The doctor laughed loudly and told her to wait awhile, when she wouldlaugh at this Marcella who was so eager, so impatient now. 

CHAPTER V

That conversation marked an epoch for Marcella. To use the doctor'sphrase, it made her shake hands with her body. His medicine cured theneuralgia, though it would probably have cured itself now that thestrain of her father's illness was over. But the headaches persistedright on until the springtime, bringing gusts of impatience and strangedemands and urgencies that made her begin to get tired of the farm andLashnagar and set her feet longing to be away on strange roads. 

One sunny dawn she came down to the beach and, throwing off her clothes, ran across the strip of shingle, and then, with rapture in the softnessof the air after the sharp bite of winter and spring mornings, she flewas if on wings over the yellow sand and into the water that was slidingin gently, almost motionlessly. She danced in the little lazy waves. They seemed playmates to-day, though usually they fought and buffetedher; she had her usual swim out to the islet where the fishermen kepttheir nets and it seemed very splendid just to be alive. Then she swamback to the shore where her clothes lay in a little heap, and itoccurred to her that she had brought no towel. 

"I'll have to dry like washing does--in the sun, " she laughed, wringingher hair in her hand as she stood in a motionless little rock pool. Thedrops sparkled round her and, looking down at their little splashes, shecaught sight of her reflection in the pool as she stooped forward toshake her hair. For a moment she stared, as Narcissus once stared. Butunlike Narcissus she did not fall in love with herself. From thereflection she let her eyes travel over her body, and noticed thatcurves and roundnesses were taking the place of boyish slimness. 

"Oh--how _horrible_!" she cried and dimly realized that the change inher appearance had something to do with the doctor's prediction ofphysical disability. She loathed and resented it immediately. Suddenlyconscious of her bare legs she ran home, horrified at the tightness ofher frock that showed the roundness of her figure. As she passed theMactavish cottage the mother sat in the doorway, suckling the newestbaby. Instead of staying to talk as usual Marcella flew by, her cheekscrimson. As soon as she reached home she ran up to her mother's room tofind a frock that was not so tight; tearing an old linen sheet intostrips she wound it round her body like a mummy wrap, so tightly thatshe could scarcely breathe, and then, putting on a blouse of hermother's that was still too tight to please her, she surveyed herself inthe mirror with supreme dissatisfaction. 

"I look _horrible_! It's beastly for people's bodies to _show_ likethat, " she cried, and, sitting down on the floor, put on the shoes andstockings she had had for her father's funeral, that hurt her feet. Sheran down to the beach to discuss it with Wullie. Half-way there shediscovered that she could not possibly mention it to anyone. Thispuzzled her. She could not understand things one could not mention. 

"We're very grand the day, Marcella, " he said, watching her curiously. "Where are ye gaun?"

"I've come to see you, " she said, sitting down in a shadowy corner. 

"Have ye had breakfast? I saw ye, hours ago, swimming oot by thenets. There's seed cake in yon box that Jock's wife's sent doon, andbuttermilk in the can. "

Even indignation with her figure could not conquer her appetite, and shedivided the cake between them, eating her share before she spoke. 

"Seed cake's the nicest thing in the world, " she said at last. "I lovethe wee blacks in it, don't you, Wullie? Wullie, when I'm dying I'llcome here and Bessie shall make seed cake. Then I shall never die. Ilove the smell of it, too--it makes me think of the Queen of Shebabringing spices and gold to King Solomon. "

"Ye seem to be having a fine queer lot of thoughts the day, Marcella, "said Wullie, eating slowly and looking at her. 

She flushed and looked away from him. 

"I have, Wullie, horrible thoughts. About getting old. "

"So old, lassie--ye're nearly a woman now, " he said gently. 

"Wullie, I won't be a woman! I hate it! The doctor's been telling medisgusting things about being a woman. And so has Jean. Why should theybe weak and get ill? Oh, I won't! I'll do as I like. "

"Ye're too young tae understand yet, " began Wullie. 

"I'm not. I'm not too young to understand that I won't be weak--tieddown. The doctor said women were all weaker than men, and I thoughtperhaps most women might be. But not me. And then--Wullie, I want to belike a lion or a tiger, and kill things that get in the way, and--oh, I'll hate being a human being with a body that gets in the way. "

"My poor old carcass has always been in the way, " said Wullie wistfully, and she ran out of the hut, unable to bear the pity of that, right up onBen Grief. But before she reached the top she had to take off the tightbandages, for she found she could scarcely breathe, much less climb inthem, and her shoes and stockings she hid under a bush until she cameback, for they crippled her feet. 

For three days she did not bathe and undressed in the dark every night. But after that the water called her insistently, and she went back toit, swimming in a deliberately unconscious way, as though she hadpromised someone she would not notice herself any more. 

But insensibly her dreams changed; instead of being a Deliverer now shedreamed, in spite of herself, of a Deliverer with whom she could go handin hand; as the mild May days drew along to a hot June the dreams variedstrangely. Up on Ben Grief all alone in the wind, hungry and blown aboutshe would see herself preaching in the wilderness, eating locusts andwild honey, clad in the roughest sheep-skins. At home, or on Lashnagar, or in the water she saw herself like Britomart in armour--always inarmour--while a knight rode at her side. When they came to dragons orgiants she was always a few paces in front--she never troubled toquestion whether the knight objected to this arrangement or not. Atfeasts in the palace, or when homage was being done by vast assembledthrongs of rescued people, he and she were together, and together whenthey played. She had definitely dismissed the doctor's talk of naturalweakness. Not realizing all its implications she had nevertheless quitedeliberately taken on the man's part. 

Then came a gipsy to the kitchen door one morning when Jean was in thebyre. It was a good thing Jean was not there or she would have drivenher away as a spaewife. She asked for water. Marcella gave her oatcakeand milk and stood looking at her olive skin, her flashing eyes, herbright shawl curiously. 

As she drank and ate slowly she watched Marcella without a word. At lastshe said in a hoarse voice:

"You will go on strange roads. "

"I wish I could, " said Marcella, flushed with eagerness. "This placeis--"

"You will go on strange roads and take the man you need, " said the gipsyagain. 

Marcella glimpsed her splendid knight riding in at the gate with her, and the farm-yard ceased to be muddy and dirty and decayed; it became apalace courtyard, with glittering courtiers thronging round. It did notoccur to her that the gipsy had heard the Lashcairn legend in thevillage--the most natural thing for a legend-loving gipsy to hear--shewas accustomed to believing anything she was told, and that the gipsy'swords confirmed her own longings made them seem true. 

"I'm afraid there's not much chance of strange roads for me, " she said, looking out over the sea with beating heart to where a distant ribbon ofsmoke on the horizon showed a ship bound for far ports. 

"When were you born?"

Marcella told her and, taking a little stick from under her shawl, thegipsy scratched strange signs in the mud. 

"You were born under the protection of Virgo, " said the gipsy, andMarcella's eyes grew round and big. "You will go by strange paths andtake the man you need. There will be many to hurt you. Fire and floodshall be your companions; in wounding you will heal, in losing you willgain; your body will be a battle-ground. "

"Oh, but how can you know?" cried Marcella, and suddenly all thosestern Rationalists she had read, Huxley and Frazer, Hegel and Kraill, all very bearded and elderly, all very much muddled together, passedbefore her eyes. "It seems so silly to think you can see from thosescratchy marks what I am going to do in years and years and years. "

But as the gipsy went away, smiling wisely, and asking none of the usualpieces of silver, all the Kelt in Marcella, which believed things had noroots, came rushing to the surface and sent her indoors to write downthe gipsy's prophecy. Later, with a sense of mischievous amusement sherummaged in the book-room to find one of the Rationalist books. But theyhad been sold, most of them. Professor Kraill's "Questing Cells" wasthere and she copied the prophecy into it, on the fly-leaf. 

"Talk about a battle-ground!" she said, smiling reflectively. "ProfessorKraill and a gipsy!"

She turned several pages, and once more got the feel of the book, thoughstill much of it was Greek to her. Then she got down from the windowseat, for her aunt was calling her to tea, and she was hungry. 

There was an unusual pot of jam on the table. She looked at it insurprise as she sat down. 

"That is some of Mrs. Mactavish's bramble jelly that she sent up for thefuneral; I thought we'd not be needing it just then. But now I see it'sbeginning to get mildewed. So it'll need to be eaten before it'swasted, " said Aunt Janet, peeling off the top layer of furry green mouldand handing the pot to Marcella. 

"Oh I do love bramble jelly, " she cried, passing it to Jean, who alwaysate with them in the good old feudal fashion, right at the foot of thelong table. Jean took a small helping and so did Aunt Janet. After awhile Marcella peered into the pot again. 

"Shall we finish it up, Aunt?" she asked, and Aunt Janet shrugged hershoulders. 

"To-day or to-morrow, what's the difference? Do you really like it somuch as that?" she added, watching the girl curiously. 

"I love it! Bramble jelly and seed cake! What do you think, Aunt? WhenI get very old and die, Mrs. Mactavish and Jock's wife will be in heavenalready, brought for the purpose by the Angel Gabriel, and they'll makebramble jelly and seed cake for the love feast for me!" she said, eatinga spoonful without spreading it on oatcake, encouraged by her aunt'sunwonted extravagance. "I can't be philosophical about bramble jelly!"

Aunt Janet watched the girl as though she could not believe in anythingso sincere as this love of sweet things. Then she said a little sadly:

"There's not a thing on earth that I want or love. "

"Because you've ruled yourself out of everything! I love to want thingsbecause always they may be just round the corner. And if they aren't, there's the fun of thinking they are. And always there's another cornerafter the last one. I'd rather _die_ of hungriness than never behungry. "

"Oh, you'll die of hungriness, I expect. That is, if you're lucky, " saidAunt Janet. "I shall just drop out of life some day. "

Suddenly time gave a sharp leap forward and Marcella saw herself sittingthere as Aunt Janet was sitting, a dead soul in a dulled body, waitingto drop out of life. The words of Wullie and the gipsy slid into hermind--"they go on strange roads"--and she got a swift vision of herselfin armour riding out gaily along a strange road with her knight besideher. Elbowing that out came something she had seen that had amazed her afew days ago. In the evenings she and Aunt Janet sat in the book-room, into which they had taken a little table of Rose's and a few chairs. Beside the fire-place had been one of those ancient presses in which theold farmer had kept his whisky, his pipes and his account books. Whenthe man from Christy's came to buy the furniture he had noticed thebeautifully carved oak doors of the press and offered such a temptingsum for them that Aunt Janet had let them go, nailing a piece of oldcrested tapestry across the press to hide her books and needleworkinside. They usually sat there together, Marcella reading or dreaming, Aunt Janet sewing or sitting listless, not even dreaming. But intoMarcella's dreams had come frequent movements of her aunt's hand goingin behind the curtain. Several times when she had spoken to her, AuntJanet had waited a few seconds before answering, and then had spoken ina queerly muffled voice. One day, looking in the cupboard for needle andcotton, Marcella had seen a big paper bag full of sweets--a thing shehad not seen at the farm since her mother died. They were acid drops;she took one or two and meant to ask her aunt for some in the eveningwhen they sat together. But she forgot until, falling into one of herdreams and staring in the fire, she noticed her aunt take somethingalmost slyly from the cupboard and put in her mouth behind the cover ofher book, glancing at her furtively as she did so. The amazing fact thatshe was eating the acid drops secretly came into her mind and she sattrying to reason it out for some minutes. 

"Mean thing--she doesn't want me to have any, " was her first thoughtwhich she dismissed a moment later as she remembered certain verydistinct occasions when her aunt had been anything but mean, times whenshe had deliberately stayed away from a scanty meal that the othersshould have more--little sacrifices that Marcella was only justbeginning to understand. 

"I don't believe she's mean--anyway, I _know_ she isn't. I believe shedoesn't have half enough to eat and these sweets make up for it! Orelse--she likes sweets frightfully and doesn't want me to know she'sso--so kiddish. "

Quick tears had sprung into Marcella's eyes, tears of pity and ofimpotence as she wondered what on earth she could do for Aunt Janet. After a while, when she was quite sure the acid drop was swallowed, andno other had taken its place, she knelt down on the hearth and, after aminute, shyly drew herself over to her aunt's side. 

"Aunt Janet, " she said, taking one of the thin blue-veined hands inhers, "Auntie--"

"What is it, Marcella?"

"I--I don't know. Oh, Aunt Janet, I do wish there was something I coulddo for you. "

"Marcella!" cried her aunt, almost shocked. 

"Oh dear, you make me cry, Aunt Janet, to see you sitting here so lonelyand so still. You seem like father--there's a wall all round you that Ican't get inside. Oh and I do love you! I'm simply _miserable_ because Iwant to do something nice for you. "

She stared at her aunt with swimming eyes, and Aunt Janet, quite at aloss to understand the outbreak, could not get outside her wall. 

"You will find it's much better to rule love out, Marcella, " said AuntJanet gently, holding the girl's hand in hers, which was cold. "It isbetter not to pity anyone or love anyone. Oh yes, I know you pity me, child. But love and pity have exactly doubled the pain of the world, because, in addition to the tragedy of the person you love is your owntragic desire to do something for them. You take my advice, Marcella--don't love. Rule love out--"

"Oh my goodness--acid drops, " whispered Marcella to herself as she satdown to think out this astonishing heresy. 

From that day she had been filled with a choked pity for Aunt Janet--andnow, suddenly, as she sat with the jam spoon full, poised over her plateshe saw herself getting like that--slyly eating acid drops because shewas ashamed to admit so small, so amiable a weakness, having conqueredall the big ones. 

She dropped the spoon with a clatter and pushed the pot away from her. 

"Acid drops, " she whispered to herself. 

"You may as well eat it up, Marcella. It only means you won't have anyto-morrow. Neither Jean nor I want it--and the pot can be washed and putaway then. "

"No--no. I don't want it, " cried the girl passionately. "Aunt Janet, Iwant to go away. "

Her eyes were sparkling, her breath coming fast and short. 

"Go away?"

"Yes. I can't stay here. What's to happen to me if I do? Oh what's tohappen to me?"

"You'll be happier staying here till you drop out of life, " said thewoman, looking at her intently. 

"Oh no--no! I'd rather be smashed up and killed--like grandfather was, "cried Marcella passionately. 

"Yes, I suppose one would--at eighteen, " Aunt Janet mused reminiscently. "But where can you go?"

"Oh anywhere--I don't care. I'll go anywhere--now--to-night. Aunt, I'mnot cruel and unkind, am I, to want to go away? I'll come back to you. I'll be kinder when I come back, " she cried anxiously. "I can't stophere and be petrified. "

For two days Aunt Janet thought and pondered while Marcella raged aboutBen Grief with the wings of all the swifts and swallows on earth in herfeet. She faced many things these two days--she planned many things. Shewas like a generalissimo arranging details of the taking of the enemy'sentrenchments before ever the recruiting for his army had begun. She wasfull of thoughts and intentions as ungraspable and spacious as the MilkyWay. She was not quite sure, up there with the winds lashing her facewith her hair, whether she was going to save the world from whisky, materialism or dreams; she was not quite sure whether she was going tosave women from having smaller brains and weaker bodies than men, orwhether she was going to train herself out of being a woman. At anyrate, she was going out on the battle-path, glittering in armour. Aslong as her eyes were on the stars and her hair streaming in the wind itdid not seem to matter much where her feet were. They would, she feltsure, follow her eyes. 

And then Aunt Janet announced, at the end of two days, that she shouldwrite to Australia, to a brother of Rose Lashcairn's who lived inVictoria on a big sheep run. He had written at Rose's death, offering tohave the child--one little girl more or less on his many acres would notcount. But Andrew had refused stiffly, insolently, and there the matterhad dropped. Now Aunt Janet sat down, and, quite characteristicallybridging six years of silence and rather rude neglect, stated thatAndrew was dead, the farm was not prospering, and she was sendingMarcella out to him, as he had expressed a wish for her before. She didnot ask if this would be convenient. It did not occur to her that UnclePhilip might be dead, or have left Wooratonga; with Lashcairnhigh-handedness--to quote Wullie--she expected all the world todo her bidding. 

She did not mention the letter to Marcella until it was written; shelived so much inside her wall that the interest the letter mustnecessarily have for the girl did not occur to her until she calledher downstairs and put it into her hand. 

"You'll need to take this letter to Carlossie, Marcella. Jean is toobusy to-day. And ask about the postage to Australia. I believe it's onlya penny. "

"Who do we know in Australia?" asked Marcella. 

"Your mother's brother Philip. I've written to tell him you'll be comingto him. He wrote when your mother died saying he would have you, butyour father refused then. I've told him you'll be coming shortly, sowe'll need to cable when we've looked up the boats and everything. "

Marcella stared at her aunt in dead silence. She did not in the leastresent this way of disposing of her. She was used to it--she would havedisposed of herself in just the same high-handed fashion if it hadoccurred to her. But she was stricken silent with inarticulate joy atthe prospect of going away--especially of going across the sea just asfar as possible without getting over the edge of the world. 

"But do you think he'll have me?" she said tremulously when she couldspeak again. 

"He'll need to, " said her aunt calmly. 

"Anyway, if he doesn't someone else will, " said Marcella casually. Toher hitherto the world had meant Lashnagar, Pitleathy and Carlossie. She had never been as far as Edinburgh. She had lived in a world offriends--a world that knew her, barefoot and hungry as she was, for thelast of the Lashcairns, a world that had open doors for her everywhere. And Aunt Janet knew about as much of life outside the wall that held herown smouldering personality as Marcella knew. 

It was only years afterwards that Marcella wondered where her aunt gotthe money to buy her the clothes that came from Edinburgh--not many ofthem, but things severely plain and severely expensive. She knew thatthe man from Christy's came again--she knew that two great oak chests, one from the landing and one from her mother's room, went away. Latershe missed the old weapons that used to be in the armoury at the oldgrey house and that had lain in her father's bedroom where he could seethem ever since they came to the farm--great-swords and dirks andbattle-axes--that had rung out a clear message of defiance on many abattlefield. But she did not associate their going with her own untilshe was out in mid-ocean, and then she felt sickened to think what itmust have cost Aunt Janet to part from them. 

In the midst of her preparations Jean told her one day that she wasgoing away soon. 

"Going away?" she cried. "Then what will Aunt Janet do? Why, Jean, Inever thought you'd leave her, " she added reproachfully. 

"Ye're leavin' her yersel', " said Jean grimly. "But I'm not gaun of maain accoont. The mistress hersel' was tellun me she'll not be needin' meony mair. "

"Well! but what's she going to do, then?" said Marcella, arrested in hercareful tidying of her father's old books on the shelves. "I'm goingstraight away to ask her. "

But her aunt simply told her that it was no concern of hers, but thatshe was going to live very quietly now. 

"But who'll look after you? Who'll do the work? What will you live on?"

"I am not accustomed to being cross-questioned, " said Aunt Janet in adefinite way that forbade questions. But Marcella lay awake worryingvery late during her last few nights at the farm, picturing her aunt allalone, without Jean, without her, without even the beasts, for a butcherfrom Carlossie had come and slaughtered the last old tottery cow, Hoodie. 

"What is she going to do?" the girl asked herself again and again asshe tossed on her hard bed that night. She tried to imagine Aunt Janetbringing in wood for the fire, breaking the ice of the well in winter, cleaning and cooking as Jean did, and her imagination simply would notstretch so far. Then she saw the nights when she would sit in the bigbook-room with the ghosts walking about the draughty passages, up anddown through the green baize door, looking for their swords and dirks, the beds and tables and chairs that had been sold while the ratsscuttered about the wainscoting. And she got a terrible vision of heraunt looking round furtively as her hand went behind the curtain to apaper bag of cheap sweets. 

"Oh, I can't leave her!" she cried. "Poor Aunt Janet!"

But even as her lips told her she could not go, her feet tingled likethe swallows' wings in September and knew that, whoever suffered forit, she would have to go. 

Ghosts and shadows crowded round her next day when she ran down to thebeach to say good-bye to Wullie. On the gate of the farm was fixed anotice saying that Miss Lashcairn desired the villagers to come to thehouse next day if they wished a free joint of beef, as she had nofurther use for her cattle. "As the beast in question is old, " went onthe firm, precise writing, "the meat will be tough. But probably it isquite worth consideration by those with large families. "

Marcella was crying as she banged open the door of Wullie's hut. 

"I thought ye'd be coming, Marcella, " he said, looking at her withmournful brown eyes that recalled Hoodie's. "Jock's wife's made ye aseed cake to eat the day, and anither tae pack in yer grip. She says ifye'll pit it intill a bit tin an' fasten it doon tight it'll maybe keeptill ye're at Australia. But I'm thenkin' she doesna rightly ken whaurAustralia is on the map. "

"Oh, Wullie, " cried Marcella, flinging herself down on the ground besidehim. "I feel as if I can't bear it all. Hoodie killed, and going to beeaten, Jean going to Perth to live, and Aunt Janet all alone in the oldfarm, living with the rats. "

"Ye're awa' yersel', Marcella, mind, " said Wullie gravely. 

"Wullie, I wish I could explain. I don't want to go, really, but if Idon't I'm so afraid I'll get frozen up and dead. Oh, and acid drops, "she added frantically. 

"Eh?" he asked. 

"Oh, that's nothing. Only something I was thinking, " she said quickly. "But I've got to go; only I hate to think of things being uprootedhere. "

"Then dinna think aboot it. I knew ye'd be awa' afore long. It's in ye, juist as it's in the birds. But ye'll come flying back like they do. "

"Oh, Wullie, do you think I shall?" she pleaded, watching him as hestroked his beard and looked out across the sea. 

"Ye'll be back, Marcella. Very glad ye'll be tae come back, an' ye'llfind me here, juist the same. Things change little. It takes millions ofyears to change everything save folk's spirits. I'll never change, tillHis hand straightens me oot some day for a buryin'. But ye'll bechanged, Marcella, like Lashnagar--things will have cropped out in ye, and things will have walked over ye. "

Wullie's words comforted her, gave her a sense of security as she satat his side toasting fish for the last time and eating the cake thatsomehow did not taste quite so good as usual. As she said good-bye tohim before she went the round of the village bidding everyone good-bye, something impelled her to kiss his brown cheek. The last she saw of himwas his bent figure silhouetted in the doorway of the hut with a fireglow behind it, and the setting sun shining on his eyes that were brightwith tears. 

But that night she was too excited to feel really unhappy as she lookedat the boxes ready in the book-room, her little leather case lying openwaiting for the last-minute things next morning. When, even, sheblundered into the dairy to find rope and caught sight of a horrible redpile of meat that had been Hoodie, she could not cry about it. She wastoo busy thinking that, out of her adventuring, a day would come whenthe old place would be warmed and lighted again, and she told this toAunt Janet, who was sitting, sunk in thought, by the fire in thebook-room. 

"I wouldn't be dreaming too much, Marcella, " she said gently. "Even ifdreams come true to some extent, they are very disappointing. A dreamthat you dreamed in a golden glow comes to pass in a sort of greytwilight, you know. And you'll never bring happiness here. Get thethought out of your head. There are too many ghosts. Could you ever killthe ghost of little Rose lying there with pain inside her, eating herlife out? Or your father raging and hungering, like a pine tree in awindow-pot?" She shook her head sadly. "No, Marcella, till you've killedthought you'll never be happy--till you've killed feeling--"

"Look here, " began Marcella quickly, kneeling beside her aunt andsuddenly holding her stiff body in her quick young arms. "Auntie, " shesaid, using the diminutive shyly, and even more shamefacedly adding, "dear--I'm not going to listen to you. So there! I'm going away, and I'mgoing to come back and simply _dose_ you with happiness, like we used todose the old mare with medicine when she was ill. If you won't take it, I'll drown you in it. Or else what's the use of my going away?"

"You're going away because you feel it in your feet that you've got togo, Marcella, " said Aunt Janet calmly. The wind roared down the chimneyand sent fitful puffs of smoke out into the room. "If I tried to stopyou, you'd go on hungering to be away. "

CHAPTER VI

It was the doctor who saw Marcella on to the _Oriana_ at Tilbury. AuntJanet had not suggested coming with her: it had not occurred to her asthe sort of thing that was necessary, nor had Marcella given it athought. Left to herself, she would have taken train blithely fromCarlossie to Edinburgh and thence to London--imagining London not verymuch more formidable than a larger Carlossie. But the doctor made themsee that it was quite necessary for someone to see her off safely, andnaturally the job fell to him. 

The booking of the passage had caused considerable discussion. AuntJanet had written to the shipping company asking them to reserve asaloon berth by the first mail-boat after a certain date. That it tooknearly all the money she had or was likely to have, as far as she couldsee, for the rest of her days, did not trouble her in the least. Shecould live on nothing, she told herself--and it was absolutely necessarythat Andrew's child should go away, even though she was going to seekthe once-refused charity of a relative, with the maximum of dignity andwith flags flying. But the doctor had a talk with her about it. He hadhad three trips as ship's doctor to Australia on P. And O. Steamers, andhis imagination reeled at the prospect of Marcella in the average saloonon a long-distance liner. 

"You see, " he said, trying hard to be tactful, "if Marcella travelsfirst class she'll need many clothes. There are no laundries on most ofthese ships, and it's a six weeks' trip. In the tropics you need to bechanging all day if you care a brass farthing for your appearance. " Hedid not tell her that Marcella's frankness and her lack of conventionaltraining would ostracize her among the first-class passengers, half ofwhom were Government officials and the like going out to Australia orIndia, while the rest were self-made Australians going back home afterexpensive visits to the Old Country. They moved in airtightcompartments. The exclusive Government folks would not have accepted aplace on a raft that held the self-made colonials even at the risk oflosing their lives. The self-made folks, snubbed and a little hurt, wererather inclined to be blatantly loud and assertive in self-defence. Between the two Marcella would be a shuttlecock. But she clinched thediscussion herself by remarking airily that she was going in thecheapest possible way. 

"You shall go second class, " said her aunt. "I quite see Dr. Angus'spoint about the first-class passengers. "

"I'm going third, Aunt. I won't spend money that needn't be spent, andthe third-class part of the ship gets there just as fast as the first!I'd be uncomfortable among rich folks. I only know poor people, and Dr. Angus--I'll get on better with third-class people. "

The doctor laughed at the implication, and was forced to give in. Hetold Aunt Janet that the third class was quite comfortable, though hereally knew nothing about it. He had never been on an emigrant ship inhis life. He arranged for a share in a two-berth cabin quite blithely. 

Marcella felt solemn when she finally saw the doctor's machine at thedoor waiting for her in the grey dawn light; Jean cried, and Tammas andAndrew, who were coming in with the tide, seeing the trap crawlingalong, ran up a little flag on the masthead to cheer her going. But AuntJanet did not cry. She kissed the girl unemotionally and went into thehouse, shutting the heavy door with a hollow, echoing clang. 

They had some hours to spend in Edinburgh, and got lunch in PrincesStreet. It all seemed amazingly big and busy to Marcella, who could notimagine the use of so many hundreds of people. 

"I can't see what they're all here for, doctor, " she said as theysat at a very white and sparkling table in a deep window oppositethe Scott Monument, and the people went to and fro in the absorbed, uncommunicative Edinburgh way. "They don't seem to be needed. "

The doctor laughed. 

"Wait till you see London, " he said. "You'll wonder more then. "

She got up from the table suddenly and stood in the window while thedoctor went on eating philosophically and smiling at her as he wishedhe could go all the way to Australia with her and watch her growingwonderment at the world. 

"You know, " she said doubtfully, "it seems so queer--all these people, and then that monument. I don't see the connection, somehow. "

"I see you standing there, and a lump of congealing mutton on your platehere, " said the doctor, and she sat down and ate a mouthful hurriedly. 

"But what is the connection? What are they for?"

The doctor watched her in his precise way with his eyes twinkling at herover his glasses, which he wore on the end of his nose. 

"I thought you were such a learned biologist, Marcella. Kraill wouldtell you they were the caskets of questing cells--seeking about forcomplementary cells that some day will themselves become the caskets ofcells. "

"Ugh! That reminds me of all the clouds of flies on the dead fish insummer, " she said, pushing her plate away. "Flies--then maggots. "

"Exactly!" said the doctor, chuckling. 

"But--" she began, and broke off, frowning. 

"Don't you see any connection between all yon little people and themonument, though? A crawling mass of folks--and one or two stand out. The others show they realize how these big ones stand out by makingmonuments for them. It infers, I think, that they'd all like to towerif they could. "

"Ah, that's better. But so few tower. "

"And that, Marcella, is just what I told you yon day we drove toPitleathy. They're all patched--or I should say _we're_ all patched. Either bodily, mentally or spiritually there are holes torn in us, andwe've to be so busy patching them up from collapsing that we've no timeto grow. As time goes on and we learn better there'll be less patching. There'll be more growing up tall and straight--everyone--there'll begiants in those days, Marcella. "

"Yes, " she said slowly, and saw herself as one of them some day as shedrew on her gloves rather awkwardly, for they were the first pair shehad ever possessed. "Oh, well--I'm not going to be patched at all, doctor. I simply won't have things tearing holes in me. "

London, of course, was even more amazing than Edinburgh. They had a dayto spend there, and the doctor took her to Regent Street and Bond Streetin the morning. He was enjoying himself in a melancholy sort of fashion. Marcella was _tabula rasa_. It was interesting to watch the impressionsregistered on her surface. 

The shops gave her none of the acquisitive pleasure he had expected. Toher they were interesting as museums might have been. She could not, shedid not see the use of them. The women thronging the windows anddepartments of a great store through which they walked roused her toexcited comment. 

"What are they buying them all for?" she said, looking at the hats andfrocks and the purchasers. "They have such nice ones already. "

The doctor asked her if she did not think they were very pretty when hehad got over his amusement at the idea of women only buying thingsbecause they needed them. 

"Oh beautiful!" she cried rapturously. "But you couldn't do very much infrocks like that. "

"That's the idea, of course, " said the doctor, watching her quizzically. "If you only knew it, Marcella, all these shops are built upon afoundation of what your professor calls 'questing cells. ' You see--butlet's get out into the air. You've started my bee buzzing now. "

They faced about and elbowed their way through an eager-eyed, aimless-footed throng by the doorway. 

"Now go on, " said Marcella when they were in the street, walking downbeside Liberty's. She had one eye on the windows and one ear for thedoctor. 

"You see, all these women here--they're doing something quiteunconsciously when they buy pretty clothes and spend so much time andmoney on making themselves look so bonny, " said the doctor, stridingalong in his Inverness cape, quite oblivious that he was a very uniquefigure in Regent Street. "They'll worry tremendously about what coloursuits them, what style sets off their beauty best. I don't think thatit's really because they like to see something bonny every time theylook in their mirror. I don't think it's even that they want admiration, or envy. It's simply that they're ruled by the law of reproduction, ifthey only knew it. Inside them is new life--these same questing cells. These cells can only find separate existence through complementarycells. So they urge these women on to make themselves charming, capturing--married or single, they are the same, deep down, for naturallaws take no count of marriage laws, you know. The men are the same, too. They beg and placate--and all the time deep down, they think theyare the choosers, the overlords. And the women tempt them and then runaway. Last of all they yield. These cells have it ingrained in them thatthe woman-thing is only ready to yield after a chase. Very few people dothis consciously. A few do--people who have been let into the secret ofstudying natural laws. Then they either do it for the fun of the chase, or else because they're too morally lazy to fight the urge of the cells. That's when they get holes torn in them. "

He walked on for a few steps, and then turned to laugh into Marcella'spuzzled face. 

"All of which, I'd like to point out, I take no credit for, Marcella. Igot it out of Kraill's Edinburgh lectures that have just been publishedin book form. "

"I hate that way of talking, " said Marcella abruptly. "I like Wullie'sway best. He says lives are the pathway of life, just as you do. But hesays it's not just life, it's either God or beasts that walk along itand we've to help God kill the beasts so as to leave the pathway clearfor Him. It means the same, but your way of saying it is so--soungodly. "

"I know. But there it is. The way I talk is the way Kraill and hisschool talk. Of course, there's something in it. There would be a greatdeal in it if we were only aiming at making bodies. All this trickingout--refinement--it may produce the people who tower over others--likethe Greeks with their 'pure beauty' you know--"

He stopped speaking suddenly and they walked on in silence whileMarcella looked eagerly from shop window to passers-by and back again. 

"It's all wrong, doctor, " she said at last. "It's too one-sided. "

"Yes. And look at the Greeks now--"

She turned to him with a quick, birdlike glance. 

"Do you know what I think?" she said. 

"Not quite all of it, " said the doctor, watching her face, and thinkinghow incongruous it looked in Regent Street. 

"Well, I think biology's one of the beasts we've to kill before Godwalks along us. So there! Tropical forests--maggots--women, " she added, and the doctor laughed outright. 

The chief impression she got of London was its aimlessness. It remindedher irresistibly of an ant-hill she had seen disturbed once. Myriads oftiny creatures had scurried passionately, exhaustingly, after each otherto and fro, no whence and no whither; the people thronging out of shopsand offices at dusk frightened her: there seemed so many of them, and, looking at their tired, strained faces and their unkingly way ofhurrying along, uninterested and uninteresting save in getting to theirdestination, it seemed to her that they were not thinking of ever"towering": when Dr. Angus reminded her that they were so busy keepingalive that they had no time to think how and why they were alive at all, she was plunged into black depression; at home she had only had lessthan a hundred people and a few beasts about the farm to pity. Now itcame to her with sudden force that all these people, so driven bydifferent forces, were to be pitied. But as soon as she saw the crowd ofpeople at Fenchurch Street station and a chalked notice, "Boat train forthe R. M. S. _Oriana_, " she forgot abstract worries. 

There seemed to be a good many children, small groups of five or sixwith father and mother, and piles of inexpensive-looking luggage; therewere several young men who looked very much like the lads who workedabout the farm at home; there were groups of girls and a more or lessheterogeneous collection of people who might be passengers, and might befriends seeing passengers off. But what impressed her immensely was apile of brightly striped deck-chairs with sun-awnings. They lookedexotic, tropical on the grey, gloomy platform; they seemed so pleasantlylazy and luxurious among the piles of utilitarian-looking luggage. Thedoctor bought one for her and put it among her baggage. 

The train was crowded; the doctor stood up to give his seat to a womanand Marcella sprang to her feet, talking incessantly about herimpressions and her expectations. She thought London, seen from arailway carriage window, which gave only a view of back gardens, factories, little streets and greyish washing drying, was an appallingplace. Three times she said to the doctor, "But what's the use of livingat all in such miserable places?" and the second and third time he onlysmiled at her. The first time he had said:

"Why, either because they don't know there's anything better, or elsebecause they're sure there's something better. Either is a good reasonfor going on with awful things. "

At last they were in the tender, in a drizzling, greyish rain, ploughingthrough the coffee-coloured water of the Thames towards the _Oriana_, which seemed surprisingly small. She had several surprises during thejourney from Fenchurch Street. To begin with, someone trod on her footand did not apologize; several people elbowed her out of their way intheir rush to get to their luggage; no one smiled at her or spoke toher; no one seemed to realize that she was Marcella Lashcairn, or, ifthey realized it, it made no impression on them. 

"Don't people here seem bad tempered?" said she to the doctor. "Theydon't seem to care about each other in the least. "

"There are so many of them, Marcella--at home, you see, there are so fewthat they are frightfully interesting and friendly and critical of eachother. Among all these people nobody matters very much--"

"They matter to me. I want to be friends with them, take them under mywing, " she said, looking round at them, most of them people who wouldnot be very likely to be put under anyone's wing at all. "Don't you feellike that?"

"I don't. They come under my wing fast enough without being asked andlots of them come in the night just when I've got in bed, " he said. "I'ma bit tired of people, Marcella. I've seen too much of them. I alwaysget two views of 'em, you know--inside and out. And the inside view isvery depressing. "

He laughed at her grave face, but once again he had a sharp misgivingabout letting her go away alone. It seemed dangerous to turn her, practically an anchorite, loose among so many people. He wished, now, that he had let her brave the freezings of the saloon rather than thethawings of the steerage. But she seemed so confident, so eager, that hecould say nothing to damp her spirits, only he was very glad, on goingwith her to look at her cabin, to find that she was to have it toherself. That, at any rate, prevented a too close intimacy that hesuddenly felt might be dangerous. 

They found very little to say during the twenty minutes he had to spendwith her before the tender took him back to the shore. He was feelingvery saddened, and at the same time anxious to give her excellent, fatherly advice, for he suddenly realized her abysmal ignorance when hesaw her standing smiling with an air of pleased expectancy among allthese strangers, waiting, as she had said, to love them all and takethem all under her wing. Twice he started nervously to warn her--andeach time she interrupted him joyously. 

"Doctor, just come and peep into this door! Look, millions and millionsof shiny rods and wheels and things. Oh aren't engines the mostbeautiful things on earth? Look at them--not an inch to waste in them!I wish I could be an engineer. "

The next minute the first bell rang to warn visitors to be getting theirfarewells over, and he started again, shyly and hesitatingly:

"Marcella--I'd be careful. "

He was frightened of women-folk unless they were ill. He could talk toMarcella about impersonal things very interestedly, but suddenly tobecome fatherly was difficult. His mouth went dry, his face flushed andhe wished he had asked Aunt Janet to come with them. 

She seized his arm eagerly. 

"Oh look at the nice, kind little lifeboats! They're not much biggerthan Tammas's boat. Doctor, if we're wrecked isn't it a good thing I canrow and swim? Do you think we might get wrecked? I'd have that nicelittle neat boat the third along and rescue the women and children! Ifthe boat gets full I'll hop out and swim--and if sharks come along I'lltell them what Aunt Janet said about Hoodie. I think I'd be tough, don'tyou?"

Her face clouded at mention of her aunt and Hoodie and the second bellrang out. 

"Only three more minutes, " called a steward close to Marcella's side. "All for the shore ready, please!"

"You'll be looking after Aunt Janet, doctor?" she said gravely. "AndWullie? He'll miss me--if you'd make it possible to call and have a fewwords with him at the hut when you're passing. "

"Yes, Marcella, " said the doctor, and found his voice strangely husky. "And look here, Marcella--you'll be careful?"

Her eyes were looking into his, very bright with tears as she took hishand in hers and walked towards the gangway with him. 

"I couldn't be careful if I tried, " she said, laughing, though her eyesgot even more damp than ever. "Why should I be careful?"

"You--you might get sea-sick, " stammered the doctor despairingly. 

"Oh don't be silly! I'm as much at home on the sea as Tammas. Sea-sickindeed! Whatever next?"

The third bell clanged deafeningly and the siren of the little tenderhooted at the doctor's efforts to be fatherly. 

"Any more for the shore, please?" called one of the ship's officers whostood ready to cast off, and Marcella thought he looked accusingly atthe doctor. 

"They'll be taking you along, doctor, " she said. "Oh I do wish you werecoming! Good-bye! Good-bye. Oh dear, I do believe I'm going to cry. "

"Good-bye, lassie, " said the doctor, taking off his glasses as hestepped on to the gangway and blinked at her. Suddenly she thought helooked so grey and so lonely that it seemed necessary to comfort himand, before the man at the gangway could stop her, she had dashed afterhim, flung her arms round his neck, kissed him loudly on his ruddy cheekand ran back on deck again, all in a moment. She was looking at thedoctor as he stared at her blindly, but she was suddenly conscious of aloud and passionate "Damn!" very close to her. She guessed, rather thanrealized, that she was standing on someone's foot. 

"Oh, I am so sorry, " she said, flushing hotly; she gave the owner of thefoot, which was in a neat brown shoe, a swift upward glance that stoppedat rather bright, downcast brown eyes. The next minute she was wavingto the doctor, for the tender had already started and the gap of dirtywater was widening. 

"You'll take care, Marcella, " he called. "And, Marcella, if you'regetting unhappy, you'll be coming back home?"

"Of course I'll come back. This is only a crusade, " she said, waving herhand to him, feeling that she would begin to dance with excitement inanother moment, and at the same time wishing that he could come withher, for, as she saw him through mists slowly getting further andfurther away while the gap of water widened, she realized how absolutelyalone she was. 

Next moment she became aware of a tall, grey-haired lady in blackclinging to the rail beside the doctor, and crying unrestrainedly as sheseemed to be gazing directly at Marcella. 

"Louis, you'll remember, won't you?" she cried in a faint, chokedvoice. "You'll try, won't you?" and Marcella, turning slightly, realized that it was the young man with brown eyes at whom she waslooking. 

"Yes, Mater, you know I will, " said he hoarsely. A crowd of half a dozenmen standing on the other side of Dr. Angus began to yell greetings andfarewells to the man called Louis while the grey lady's eyes and hisheld each other for a moment in a passionate glance of appeal andratification. 

"Cheerio, Farne, " called someone. 

"Farne, don't get wet!" yelled someone else. There was a chorus ofcheers and catcalls. 

"Buck up, Mater, " he called with another long glance. Then, waving hishat to the others he called cheerfully, "Give my respects to LeicesterSquare, you chaps. "

A group of stewards in white jackets began to whistle the song andsomeone on the boat deck sang it in a high falsetto. Someone behindMarcella was holding a piece of white ribbon that went right across thewater to the tender; as the boat's speed accelerated the frail threadsnapped and the girl in whose hand it was clasped, a very thin, anaemiclooking girl, gave a choking sob. 

"My only sister, " she said to no one in particular. "There she is, andhere am I. They wouldn't pass her for Australia, because they say she'sgot consumption. "

"What a shame!" murmured Marcella, waving frantically to the doctorwhile from the tender came the deep, gay voices of the students who hadcheered Louis singing "We want more Beer" to the tune of "Lead KindlyLight. "

The wake of the tender widened out, lapped against the side of the_Oriana_ and rippled away; it was no longer possible to distinguishanything but a blurred mass of pinkish faces and dark clothes, splashedby a crest of white handkerchiefs. Good-byes rang out to the undersongof "We want more Beer. " Marcella turned away and looked right into theface of Louis Farne. It was a very red face, unnaturally red anddistorted; the brown eyes were bright with tears. 

She stared at him in amazement; he really was a phenomenon to her--thefirst young man she had ever seen, with the exception of the peasantlads. She blinked her own dry eyes and frowned at him reflectively. 

"Did it hurt you as much as that? Anyway, I'm very sorry, " she said. 

"D'you think I'm blubbing for that, idiot?" said the boy in a jerkyvoice, and, bending almost double, darted down the companion-way. 

She stared at him, and turned to the ship's rail again, drowning insurprise. She was surprised at Tilbury now that she had time to lookabout her. It was so utterly unromantic ashore--docks, wharves, miserable buildings and brown fields, very distant. She remembered thatQueen Elizabeth had reviewed her troops at Tilbury when she was gettingready for the Armada to land; she had expected that the glamour of thatancient pageant would hang about Tilbury. And there was no glamour atall--except, perhaps, in the ships that lay at anchor and the bargesthat glided by; they were glamorous enough with their aura of far landsand strange merchandise. 

She became aware that the girl with the consumptive sister was lookingat her, and must have heard the boy's remark. 

"People here seem very rude, " she remarked. 

"That they are! Saying she had consumption--I know it was consumptionthough they wrote it down in funny words. Other folks said she hadconsumption too--sauce! And now she's all alone there, and I'm here. "

"What made you come, " asked Marcella, "if you didn't want to leave her?"

"_I_ do' know. Fed up, that's about it, " said the girl resignedly. "Iwisht I hadn't come an' left her now, though. Her not being strong--mindyou, it's all my eye to talk about consumption, but her best friendcouldn't say as she was strong. Oh, dear, I do wisht I hadn't left her. "

For half an hour the thin girl argued with Marcella--a very one-sidedargument--explaining in detail that her sister could not possibly haveconsumption, but that the doctor who had refused to pass her as anemigrant must have had a spite against her--simply must have had. Otherwise why didn't he pass her? What was it to him? Marcella was verysympathetic but quite unhelpful, and after a while got away and wentbelow to arrange her things in her cabin. 

It fascinated her; it was quite the smallest thing she had ever seen, much smaller than Wullie's hut, and the shining whiteness of the newenamel particularly appealed to her, though the smell of it was not verypleasing. The clamps that held the water-bottle and glass gave anexhilarating hint of rough weather; the top bunk, about on the level ofher eyes, promised thrilling acrobatic feats at bedtime, and she decidedto sleep in that one, leaving the other as a receptacle for her baggage. 

In her preparations she lost sight of the lunch hour, and the bell andthe sound of feet scurrying down the companion way meant nothing to her. But at three o'clock something extraordinarily exciting happened; sheheard the sharp "ting-ting" of a bell, and the ship began to palpitateas if a great heart were beating within it. She hurried on deck as thesiren began to cry. As soon as her head appeared above the top of thecompanion-way she saw the wharves and houses on shore running away in apeculiarly stealthy fashion; a ship much bigger than the _Oriana_, whosedecks were thronged with stewards and deck-hands cheering and callingout greetings, went by; she dipped her flag to the outgoing _Oriana_, and Marcella thought how nice and chivalrous ships were to each other. Then it dawned on her that they were under weigh--that the heart shefelt beating was the ship's engines, and that the extraordinarybehaviour of the shore was because the _Oriana_ was going out with thetide. 

She wondered then why she had come, and felt very frightened and lonely. In all this big ship was no one who would care if she fell overboardinto the muddy water; in all the world except at Lashnagar, which wassliding away from her with every beat of the ship's heart, there was noone who knew her except an unknown, almost legendary, uncle. She satdown on a covered hatchway, suddenly a little weak at the knees. 

People passed and repassed, worrying the stewards with foolish andunnecessary questions, which they answered vaguely as they hurried by. The thin girl stood leaning over the rail watching the brown shores thatimprisoned her sister: four men who had apparently already made friendscame along and sat down by Marcella, exchanging plans. One of them washorribly pock-marked; a younger man with red hair, queer shifty eyes anda habit of gesticulating a great deal when he talked was apparentlygoing out with him. As the mudflats of the Thames glided by dreamilyMarcella found their conversation slipping into her consciousness. Theman with the red hair was talking: as he waved his right hand she sawthat it had the three middle fingers missing. Her eyes followed it as ifit hypnotized her. 

"Going out to Sydney?" asked the pock-marked man of the two young farmhands who were staring about them open-mouthed. They nodded stupidly. 

"Got 'ny tin?" asked the red-haired man. The younger farm hand, a ruddy, clean, foolish boy of twenty, jerked his thumb towards his friend. 

"Dick's got it. "

"Going to a job?"

"Maybe, " said the elder of the two, a little on his guard. 

"Well, what I was finkin' was vat vis is a six-weeks' trip, an' if wewas to pal in we could have a good time. I've done vis jaunt before, andknow ve ropes. I know how to square ve stewards to get drinks out ofhours, and little extrys. "

The farm lads nodded comprehension, and the younger one began to talkrather loudly of his prospects. The pock-marked man drew a littlecloser. 

"We're going out to start a little business, " he began. 

"Ole Fred, " the red-haired man took up the tale, jerking his headtowards his friend, "he's bin runnin' a business down Poplar way--not abusiness, in a manner o' speaking. It was a kip for sailors. On'y he gotacrorst the cops abaht a sailor as disappeared. So him an' me--we'vealwiz palled in wiv each ovver--fought we'd make a move over ve water. If we was to pall in togevver vis trip maybe we might do somefingtogevver when we hit up in Sydney. "

"Put it there, mate, " said the pock-marked man, holding out his hand tothe farm lads, "and we'll wet it. "

They all got up. Ole Fred, noticing Marcella looking at him with frankcuriosity as she tried to translate his queer, clipped English, gave herwhat he imagined to be a friendly smile. 

"Coming?" he asked, holding back, while the red-haired man gave a loudguffaw and dug him in the ribs. 

"Now, now, Freddy--vat's his great weakness--a little bit o' skirt, " heexplained to the others, who laughed loudly. 

"Coming where?" asked Marcella with pleased interest, though she wishedhis face was not so appalling. "Is it tea-time?"

"No. Come an' 'ave a drink, " he said. 

"Oh, can we get one? I am glad. I missed lunch. You were luckier, Isuppose, as you have been here before and understand the rules. It'svery kind of you. "

"I never mind being kind to young ladies, " he said, leering at her. "Look here, you sit down here an' I'll bring you a drink. Then we c'nhave a little talk and get to know each other better. "

She sat down, feeling horrible at hating his face when he was so kind. She heard laughter from the men who had gone a little way up the deck toa doorway, and then Ole Fred came back with a small tumbler in one handand a large one in the other. The small one he put into Marcella's hand. 

"Oh--" she began, looking at it doubtfully. 

"What's up?" he asked, sitting down very close to her. 

"I'm sorry. I wish I'd asked you to bring tea. "

"Oh, you can't get tea. Anyway, ship's tea is rotten. Drink that up, dear. It'll put a bit of go into you. I like young ladies with a bit ofgo. "

She frowned at him. Then the smell of the stuff in the tumbler waswafted to her. The green baize door came before her, almost tangible, and the book-room as it was the night her father died, when last she hadsmelt whisky as she and Wullie knelt on the floor beside him. 

"Here, take it, " she cried, starting up wildly. "Take it away! I'd dieif I drank it. "

"What in hell--" began the man, staring after her. 

But she was already down the companion-way and rushing towards hercabin. All the misery of her father's death and illness had swept backupon her. It was quite true, as Aunt Janet had said, that nothing wouldkill that pain until she had schooled herself not to feel. She felt theliteral, physical weight of all that misery as she ran along thealley-way, her eyes swimming, her face flushed. 

Her cabin--Number 9--being the one with the porthole, was at the end ofthe alley-way. The door of Number 8 was open into the passage, but shewas too blinded by her emotion to notice it, and blundered into it. Itwas badly swung, and slammed inwards. She heard a smash inside thecabin, and someone said "Damn!" It was exactly the same "Damn" that hadresulted from her headlong flight after Dr. Angus. 

She was standing a little breathless by her own door when Number 8opened and Louis Farne looked out. His hair was rumpled, his expressionone of speechless annoyance. 

"W--what the d--devil are you up to?" he said, stammering a little. "Th-that's the s-second time. "

"Oh, it's you!" she said, speaking breathlessly. "A horrible man gave mewhisky, and I was frightened. "

"Good Lord!" He gazed at her, and she noticed that he gazed in a queerway, afraid to meet her eyes: it was her chin he saw when he looked ather; she rubbed it with her handkerchief, wondering if a smut had got onit. And he transferred his gaze to her ear. 

"And I made you spill your tea! I am sorry! I seem made to do violentthings to you. But can't I get you some more?"

"I s-suppose I c-can make some, " he said, turning into the cabin. 

"Don't they give us tea? Do we have to make our own?"

"Oh no--but I've done this trip before, and know how one w-wants ad-drink in the tropics. "

He took the door in his hand and fumbled with the faulty catch as thoughhe would shut it. Then he seemed to shake himself together inside hiscoat, which was very crumpled, as though he had been lying down insideit. "Look here, " he said breathlessly and with an effort, "w-would youlike some tea? I can get another c-cup from the steward. "

"I would, " she said frankly. "Do make some more. I've a cake in my boxthat's supposed to last me till I get to Australia. But I'll find it, and we'll have it now. I'm horribly hungry. "

She went inside her cabin and drew out her trunk, which she had not yetunlocked. She heard him clearing up the broken cup, and then he tappedon her door. 

"I can't open it--mine opens inwards, you see, " she called. "And mytrunk's in the way. What is it?"

"I--I--c-called you an idiot, " came his voice, rather low andhesitating. 

"So I was, " she said bluntly, and heard him laugh. 

"St-still--I needn't have mentioned it. "

Then his steps grew faint along the alley-way. She sat back on herheels, frowning. She was wondering why he would not look at her, why heflushed and stammered when he spoke to her. 

He was back in a few minutes, explaining that he had been to the cook'sgalley for boiling water to make tea. She had dragged her cabin trunkinto the doorway, and laid upon it the tin in which her cake was packed, the two cups he brought with him and the teapot. 

"A beneficent shipping company provides one camp stool to each cabin, you'll find--if you're lucky, " he said; but there was not one inMarcella's cabin. He sat down on his own, and then, standing upawkwardly as she sat quite casually and comfortably on the floor, offered it to her. 

"Oh no--keep it. I always sit on the floor, " she explained, and thistime he stared at the end of her nose. 

He explained the mystery of powdered milk to her; reaching over for thetin to examine it more closely, she tipped it over. 

"I keep doing this sort of thing, " she explained, "ever since I leftLashnagar. Most things I touch I knock over. "

"Weak co-ordination, " he said. 

"Whatever's that?" She paused in cutting a slice of cake with anenormous clasp-knife Wullie had given her years ago. 

He immediately looked consciously learned. 

"Like a baby, you know--it grabs for a thing and can't aim at it. Itreaches a few inches the other side of it. It means your brain and bodyare not on speaking terms. "

"Oh, my goodness! Am I like that? Does it matter? How do you know allabout it?"

"I learnt it at the hospital. "

"Oh, are you a doctor then?"

"No. N-not n-now, " he stammered, and began to untie and retie his shoelace very carefully. "I--I was going to be. "

"You must be clever, " she said admiringly. "What a lot of things we cantalk about!"

"Rather! I'm w-wondering what m-makes you like that!--you know what Imean, without co-ordination. Babies and drunkards and that sort of thingusually are. "

"Well, I'm neither of those. But I'll tell you why I think it is. It'sbecause I've lived in the open air, where there was nothing to knockover except trees and stones; or else I've lived in an enormous housewhere everything was so big you couldn't knock it over if you tried. I'mnot used to being among things and people. "

"Been in prison?" he said, smiling for the first time. 

She entered on a vivid description of Lashnagar. He seemed to think itwas a fairy tale, though he listened eagerly enough, and once she sawhim actually look directly at her face for an instant. 

"Are you going to Sydney?" he asked at length. 

"I'm booked through to Sydney, but I'm going to live with an uncle rightin the backblocks somewhere, and he may meet me at Melbourne. I've neverseen him yet. Where are you going?"

"Sydney. "

"To live there?"

"No, die probably, " he said, and his face that had been animatedsuddenly became morose and gloomy, and his hand shook as he lighteda cigarette. Her eyes opened wider. 

"Are you ill, then?" she asked gently. "You don't look ill. "

"No, I'm not ill. By the way, do you smoke? It didn't occur to me tooffer you a cigarette. "

She shook her head, watching him with a puzzled frown. She wondered whyhis hands gave her such a vague sense of discomfort as she watched himlight another cigarette. It was not until she was in her bunk that nightthat she remembered that his nails were bitten and ragged--one fingerwas bleeding and inflamed. 

"No, I'm not ill. I'm sick, though. The Pater says I want stiffening. This is my third trip in the stiffening process. Like a bally collar ina laundry! Oh, damn life! What's he know about it, anyway? Have you gota deck-chair?"

"Yes, but--"

"I'm going to put mine on the fo'c'sle presently. If we don't peg outclaims they'll all go, and the fo'c'sle is the best place in thesteerage. Where's yours? I'll t-take it there, if you like. "

He had begun to stammer in the last sentence, suddenly self-consciousagain. She told him where her chair was on deck, and next minute, without another word, he was half-way along the alley-way, leaving thetea-things where they were. Then he turned back and spoke from severalyards away. 

"I suppose you're wondering what the devil I'm doing in the steerage, aren't you? A chap like me--a medical student! And I'll t-tell you w-whyit is! The p-pater's too mean to pay for me to go decently. "

He was looking down at his shoes as he spoke. She noticed that the nicebrown eyes were quite far apart; the forces that set them so had notmeant them to be shifty. His chin was strong, too, but his mouth wasloose and much too mobile. It quivered when he had finished speaking. She reflected that if she had seen him in a train reading, and notspeaking to anyone, she would have thought him very nice to look at. Only his nervousness and his mannerisms made him unpleasant. 

"He'd go first class himself if he was going to Hades! Steerage is goodenough for Louis--as there's no way of letting him run behind like alittle dog!" He began to bite his lower lip, and his fingers twistedaimlessly. 

"I hadn't thought of the lack of dignity in it, " said Marcella calmly. "I said I'd come steerage, and here I am. I'm sure it's going to bejolly. "

"I don't suppose you'd notice, being a farmer's daughter, " he said. 

"I never notice anything, and I never worry about things. I knewperfectly well aunt couldn't afford to pay more for me, and I'm notsuch a fool as to pretend she could. "

"And I'm to consider myself squashed--abso-bally-lutely pestle andmortared?" he said, turning away flushing and biting his lip. 

"Quite. I hate pretenders, " she said. The next moment he heard her cabintrunk being pushed noisily inside and the door was banged to. 

At five o'clock a steward came along to explain that he had looked forher at lunch-time, but could not find her. 

"I've reserved you a place at my table, miss, " he said. "You'd betterget in early and take it. These emigrants, they push and shove so--andexpect the best of everything. And mind you, not a penny to be had outof them--not one penny! It's 'Knollys this' and 'Knollys that' allday--my name being Knollys, miss--you'd think I was a dog. "

She went along the alley-way with him. He went on, aggrievedly:

"Simply because they've never had anyone to order about before, and theyaren't used to it. But anything you want, let me know, miss, and I'llsee you all right. "

When she got into the dining saloon she found small wars in progress. About a hundred and fifty people were trying to sit down in a hundredseats. The stewards looked harassed as they explained that there wasanother meal-time half an hour after the first. Knollys was trying, withimpassive dignity, to prove mathematically to an old lady that bywaiting until six o'clock for her tea to-day and automatically shiftingall her meal-times on half an hour she was losing nothing; and, afterall, it would all be the same whether she had her tea at five or six orseven a hundred years hence. But she thought there was some catch in it, for she expressed an intention of seeing the captain, and then, thinkingbetter of it, stood behind an already occupied chair with the air ofHoratius holding the bridge. 

When at last order was restored and Marcella sat down, she found thatshe was at a long table, one of three that ran from end to end of thesaloon. Ole Fred and his three friends were at the same table, a littlehigher up. He scowled at her, and the three others made some grinningremarks to him which he seemed to resent. Next to her was a little boyof six or seven, who looked at her gravely. Beside him was a man withgreying hair and a very red face, who was talking to a small lady ofdeceptive age--a very pretty, dark, bright-eyed little lady, charminglydressed, with hair of shining blackness arranged about her head indozens of little tight curls. She and the elderly man were talkinganimatedly. The little boy pulled the man's arm several times gently, and said "Father, " but he did not notice. 

There were piles of sliced bread at intervals up the table, and saucerscontaining butter and jam. The stewards came to each person with anenormous pair of pots and, murmuring "tea or coffee?" poured somethingby sleight-of-hand into the thick, unbreakable cups. 

"Father!" murmured the little boy again, pulling his father's sleeve. The father shook his arm impatiently, as one jerks away an annoying fly. He went on talking absorbedly. A steward asked if Marcella would haveham or fish. 

"Father, " said the little boy, with quivering lips. 

"What's to do, laddie?" said Marcella. 

He stared at her, summed her up and decided. 

"I'm thinking, shall I have ham or fish?" he said seriously. 

"Which do you like?"

"Fish--only the bones are so worrying. "

"I'll see to the bones for you. Have fish because I'm having it, and wecan keep each other company, " she said. Knollys darted away. 

"I'd advise you to make a good tea, miss, " said Knollys with a firmlyrespectful air. "There's nothing until breakfast at eight to-morrow. "

Marcella nodded at him. Next minute she heard Ole Fred swearing at himfor not being quicker, but Knollys took it all with an impersonallysarcastic air. She cut up the little boy's bread and butter into strips, arranged his fish, and watched, with amusement, his father turn to himwith a jerk of remembrance. 

"It's good of you to look after young Jimmy, " he said, smiling atMarcella. "He misses his mother. "

"Is she dead?"

"Yes. He's only me. There are a surprising lot of lonely people in theworld, aren't there? The little lady next to me--she's a widow, I find. It's hard when a woman has had a man to depend on and suddenly findsherself left to battle with the world, isn't it? Women are such fragilelittle flowers to me--they want protecting from the winds. "

Marcella looked at him; he was rather fat: the excitement of his talkwith the little lady had made his forehead shine; when he smiled hisdrooping moustache could not hide a row of blackened, broken teeth. Hesmelt of stale tobacco, as though he carried old pipes in every pocket. He ate quickly and noisily, his eyes on his plate, his shoulders moving. 

Jimmy asked timidly if he might have a piece of bread and jam. Hisfather said "Yes, of course, " and went on eating. Marcella spread thejam for him, and then turned to his father. 

"I don't know many women, " she said. "But I'd just like to see a mantreat me as a fragile flower. "

"Ah, wasteful woman!" said Mr. Peters, smiling fatuously as he wrestledwith a hard piece of ham rather too big for his mouth. As soon as he hadswallowed it, he went on, "That's the thing a man loves in a woman--a_real_ man, that is! 'Just like the ivy, I cling to thee' should be awoman's motto, a true woman's motto. A woman's weakness, her trust inman is her most womanly characteristic. It appeals to all that is bestand chivalrous in a man. "

A fragile voice at his elbow said, "Mistah Petahs, " and he turnedhurriedly towards it. Marcella said, "Pooh!" loudly and very rudely andturned to Jimmy. 

"Do you like cake?" she asked. 

"Rather! Gran gives me cake. "

"Well, you come with me into my little house after tea and we'll havesome. What number is your little house?"

"Fifteen. "

"Mine is Number 9 so we are not very far away. "

She looked round several times for Louis Farne, wondering if he wouldconsider it beneath his dignity to have his meals with the steeragepeople, but could not see him. Even after she and Jimmy had explored hercabin, eaten some cake and walked several times up and down the decktalking, while the wind blew keenly in their faces, she saw nothing ofhim and there was dead silence in his cabin. Her deck-chair, shenoticed, was where she had seen it put among a pile of others; later inthe day Knollys came along and stencilled her initials. 

"If you don't have your name on, some of these blooming emigrants willpinch it, or the deck-hands will hide it till we're a few days out andsell it to someone else. "

She began to think Knollys was a very useful person to know, for all hissuperiority and pessimism. 

As it grew dark, lights twinkled out ashore--lights rocked here andthere on passing ships and barges: tubes of light projected themselvesout from the portholes on to the blackening water, that swished andwashed past the sides with a sound of desolation; to the landward anuncoiled serpent glittered out into the water and then seemed to coveritself in a grey veil of darkness as the _Oriana_ passed the pier ofsome little watering-place. Marcella went slowly along the deck, climbedthe fo'c'sle steps and sat down on the anchor. At Lashnagar she hadalways seen ghosts walking on the sea at nightfall. Now they rose out ofthe swirling water, passed in and out swaying among the lights of theship. From under her feet in the crew's quarters came the tinkle of amandoline playing "La Donna e Mobile. "

She had seen ships pass in the darkness at home, out on the horizon, aglimmering blur of light. She had pictured them by daylight, shining inthe sunlight with snowy decks and glittering engines; she had no ideathat this spirit of desolation would rise out of the waves and possessher. For an hour she sat, dreaming of grey things, for her dreams couldadmit of no colour. After a while, cold and cramped, she went to hercabin for her coat. She noticed Mr. Peters and the little widow sittingon two deck-chairs in a corner, their faces two blurs in the darkness, the widow's tinkling laugh an oversong to his deep voice. Around the barsome dozen men were laughing and talking loudly; in the dining saloon afew people were playing cards, a few more writing letters, to post inPlymouth next day. The thin girl sat with her elbows on the table, herchin on her hands, crying. The tears were running down her cheeks, overher fingers and dropping on to the table. It seemed less lonely on thedark fo'c'sle, so Marcella went back. 

It was quite dark now; the mandoline had stopped. From a ventilatorshaft close by came a deep murmur of conversation from the crew'squarters that mingled with her dreams. Aunt Janet, her father, Wullie, Dr. Angus, the restless London crowds came and went like picturescrossing a screen. Jimmy, the thin girl, Ole Fred and Louis Farnefollowed them, passing on. Suddenly out of the darkness at the other endof the great anchor came a sound that was entangled with the wash of thewaves against the bows of the ship. It was a sob, choked back quicklyand bursting out again. She crept along the anchor softly. A huddledfigure was there, looking out to the black sea. 

"What's the matter now? It's you, isn't it, Louis?" she said, for shewas quite sure it was he, even in the darkness. "I could sit and crytoo, it's so lonely, isn't it?"

"Oh, you're everywhere! And you only poke fun at me, " he said in astrangled voice. 

"I didn't poke fun at you. I only laughed at your trying to pretend youwere such an exalted person you couldn't travel steerage. "

"I d-didn't want y-y-you to think my p-people couldn't affordto--to--" he stammered in a low voice. 

"Oh, what an idiot you are! My father was always calling me an idiot, but if he'd known you! My goodness--he said I was a double-distilledone! Whatever are you?"

"There you are, you see, " he grumbled. 

"But, Louis, whatever does it matter? My people couldn't afford to paymore for me, and I don't care who knows it. We'll get there as soon--"

"I--d-don't w-want to g-get there. What's at the end of it? I know verywell--I'll throw my damned self overboard, and then they'll see whatthey've done. "

"Who's they? And what is it they've done?" She had no idea that it wasan extraordinary thing to take so much interest in a perfect stranger. All her world hitherto had had the claims of friendship upon her. 

"They never understood me, " he cried passionately. "They were alwaystrying to tie me down--they were always looking for faults. That'senough to make a man go to the devil. "

"Is it? Tell me all about it, " she said, drawing a little closer. 

"Do you know, " he cried bitterly, so intent that he forgot hisnervousness and did not stammer, "I was the best man in my year. Theyall told me so, the Dean and everyone--but I never had a chance. I nevergot a free hand. And now do you know what I am? All because they neverunderstood me?"

She shook her head wonderingly. 

"I'm a remittance man. "

"What's that?"

"Don't you know? They're very picturesque in fiction! You'll findh-h-heaps of them in Australia, spewed out as far as possible from theOld Country! It's the dumping ground, Australia is!"

"I don't understand, " she said. 

"I went to church with the Mater last Sunday. I suppose she thought itwould induce the right atmosphere--something sacrificial, you know. Weyawped some psalms--the Mater and Pater are great at that. There wasone bit I noticed particularly--'Moab is my washpot, over Edom will Icast my shoe. ' That reminds me of Australia. They kick us out, pitch usout over there like old boots. "

"But don't you _want_ to go?" she protested, frowning. "I'm just dyingto go. It's such adventure. "

"Adventure! Perhaps it is, for you. It depends on how much money you'vegot. "

"Ten pounds, " she said guilelessly. 

"Do you know what they're allowing me? A miserable pound a week! Doledout once a week, mind you! Little Louis must toddle up to the GeneralPost Office in Sydney every English mail day, and if he says 'please'very nicely they'll give him a letter from his mother. It's always fromhis mother. His father 'cannot trust himself to write in a Christianspirit, ' he says. In the letter is a pound order. That's to keep bodyand soul together. "

In his passion of self-pity he forgot to stammer; his words tumbled outwildly, between sobbing catches of his breath. 

"But who gives you the pound?"

"The Pater, I tell you--so long as I stop there I'm assured of a pound aweek! If I come any nearer to England the money stops. They probablyhope I'll commit suicide and save them the expense of the pound a week. It'll even save them the expense of a funeral and buying mourning, won'tit? I'll do it in Sydney, you see. "

"But I never heard of such a funny thing in my life! Paid to keep awayfrom home! What's the matter with you? What have you done? It's like thelepers in the Bible. "

"T-that's what they say I am!" he burst out. "They c-call me a disgrace, a drunkard! They sent me down from the hospital because they said I wasa drunkard. The girl I was in love with threw me over because of that. She was married three months ago to someone else. That's why I'm herenow. My third remittance trip--"

He stopped, and she was horrified to hear him sobbing--gasping, chokingsobs that frightened her. 

"I came home--tried my damnedest to get a grip on things, but when shedid that trick on me I saw red. They've kicked me out now. "

"I am so sorry, " she said in a low voice. "You must be so unhappy ifyou're a drunkard--whisky--"

She broke off. The old farm came gliding over the waves and settledround her with a sense of inevitability. She saw the green baize door;she heard the crying of the wind, the scuttering of the rats: she sawher father's blazing eyes, red-rimmed and mad. And then she heard him, pleading, talking to God. Louis's voice broke in on her dream. 

"A drunkard--that's what I am now. "

"I didn't think boys were drunkards, " she said casually. 

"I'm twenty-seven. "

"Are you really? All the boys at Lashnagar are grown up when they'retwenty-seven. You seem so young. You're so shy and queer. I'm nineteen, "she added. 

"And you know, " he burst out in the midst of her words, "they can'tblame me! It isn't my own fault--they know it's in the family, only theyhaven't the decency to admit it. But I know--different people in myfamily who are cut by the respectable ones--I've raked them out, andever since I've felt hopeless. "

"Oh no--no, " she cried, suddenly throwing out her hands as if to wardoff something horrible. Leaning forwards she gripped his shoulder. "It'sso silly! Besides, think how cowardly it is to say you must do a thingbecause someone else has done it. "

"It's killed lots of my people, or landed them in asylums--they're nottalked about in the family, but I know it, " he raved. 

"Well, I think you're a perfect idiot, " she cried impatiently. "Why, ifyou saw about twenty people on this ship walk overboard in a procession, that's no reason why you should do it too, is it?"

"That just shows you don't understand the power of suggestion, " he said. "At the hospital--I'll never forget it. There was a girl brought indying of burns. We got it from her that she was very unhappy and had setherself on fire because the woman next door had been burnt to death. OldProfessor Hay, our lecturer in psychology, explained it to us. He saidthe girl was in a weak state of nerves and health generally, owing tofamily troubles she'd had to shoulder. She was receptive to suggestion, you see. And she was too tired to think logically. Seeing the burntwoman there very peaceful, and people sorry for her--don't you see?"

Marcella nodded. 

"I'm pretty sure I'd never have got to this state of things if I'd neverknown it was in the family. It seems inevitable, as if I'm working out alaid-down law. "

"Louis, I'm not very clever. As I told you, father used to call me adouble-distilled idiot when he got in a temper. But I do think you'rewrong. People are not a part of families nearly so much as they arethemselves. Besides--imagine letting anything get you down, and putchains on you like that!" she added scornfully. 

"You don't know what you're talking about, " he said bitterly. "Itsimply chews you up, gnaws holes in you. "

She thought of what Dr. Angus had said. 

"Well then, patch yourself up and go on again. "

"But after all, why should you? There's nobody cares tuppence now whathappens to me. I'm an outcast. "

"Louis, what was that you promised your mother--I heard you on the shipjust as the tender was going? Didn't you promise to make yourselfbetter?"

"Yes, but I've been thinking about it. Why should I? What does it reallymatter to the Mater? She didn't care enough not to have me spewed out ofhome. She's at home now; they'll be sitting round the dinner-table aftera tip-top meal. Presently they'll be playing whist and congratulatingthemselves that I'm safely out of England. They'll breathe freely now. "

"I don't believe it, " she said quickly. "Mothers and fathers are notlike that. "

"That's all you know. All day to-day, after she got back from Tilburyand had powdered the traces of tears from her face she'd be at Harrodsor the Stores, buying things. And she'd take just as much interest inmatching some silks for embroidery, and getting the exact flavour ofcheese the Pater likes as she took in making me promise not to drink. And to-morrow her friends will come, with an air of a funeral aboutthem, and be discreetly sympathetic about the terrible trouble she hasbeen having with Louis--such a pity--after he promised so well! Oh bedamned to them all! I'm not going to care any more. "

Marcella sat in miserable silence. She did not know enough to sayanything helpful. She had no idea what had cured her father. She hadseen him a drunkard; she had seen him ill, no longer a drunkard; she hadseen him die and guessed dimly that the drinking had killed him. But shesuddenly grasped the fact that she had seen effects--whole years ofeffects; of causes she knew nothing whatever. 

The mandoline began to play again "La Donna e Mobile. " Louis's voicebroke into the music and the lashing water. 

"They're cowards, my people, mean little cowards. That's why I'm acoward! I'm a beastly, bally sort of half-breed, don't you know! Do youknow why they give me a pound a week? Partly, of course, it's to bribeme to keep away. They've no other weapon but that. But mostly it'sbecause they're so miserably sentimental they can't bear to think of mestarving or sleeping out all night! Ough! If they weren't such miserablecowards they'd know I'd be better dead than chained to the end of a rowof pound-notes. They'd have kicked me out, and let me either buck up ordie. "

"But--oh, I do wish Dr. Angus or Wullie were here! I know there's ananswer to all that, but I'm such an idiot I can't find it, " she crieddespairingly. 

"I'll do them! I'll get my own back on them! I'm damned if I'll do asthey expect me to. If they'd only seen me last time in Auckland, " and hegave an ugly laugh. "Do you think I lived on their bally pound a week?Why, I spent that in half a day! Sometimes I wouldn't call for it forfive weeks. I'd go past the Post Office every day, knowing it was there, and torturing myself with the thought of what I could buy with it, andleaving it there till I'd got five pounds and could drink myself tohell!"

She shivered. She could hear him grinding his teeth as he sat close toher. She felt the same inarticulate helplessness that she had felt aboutall the miseries of Lashnagar. She wanted, most passionately, to dosomething for him. His telling her about it was, in itself, a challenge. 

"But how did you live all the time, wasting your money like that?"

He laughed harshly. 

"It's easy to live south the line--in Australasia, anyway, if you're adrunkard. There's a lot of money about, you know. Men come fromup-country with a big cheque to knock out--shearers and men like that, who live in the backblocks for months, hundreds of miles from hotels. They come down from the backblocks with perhaps a hundred pounds tospend on a week of blissful unconsciousness. Sailors come in and getpaid off too. There's a lot of freehandedness. They treat the whole bar. If you won't drink with them, they knock you out of time before youknow where you are, sit on your chest and pour it down your neck. Onceyou're in a pub in Australia you can stay in all day on nothing. And youcan get in for threepence--the price of a pint of beer. And you don'tget out till you're kicked out drunk. "

"Oh--" she gasped. 

"The devil of it is getting hold of the threepence. Sometimes you meet apal and borrow it. Sometimes you pawn something and get it. If the Homeboat's in, you go down to the quay, pick out a new chum--that's anyonefrom the Old Country--offer to show him round a bit, and he naturallytreats you. Then you're in the haven. "

He spoke cynically, bitterly. She grasped at his sleeve, as though shewould pull him back. 

"Oh--, " she gasped. 

"D-don't keep s-saying 'Oh' like that!" he cried impatiently. "S-says-something s-sensible. "

"Does your mother know all about the way you live?" she askeddesperately. 

"I told her. I enjoyed letting her know what they drove me to. But shedoesn't understand. They don't ever understand, these easy, half-alive, untempted folks! She's never been away from a world of afternoon calls, broughams and shopping! I tell her I'm a beer-bum--yes, that's the wordfor it in Australia! Not a pretty word--not a pretty thing either! Igave the Mater and Pater a picture of myself once--broken shoes tied onwith string, trousers tied on with a bit of rope because I'd sold mybraces for threepence--slinking along in the gutter outside the TheatreRoyal picking up cigarette ends that had been thrown away! Counterlunches! D'you know what counter lunches are?"

She shook her head. It seemed as though he were trying to shock her, ashe piled on his miseries to her. 

"Three times a day the hotel keeper in Australia covers his counter inall sorts of food--cold meat, bread, cheese, pickles, cakes--oh, justeverything there is going. He doesn't want you to go out to get food, you see, and perhaps get caught by some other pub. You don't have topay. You just eat what you like, so long as you go on buying drinks orhaving them bought for you. There's a lot more there to eat than youwant. You don't want much when you're boozing. I lived on counterlunches once--crayfish and celery mostly, with vinegar and cayenne--forfour months. I spent not a single penny on food the whole time. Then Inearly died in hospital. They had me in the padded cell for three days. "

"Were you mad?" she whispered, wishing he would tell her no more, butfascinated by the horror of it all, the pity of it. "I think you aremad, really, even now--talking like this, almost as if you're proud ofit. "

"No, I'm not mad--only the usual pink rat sort of madness. The thing'sobvious, " he said, shrugging his shoulders. It was not obvious to her;he had put her into a maelstrom of puzzles, but she did not tell him so. She preferred to think it out for herself. But suddenly she coupled herlittle broken arm and the barrel as effect and cause. 

He went on muttering. She had great difficulty in hearing all he said. 

"At night, at kicking out time, you can hang on, sometimes, to a manwith some cash and get asked to kip with him for the night. You can geta bed for a shilling a night in many places. It isn't a feather-bed. Ifthere is no Good Samaritan about you go and lie down in theDomain--that's the public park, you know--praying to whatever gods therebe that it won't rain. You never get a decent wash, and as soon as thehotels are open at six o'clock you start again--if you can get theentrance fee. If you haven't, you cadge round till you have. "

He broke off, staring bitterly away from her, his knees drawn up, hischin resting on them. 

"And you told your mother about it--and your father?" she said. 

"Yes, every word, and more. Things I wouldn't tell you, because you'rea girl, and I've still some respect for girls. Things that happened inRio and Rosario--some of the women there, the rich women--Lord, they'rethe devil's own!" He reflected grimly. "I told the Pater a fewthings--opened his eyes. He's a publisher--Sunday school prizes and thatsort of thing. Stacks of money! No imagination. Most people have noimagination. They see things in a detached way. They see them, somehow, as if they're in print or going on on a stage. But not reallyhappening. The Pater simply said I ought to be ashamed of myself--asif I'm not!"

He broke off and tried to light a cigarette with fingers that trembled. Three, four matches he struck before he got it lighted and puffing. Shesat silent, listening to the murmur of voices and the swishing water. 

"Why the devil I'm telling you this I can't imagine, " he said at last. "Most girls would have yelled out for help before this. "

"I think, you know, " she said rather breathless, "I think you're a greatidiot! You _ask_ for things, don't you?"

"But what is there for a man to do out there? There's nothing I want todo except medicine, and that's past for ever now. There's nothing to dobut get drunk. I've tried, often--got jobs, and all that. But there's noinducement--and I've told you how easy it is not to starve. "

"But it's so--so beastly! You might as well be dead--you're not happy. "

"That's exactly what I think. That's what I'm going to do. I got tenpounds out of the Mater. She's always ready to give me anything if ithappens to be the beginning of the month and she's well off. The Patersolemnly presented me with three pounds--that's ten shillings a week forsmokes for the six weeks of the trip. I'll buy bull's-eyes with it, Ithink. That'd please him. That makes thirteen pounds, and there's tenpounds waiting for me in Sydney. I'll have a damned good bust-up then, and then I'll finish the job for ever. "

"Oh, I do think you're mad--raving mad!" she cried, and could saynothing else. 

"Of course it's by no means certain I'll have enough courage to killmyself. I rather doubt it! You see, they didn't breed me with courage. They've given me porridge in my veins instead of blood! They presselectric buttons for their emotions and keep them down as long as isrespectable! They didn't give me grit at all--they gave me conventionand respectability. Everything I wanted to do they restrained becauseso many of the things I wanted to do seemed natural but were notrespectable. And in the end they made a first-class liar of me. " Therewas a long, terrible silence. 

"To-night, for a bit, I'm stripped bare here, " he said in a low voice, "letting you see me. To-morrow I'll be a nervous, stammering fool, hiding all I feel, swanking like hell about my people, myself andeveryone I've ever seen, like I was doing to-day when you told me off sobeautifully. To-morrow I'll be drunk, and I'll lie to you till all'sblue. To-night I'm just honest. "

"Why is it that you're honest with me?" she asked him. 

"Lord knows! I suppose it's because I'll disintegrate and go over theside in shivers if I can't get something off my chest. You don't seemdisgusted with me--Lord, everyone else is! And I'm the loneliest devilon earth. "

"I'm glad you told me. Let's be friends, Louis--till we get to Sydney, anyway. "

"I never have friends. I lie to them, and they find me out. I borrowmoney from them and don't pay it back, and then I'm afraid to face them. I make fools of them in public; I'm irritable with them. "

"I'm warned, " she said with a laugh. "I'm not afraid of you. "

Suddenly he turned round. All the time he had been talking his backhad been half turned to her. She saw the crimson end of the cigaretteglowing. It was flung overboard. He groped for and found both her hands. 

"Look here, this is the maddest thing I've ever done yet--but will youtake it on, being friends with me?"

"I want to. I'm lonely, you know. I could have cried to-night, really. "

"But--look here. I'm begging, yes begging, this of you. When I lie toyou, insult me, will you? You'll know. You've seen me honest to-night, but sometimes a thing gets hold of me and I lie like hell! I'll tell youthe most amazing, most circumstantial tales--just as you told me thisafternoon--and you'll believe me. But I implore you, don't believe me!Heaps of people have lent me money because they've believed what I'vetold them about my wife or my mother or my child dying. Lord, I'm awaster! But if I can find someone who'll be hard with me, I think Imight make a stand. Look here, I promised the Mater, as this was my lastweek at home, and I haven't had a drink since Monday. That's four daysto the good. If I promise you there's a faint chance I won't do it. Doyou mind?"

"I'll watch you, " she said calmly. "And I'll tell you if you tell melies. But I don't believe you'll do any such thing!"

"Don't you? Do you believe in me?" he cried. 

"Why not? I think you're a fearful duffer, but naturally I believe inyou, " she said calmly. 

"I know why I came by this ship! It's a miracle. I believe I'm going tomake a stand now, I really do! It's fate, and nothing else. There's anAnchor boat I was to have gone by--via the Cape, you know. She sailedlast week, and I couldn't get off in time. I wanted to wait for the nextas I've not been to the Cape. But the Pater couldn't put up with me foranother week, so out I came! I know why I came! I came to meet you!"

"Do you think so?" she said wonderingly. 

"I do! I've never in all my life told the truth about myself before! Ifyou only knew what that means! I'm too nervous as a rule. But don't younotice the difference? Of course you're not trained, so you wouldn'tnotice as I should. But I'm not even stammering half so much. It's jollygood of you to listen to me--and it's jolly good for me, because I've noreason to try to get at you, or to get my own back on you, as I havewith my people all the time. "

Marcella felt very small, very helpless. She had a sudden vision of aman dying in an agony of poisoning while she stood frantic in a doctor'slaboratory, antidotes all round her, but no knowledge in her brain ofwhich drug to use. And all the time his agony went on, and death drewnearer. She had not the least idea in the world what to do for LouisFame. He frightened her, he disgusted her, he made her feel hungrilyanxious to help, he made her feel responsible and yet helpless, but atthe same time it mattered and challenged her that he had appealed to herat all. She thought of her father, and remembered with a pang that sheknew nothing about him except superficially. She thought of his books, but nothing in them seemed helpful. She thought of the Bible, of herpoetry, her legends. They were a blur, a mist. Nothing in them held outa hand to hail her. There seemed nothing that she could do. 

"Oh, " she cried passionately, "I'm such a fool. If only I was clever! Ifonly I knew what to do. "

Before she had finished speaking came a flash of insight, and she wenton, in the same breath, "But there's one thing that occurs to me. Youthink about yourself far too much. Old Wullie--I'll tell you about himsome day--used to say that if we were quiet and didn't fuss aboutourselves too much God would walk along our lives and help us to killbeasts--like whisky--"

"God? Oh, I'm fed up with God! I've had too much of that all my life athome, " he said dully. 

She had no answer for that, but as she bade him good night at the top ofthe companion-way she saw herself in armour. Her vague dreams of Johnthe Baptist, of Siegfried and of Britomart suddenly crystallized, andshe saw herself, very self-consciously, the Deliverer who would saveLouis Fame. It did not occur to her to wonder if he were worth saving. He was imprisoned in the first windmill she had encountered on her DonQuixote quest--and so he was to be rescued. 

CHAPTER VII

She wakened to a world of blue and silver next morning; the sunlightseemed to come from the sea with a cold, hard glitter; there was akeenness in the air, a sharp tang of sea-salt with an underlyingsuggestion of something that was pleasantly reminiscent of Dr. Angus'ssurgery. The sailors were sluicing the deck with great hoses, andsprinkling it with little watering-cans of disinfectant. Up on thefo'c'sle her deck-chair was side by side with another on which "L. F. "was stencilled; after breakfast she went there with a book, expectingLouis to follow her. Presently Jimmy discovered her, bringing threeother children with him, and they sat with shining eyes while she toldthem fairy-tales. 

When they drew into Plymouth Harbour the fo'c'sle was cleared, andMarcella watched a few people going ashore. Not very many went: they hadnot been at sea long enough to welcome a change on land, and the_Oriana_ only stayed two hours to take on mails and passengers. 

All that day she did not see Louis. Once or twice she heard him in hiscabin, speaking to the man who shared it with him; not once did he putin an appearance at meals, and even at the melancholy hour of twilighthe hid himself somewhere. She began to feel a little neglected. 

It was easy to make friends: there were so many children to act asintroducers. It was interesting to watch people forming little cliques;the pock-marked man had now a collection of eight; they went ashore atPlymouth and came back again talking excitedly, with little snatches ofsong. Mr. Peters and Mrs. Hetherington, the bright-haired little widow, were inseparable; one of the farm lads had forsaken Ole Fred already fora shy, red-cheeked emigrant girl, who giggled a good deal in cornerswith him; they sat for long hours, as the trip went on, saying nothing, staring out vacantly to sea, and occasionally holding each other'shands. At tea-time Marcella saw Louis come to the door of the saloon, look round with a frown, become very red in the face as he saw severalpeople look at him casually, and beat a hasty retreat. She had a longtalk with the thin girl during the evening, learning that she had beenunder-housemaid in a girls' school; she asked Marcella her name, volunteering the information that she was Phyllis Mayes, only herfriends called her Diddy; she seemed to have got over much of her griefat parting with her sister. After a while she explained, blushing andgiggling, that one of the cook's assistants had made friends with herthe previous night and given her two meringues. 

"A friend of mine who came out as a stewardess told me the best thingyou could do was to make friends with the cooks or the butchers--becausethere's all sorts of little tit-bits they can get for you. YoungBill--him that gave me the meringues--has got a mate called Winkle. I'llgive you an intro. , if you like. He's quite a toff. He's been a waiter. "

Marcella made some excuse, but when Phyllis--or Diddy--went away to herappointment with Bill she sat for a long time thinking. She was alreadyfeeling disillusioned. 

At nine o'clock she decided to go below. In the shadow of the stepsleading to the upper deck Mr. Peters and Mrs. Hetherington were sittingvery close together. A little bright tray was at their feet, and a bigbottle with a cap and scarf of gold foil stood sentinel over two glassesof such an exquisite shape that Marcella stared hard at them as shepassed, saying "Good night. " Mr. Peters was smiling with filmy, vacuouseyes. The little lady was flushed and vivid-looking. They both noddedbeamingly at her. At the other side of the steps, in the bright light ofthe electric lamp was a small bundle, between two scarlet fire buckets. It was Jimmy. 

His hands were very dirty, his neck and back looked uncomfortablytwisted. She touched him gently and he wakened with a start. 

"Jimmy, what's to do? You ought to be in bed, " she said. 

"I'm waiting for dad, " he explained, blinking and stretching. "My, itdoes make your neck stiff. "

"Come with me, and I'll put you in bed. "

"Must wait for dad, " he protested. 

"You'll be too tired to play to-morrow. You'll be dropping asleep allday. "

"Then he'll go to sleep on the floor, and have a bad back, " he said. 

"Whyever does he go to sleep on the floor?"

"Because he's too tired, like I was. Only if I take my boots off andkick him--very kindly, I have to kick--he wakes up and he's cross andthen he gets into bed. "

He stared at her, frowning, as though trying to understand or else toexplain this queerness of his father's. Next minute he found himselfclasped firmly in her arms. He was very thin and light--much thinnerthan the Mactavish babies and Jock's children. 

She marched up to Mr. Peters. 

"I'm putting Jimmy to bed, Mr. Peters. It's late and cold. " Then sheadded, "May I?"

"Plezh--plezh--my dear, " he said, smiling foolishly. 

"Sweet of you--dear little chap, " twittered the little lady. 

They passed a group of some dozen men sitting round a brown blankethedged with a fence of tumblers. They were watching a game of cards. Thepock-marked man looked up from the pile of cards in front of him andgrinned at Jimmy. 

"You find it easier to get off than I do, son, " he shouted. Jimmy kickedout at him as they passed, and there was a roar of laughter. 

"I hate him--he's like the Beast, " said the child as they went down thecompanion-way. 

"Poor man--he can't help that. The Beast turned into a prince, didn'the?"

"He's a nasty man. He sleeps in with us. And the man with no fingers. Ugh, they're dreadful. They stayed awake all night and so did daddy. Andthey wouldn't let me put the bottles through the porthole this morning. They put them themselves, and I did so want to see them go smash. "

Marcella stopped dead. Things were trickling into her mind. She saw herfather and her little thin arm dangling sickeningly when he broke ityears ago; all her childish terrors of him came back, associated withthe whisky, changed into a general terror of anything that was a father. She saw Jimmy's little arm broken--and there were three of them in thattiny cabin to break his little arm!

"Oh, poor wee mannie! Jimmy, ye're just going to sleep in my littlehouse. "

He started to dance with joy, holding on to her hand and hopping on onefoot in the alley-way. Then his face clouded over. 

"There'll be nobody to make daddy get in bed, then, " he said. 

"Well--"

"His back'll be bad to-morrow if he lies on the floor. "

"The ugly man will make him go to bed, because if he doesn't they won'thave anywhere to walk, " she said, determined to save his arm at anycost. 

"D'you think so?" he asked eagerly. 

"Yes, quite sure. He'll be quite safe. Where's your nighty?"

He darted into Number 15 and came back with a minute bundle. 

"I don't have to have nighties now. Gran said I was grown up now I wascoming to Australia. So I wear pyjamas, made out of the same stuff asDad's, " he explained, undressing hurriedly and putting them on withconsiderable pride. "Last night was the first time I wore them. OnlyDaddy never looked, with those other men there. "

A lump came into Marcella's throat as he neatly folded his clothes andlaid them in a heap on the floor. 

"There's a pocket, look!" he said, afraid that she would miss any of theproud points of his pyjamas. "Gran put a silver sixpence in it, forluck, and a little letter. But I can't read yet. "

He fumbled in the pocket which was just big enough for his hand. Therewas the sixpence and a little handkerchief with rabbits sitting perkilyat each corner. The letter was a small text-card with a bright rosebudpainted on it. 

"Read it, " he said, watching her anxiously. "Granny read it to me whenshe put it there. "

"Call upon me in the time of trouble, " she read. He nodded. 

"That's right. Now put it back. Gran said I must never lose it, and someday if I remembered it, it might come in handy. "

She tucked it safely away and he started to climb into bed. 

"Jimmy, I always get washed before bed, don't you?" she suggested. 

"Oh yes. I promised Gran. But it's hard to remember everything, " he saidresignedly. But his washing was not very comprehensive; Marcellapromised herself a busy half-hour with him in the bathroom next morning. 

He was asleep in two minutes, but Marcella did not attempt to undressfor a long time. She dragged the cabin trunk out from under the bunkvery quietly, and, sitting down on it, frowned. A queer thing hadhappened to her. Over all her early life her father had towered like aColossus. The rest of the world had been filled with friends--friendlyvisions, friendly people, friendly ghosts. She had not met anyone unkindbefore. Conditions had never been anything but unkind; she expected coldand hunger, hardness and discomfort. But that people could be unkind toeach other she had never realized. Then had come Louis's tale, which hadhorrified her, Diddy's tale which had grieved her at first and thenpuzzled her as she saw how easily the image of the sick girl wasreplaced by that of a man who gave her meringues. Ole Fred hadfrightened her: Mr. Peters had at first seemed ridiculous and thencruel. Most of the people on the ship seemed cruel, when she came toreflect about it. Something cruel had happened that very morning. Shehad noticed, when they came aboard at Tilbury, a very romantic figurestanding on deck; he fitted in much better with her conceptions oftravel in far lands than did the very respectable, commonplace fathersof families she saw scattered about the deck. He was a man in kneebreeches, leather leggings, a bright blue shirt and a claret and buffblazer. He wore a wide-brimmed brown hat and a fierce expression. Fromhis leather belt hung a huge clasp knife and two small pistols. Shethought him very funny, but very much like herself when she had dressedup as King Arthur. She sympathized entirely with his dressing a part. Later she heard shouts of cruel laughter as he explained valiantly thathe had never in his life been from his native village in the Welshhills--that Australia was a new country that needed to be "opened up. " Hequoted Manville Fenn and other writers of boys' adventure stories thirtyor forty years old to show the dangers of Australia and his ownindomitable courage in tackling them: he told of Captain Cook's heartand many other blood-curdling tales, and was greeted with ironicalcheers and laughter. They explained to him at great length all about thecivilization of Australia, and when, an hour after the Devon coast haddropped below the horizon he became miserably sea-sick, they formed aprocession before him, carrying fire buckets, brandy and beer to hisassistance. 

Marcella was muddled. She frowned and got no nearer a solution to herpuzzles, until she remembered that, right at the top of her trunk, putin at the last moment, was a Golden Treasury her mother gave her yearsago. 

She turned the pages to the end, looking for something she rememberedthat seemed to fit in with her mood. In the Ode on the Intimations ofImmortality she read it--

"Blank misgivings of a creatureMoving about in worlds not realized, "

she murmured. "Well, that means that I'm not the only one. Wordsworthevidently got worried about things like I do. But it's thecruelty--that's what I can't understand. "

There was a little comfort in that thought as she fell asleep: it gaveher a sense of comradeliness that anyone so eminently sane as Wordsworthshould have had "blank misgivings. "

CHAPTER VIII

Blue and silver had turned to blue and gold next morning; the light nolonger seemed to come from the sea in bright glitters; it was transfusedthrough the air as liquid gold, very mellow and soothing and softened. It was five o'clock when she wakened. Through the open port she couldsee the sea swelling gently, breaking into a little hesitating ripple offoam here and there. She climbed very carefully down from her bunk;Jimmy was still sleeping soundly. There was no one about save a few deckhands scrubbing up above; they were out of sight of land now, and shegave a deep sigh of exhilaration as she turned on the sea-water spigotof the bath and, opening the port wide, felt the keen morning breezesblowing in upon her. Coming out ten minutes later, pink-cheeked anddamp-haired, she met Louis in pyjamas, hurrying along with a towel overhis arm. 

"Were you ill yesterday?" she said, standing in front of him. "I couldhear your bunk creaking lots of times in the night, and once or twiceyou gave the partition an almighty crack. "

"Oh, I'm all right, " he said, dashing past without looking at her. 

"I suppose, " she called softly, with mischief in her eyes, "that you areintentionally making for the women's bathroom? Someone might want to useit and be horrified to see you emerging--"

"Laughing at me again, aren't you?" he cried savagely, turning with ascowl and standing undecided. 

She hurried below to give him a chance to retire gracefully. 

When she was in a white frock and Jimmy shining with soap and water, they took their places at the breakfast-table. Mr. Peters looked atJimmy in surprise. 

"Hello! I never noticed you get up, " he said. 

"He slept in my cabin, " she explained. "He was frightened. "

"Very kind of you, I'm sure, young lady, " he said and turned to Mrs. Hetherington, who looked at Marcella calculatingly between narrow lids. As soon as breakfast was over she put her arm confidingly throughMarcella's and drew her aside. 

"Come for a little stroll, dear, won't you? I can see that you'redifferent from most of the passengers--they're so common so terriblycommon. I've regretted very much that I came third class. It wasn't thatI wanted to save money, you know, " her voice twittered to littleinarticulacies. 

"Most of the people are very interesting, " said Marcella. 

"I find poor Mistah Petahs interesting, very, " said Mrs. Hetherington, pressing Marcella's arm. "Losing my dear husband, and he losing hiswife--it's a bond, isn't it? And I feel so sorry for a poor man with achild to bring up. "

"Um--" said Marcella doubtfully. 

"It's sweet of you to mother the little fellow, dear. He must be a greattrouble to poor Mistah Petahs! I have two little darlings, but I findthat boarding school suits them much better than being with me. I thinkthat children need both father and mother, don't you?"

"Yes, " said Marcella dazedly, unable to follow Mrs. Hetherington'sreasoning. 

"And you know, " she went on, "I've a terrible feeling that poor MistahPetah's loneliness might lead him to--er--Oh dreadful things. " Shedropped her voice to a whisper. "My dear--I believe he drinks, " shesaid, underlining the words. "I tried my best to look after him lastnight, " she added plaintively. 

"Oh, did you?" said Marcella and suddenly stopped dead. "All thislooking after! What are we all up to? Is it impudence or vanity, or whatis it? I don't know! Anyway, I'm going below, " and she turned abruptlyaway. 

As it was Sunday Marcella lost her crowd of children, who were claimedfor a church service by an enthusiastic missionary in the first class. She spent the morning writing letters and reading. When she went to hercabin to get ready for lunch there was a note pinned on to the mirror. She took it down in surprise. 

"I don't know your name, " she read; "but I must see you. I've been goingthrough hell and I can't hold out. I understand myself very well; I knowwhat I need, but I can't do it. I've got to have someone to make me dothings. And if you make me do things I'll get huffy with you and try todeceive you. It's pretty hopeless, isn't it? That pock-marked devil hasbeen trying to get me. That's why I've been taking to cover all thistime, partly. Come up on the fo'c'sle to-night at seven. I'll besitting on the anchor. For God's sake come. And don't laugh at me, willyou? I can't stand it. L. F. "

Without pausing she took paper and pencil and wrote. 

"I shall be there. Of course I shall not laugh at you. I cannotunderstand anything. I am sorry to admit this, because you will say I amlike your parents. I am in muddles myself, but I am most sorry for you. And my name is Marcella Lashcairn of Lashnagar. "

She put it in an envelope, addressed it to him, tapped on his door andpushed it under. 

She went on deck that afternoon in a state of bubbling excitement. Therewere not many people about. They were just getting into the Bay ofBiscay and the _Oriana_ was rolling a little; many had succumbed tosea-sickness; many more were afraid of it and had gone to lie down intheir bunks. She took some books to read but did not open them for along time until the sea-glare had made her eyes ache. 

Then she opened "Questing Cells, " which she had decided to try to masterduring the voyage. She read a page, understanding much better than whenshe had read it to her father. But she was pulled up over the word"inhibition. "

It was a chapter of generalization at the end of the book that she wastrying to fathom. 

_"Women have no inhibitions: their pretended inhibitions serve exactlythe same purpose as the civet-cat's scent of musk, the peacock'sgorgeous tail, the glow-worm's lamp. A woman's inhibitions areinvitations. Women do not exist--per se. They are merely the vehicles ofexistence. If they fail to reproduce their kind, they have failed intheir purpose; they are unconsciously ruled by the philoprogenitivepassion; it is their raison d'etre, for it they are fed, clothed, trained, bred. Existing for the race, they enjoy existence merely in thepreliminary canter. Small brained, short-visioned, they lose sightof the race and desire the preliminary canter, with its excitements andpromises, to continue indefinitely. "_

The word "philoprogenitive" and the French phrase stopped her. 

"Why on earth I didn't bring a dictionary, " she said, "passes mycomprehension! I'll write the words down and ask someone. "

A young man was sitting on the deck a few yards away, his back against acapstan. He looked supremely uncomfortable trying to read a littleblue-backed book. 

Marcella looked at Louis's chair empty beside her. 

"Wouldn't you like to sit on this chair?" she said, and the young manlooked up startled. 

"You look so uncomfortable there. This chair isn't being used. Won't yousit down?"

"That's very good of you. I was getting a decided crick in my back, " hesaid, sitting down and wondering whether to go on reading or toentertain her. Marcella looked at him; he was the epitome of propriety, the spirit of the Sabbath incarnate in his neat black suit, goldwatch-chain and very high collar. 

"I really asked you to sit here for quite a selfish reason, " she said. "I want to know the meanings of some words that have just cropped up. You look as if you know. "

The young man coughed and looked pleased. 

"I am a schoolmaster, " he remarked. "Probably I can--"

"Inhibition?" she interrupted. 

"Inhibition?" he said. "That means 'holding back. ' Latin '_habeo_, Ihave' or 'I hold' and 'in--"

"Women have no inhibitions, " she repeated; "no power of holding back. "

She frowned, and decided to return to that later. "Nowphiloprogenitive, " she said turning to him. He stared at her, coughedagain and held out his hand for the book. 

"That's rather a difficult book for a girl to be reading, isn't it?" hesaid, glancing at the title page. "Oh, Kraill the biologist? Whatevermakes you read that? I thought girls read Mrs. Barclay and CharlesGarvice. "

"I have not read any of their books yet, " she said. "I read this booksome time ago, and it seemed to me to hold the whole illumination oflife. But since I've been on this ship I've been in a muddle aboutthings. People are not a bit like I thought they would be. I was awakehours last night trying to get right about it. "

"They're not a very nice collection here--in the steerage. Butthe difference in fare between steerage and second is veryconsiderable--very considerable, " he sighed. "My profession must takecare of the financial aspect of life. "

Marcella felt that he was honest. He was the first passenger who hadadmitted that he had not unlimited wealth. 

"That's refreshing. Most of the people here want one to think they aredisguised millionaires only travelling steerage to enquire into the waysof poorer folks. And that's part of my puzzle. I want to know _why_these people are not a very nice collection. Is my taste at fault? Lastnight I raked out my 'Golden Treasury' and read about 'Blind misgivingsof a creature roaming about in worlds not realized. '"

"You misquote, " he murmured. "'Blank' not 'blind' and 'moving' not'roaming. '"

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"Of course, " he said with an air of depth and of conscious helpfulness, "the most difficult thing on earth--and, I may remark, the mostimportant--is realization of one's sphere, and one's place in thatsphere. And our way of instructing the young in such realization isdefective, defective to a degree at present. Queerly enough I am justreading Tagore on 'Realization. ' You know Tagore, of course?"

She shook her head. 

"He is the Bengali poet who was recently honoured by His Majesty with aknighthood. Perhaps you would like to change books and see what he says?I have marked something on page sixteen that is helpful, particularlyhelpful. "

"Thank you. But take care of my book, won't you? It is very precious, because it belonged to my father. "

She looked into "Realization, " but its cool calmness failed to grip herat first, and she lay back in her chair, the breeze fanning her hair, the deep blue of the sky flecked with little cirrus clouds above her asshe dreamed. Presently the schoolmaster went below for tea, and she wasleft alone. She had decided that she did not want tea; after this quietplace the saloon seemed too noisy, and now that seven o'clock wasdrawing nearer she was feeling rather frightened. 

The gold in the air was collected into a great ball that turned crimsonin the west, touching the crests of the waves with red as though bloodhad been splashed upon them, setting Marcella's hair afire, turning herwhite frock rosy-pink. Two bells sounded, and the sea and the sky grewdeep blue, while shadows began to slink about the decks and stalk overthe water; grey veils fell over the western sky, and she sat upstraight, wondering where Louis was. 

Quarter-past seven--twenty-past--and the quick twilight with its messageof melancholy was almost past. Three bells sounded, and on the upperdeck she saw the saloon passengers going in to dinner. Then she startedup. 

"He said he was horribly shy and nervous--anyone can see he is, too. Isuppose he's frightened, now. "

For a moment she stood leaning over the rail, her face turned towardsthe stairway, waiting. Then her feet took her down the steps, along thedeck, past the engine-room towards the companion-way. Diddy and a youngman in white sat on the step of the cook's galley in a hot atmosphereredolent of food; she was eating an orange. Under the steps Mr. Petersand Mrs. Hetherington sat in shadow; further away, up the deck, theyoung missionary had collected a group of children and women who weresinging "There's a Friend for Little Children" all out of tune. Shelooked round almost motivelessly before she went below. A splash oflight and a volley of laughter from the bar broke through the hymnsinging. She turned quickly. Inside the bar, which was arranged like agreat window with sliding panels, stood a little man with bright blackeyes, wearing a white coat. Behind him were rows upon rows of bottlesand bright shining glasses; a cash register was on the counter. Leaningagainst it, his face amazingly merry, his eyes shining, was Louis, talking volubly without the suspicion of a stammer. In his hand was atumbler. 

Marcella felt her knees getting weak, though she scarcely realized thatshe was frightened; she felt that there was going to be a fight of somesort, though she did not rightly realize her enemy. Then, justly orunjustly, her fears crystallized and she had something tangible tofight, for the pock-marked man was standing beside Louis, patting him onthe back and smiling at him. 

The words of Louis' letter flashed into the depths of her mind: _"Thatpock-marked man's a devil--he's trying to get me. "_

She made her frightened feet go nearer. Ole Fred saw her and grinned. 

"Come for that drink, miss?" he asked. She scowled at him; if she hadbeen nine instead of nineteen it would have been called deliberately"making a face. " Then she looked past him to Louis. 

"I've been waiting for you half an hour, Louis. "

"I'm not coming, " he said, looking away from her awkwardly. "Y-you'veb-better c-company than m-mine. "

She flushed and felt herself trembling with temper. A flash from herfather's eyes lit up her face as she said quickly:

"No, I haven't. I want to talk to you. "

"I c-can't l-leave these chaps now. I'll s-see you to-morrow, " he saidsullenly. 

"Oh no, you'll not. What's to do, Louis? You said you wanted to see me, and there I was waiting for you, and feeling so lonely. "

"Go on, ole man. Take her in a dark corner somewhere. Wants a spoonpretty bad, " said the red-haired man. "The bar don't close till eleven, an' we'll have some in Number 15 if you're too late. "

Marcella treated him to one of her scowls that astonished him, andsuddenly, setting his teeth, Louis put down his glass, took her armroughly and, striding along blindly, made forrard. 

Until they got into the privacy of the fo'c'sle neither spoke. She wasbreathless, partly with indignation, partly with indefinable fear andpartly with the breakneck speed at which he had rushed her along thedeck. He sat down on the anchor; she stood before him, her back to therail, which she gripped with her hands. Her first impulse was to shakehim thoroughly. But she resisted it as she heard him groan. 

"Never--never in all my life have I imagined there could be anyone soutterly rude as you, and so utterly mad. What on earth do you thinkyou're doing?" she said breathlessly. 

To her surprise he spoke quite quietly. 

"I got mad with you. I can see now I was a fool. "

"But why should you get mad with me? And even if you did, is that anyreason why you should go and--and--what was that beastly word?--beer-bumwith those awful men?"

"I--I--s-saw you--s-sitting here th-this afternoon--t-talking t-to aman, " he stammered, covering his face with his hand. 

"Yes, I was. Why not?"

"In--in m-my chair!"

"Oh, my goodness! You great baby!" she cried. 

"I w-was c-coming up with s-some t-tea for you and--and th-there I s-sawanother man, " he jerked out, overcome by the pathos of it. "I th-threwit overboard. "

"But supposing there had been sixteen men, why shouldn't I talk tothem?"

"I d-don't w-want you to. I w-wanted to talk to you. "

"Well!" She could find nothing else to say in her astonishment. 

"Don't you see that's enough to start me drinking?" he burst outpassionately. "Whenever I get hipped about anything--I--t-told you Iknow myself very well. I'd only h-had one drink when you came along. Didyou notice me?"

"_Notice_ you! Oh no!" she cried scornfully. 

"Y-you know w-what a nervous f-fool I am; how I'm afraid of my ownshadow. But when I've had only one whisky I'd tackle Satan himself! Youmust have noticed that I was jolly enough then! I used to be theringleader in all the stunts at the hospital. But when I don't drink I'mafraid to face people. Do you know I haven't had a meal since I cameaboard, except your piece of cake and the tea I've made? And now I'vethrown my teapot overboard. "

"But whyever haven't you had a meal?"

"All those damn fools in the saloon are looking at me!"

"Oh, you idiot!" she cried, and suddenly sat down on the anchor besidehim, all her indignation at the personal slight and the personalannoyance gone. 

"You see how it is, Marcella, " he groaned. "I can call you Marcella, can't I? Just till we get to Sydney. It sounds a Roman, fighting sort ofname. You see how wobbly I am! I've had the devil's own time since weleft Tilbury, lying there in my bunk, thinking, thinking--and the moreI think the more sorry I get for myself, and the more I hate otherpeople, and the more nervous I get. I knew I was in for a bad attack. I always do when I get away from home. Reaction I suppose. I put up thedevil of a fight, and then when I felt it was whacking me I wrote toyou. "

"Well, I said I'd come, didn't I? And I waited, " she reminded him. 

"Yes, and then I saw you talking to that idiotic fellow in a highcollar, and I thought, 'Oh, everything be damned!' So I chummed up tothe pock-marked chap. He was glad enough to have me! Wants me to playpoker. "

He buried his face, and she could scarcely hear his words. 

"Oh, God, " he muttered, "you can see how it is! All the time I'm notdrunk I'm worrying and thinking what a hell of a mess I've made ofthings. Th-the minute I'm even sniffing whisky I see everything in awarm, rosy glow. When I'm not drunk everyone's an enemy; when I'm drunkthey're all jolly good fellows. Marcella, I'm alone on earth, and Idon't want to be. "

She sat there, impatient with herself for her ignorance, her handsclasping and unclasping each other nervously. 

"Louis--" she began. She could get no further. "Louis--what's one to do?You say you're a doctor and understand yourself. It seems to me you'vereally a disease, haven't you? Just as much as--as measles?"

"Of course it's a disease! But don't you see how hopeless it is? It's adisease in which the nurse and the doctor both get the huff with thepatient because he's such a damned nuisance to them! And he, poor devil, by the very nature of the disease, fights every step of the treatment. "

There was a long silence. At last she put her hand on his arm. 

"You know you want to be happy, don't you? You say you don't want to belonely. That's why you drink the miserable stuff, to make you forgetthat you're unhappy and friendless. "

"Yes--you do understand, you see, " he cried eagerly. 

"Well, this is where I'm so puzzled. I'm quite happy, and I alwaysthink people are my friends. What I want to know is what is there insideus two that's different?"

He shook his head impatiently. 

"It's in my family, " he began, and she felt it on the tip of her tongueto tell him it was in hers too, but something stopped her. "And it's ahunger--absolutely an unendurable hunger. "

"Were you always frightened of things?" she said, a little wonderingly. 

"No--I was always nervy and shy and repressed. But this is a viciouscircle, don't you see? A thing is called a vicious circle in medicinewhen cause and effect are so closely linked that you can't tell which iswhich. At home I was repressed; that was the fashion in my young days. The motto was, 'Children are to be seen and not heard. ' I dodgedvisitors always; when I met them by any chance I was always a fool withthem, blinking and stammering like anything. When I was first at thehospital among men I was gawky until quite by chance I discovered thatwhisky made me graceful, stopped the stammering, gave me a surprisingflow of eloquence and made me feel a damned fine chap. Naturally I wentat it like anything, and of course after each burst was more nervousthan ever. It plays havoc with your nerves, you know. And in additionI had a sense of guilt. --Oh, damn life!"

"Yes, " she said slowly. She understood what a vicious circle was now. "You drank to stop yourself being nervous. The stuff makes youtemporarily happy, and then even more nervous afterwards. So you drinkmore. Oh, my goodness, how silly!"

"But you don't take into account what a hunger it is, you know, " he saidin a low voice. "You don't understand that. I don't think there can besuch another hunger on earth, even love. "

"Oh--" she started to speak, and stopped. She had never thought oflove like that, and wanted to tell him so, but that seemed to beside-tracking. So she went on, "Has it occurred to you that it will makeyou ill, kill you in time?"

"Do you think I've had five years at a hospital without seeingalcoholism?" he said bitterly. "Oh, I know all the diseases--I shall gomad, I expect. My brain's much weaker than my body. "

"I suppose you think it's very nice to go mad?" she said, hating herselffor the futility of her words, wishing she had books or preachments tohurl at him and convince him. 

"Oh, what's it matter?" he said wearily. "Who cares?"

"Have you any idea how horrible it is, Louis?" she asked solemnly, withall the tragedy of the farm behind her words, compelling him to look ather. 

"Most diseases are horrible--what about cancer?" he said coolly. 

"But people can't help cancer, and they can--at least I think so--helpyour sort of illness. Louis, I saw the two people I love best on earthdying. One of them died of cancer, the other of drink. I wasn't going totell you that. But when you said it was in your family I was going totell you that was no argument. It's been in my family for generationsand generations. I suppose it's in everyone's to some extent. It haswiped out all my family. But it certainly is not going to wipe out me. Iperhaps should not talk about my family to you, a stranger. Yet somehowI feel that father would not mind my telling you about him, if it canhelp you from suffering as he did. He cured himself. "

"How?" he cried with sudden, breathless hopefulness. 

"There, that's the awfulness of it. I don't know. I only know that oneday he was drunk, and the next day he was not, and never was again. Hesaid he gave all his burden to God. "

He shook himself impatiently. 

"Oh, I can't believe in all that rot!" he said harshly. "I neither trustGod nor myself. "

Below deck the mandoline began to twang again, and the soft Italianvoice went on with "La Donna E Mobile" interminably. 

"Louis, listen to me, " she said quietly. "I'm not going to let you dielike father died. I'm not going to let your heart get all horrible andthumping so that you can't lie down, and your feet and hands swollen andwhite and horrible. And I'm not going to have you shut up in an asylum. "

"It's good of you to bother, " he said humbly, "but I can see it's nogood. You can't stop it. I can't myself. You'd get fed up. You'll getfed up with me as it is before we get to Sydney. You'll be jolly glad toget rid of me and be off with the uncle into the backblocks. I insultedand sickened and shamed Violet till she threw me over. And she loved me. I know very well she did. "

"I won't let you be rude to me, Louis. I'm not quite like Violet, perhaps. If people are rude to me I don't get hurt. I just give them agood shaking and forget it. Besides, I couldn't get cross with anyonefor being ill, could I? And I'm going to make you get better before weget to Sydney. "

He shook his head hopelessly. 

"I mean it. I am going to keep worrying you about it till you stop itdead. I'll make it seem a dreadful nuisance to you. "

"It may work, " he said slowly, impressed by her certainty. "So long aswe're on the ship. If you can keep me from the Ole Fred gang. But it'llbe all up when we get to Sydney and you leave me. "

"Well then, I'll stay in Sydney, " she said, making up her mind casually. "I'll tell uncle I don't want to go and live with him. I'll find someway of staying with you. "

"I say, do you mean it?" he cried. "After my rudeness?"

"Of course I mean it. It will be fun! I love a fight!"

"And you mean that you really care about me?"

"Of course I care! I believe I'll die if you don't get better, " she saideagerly. 

He fumbled in his pockets, lit several matches and put something in herhand. 

"Here it is, look. Thirteen pounds, eight and fivepence. "

"What's that for?"

"It's all my money. If I have any I'll be magnetized towards the bar. IfI haven't, it's much safer. And look here, Marcella, if I come and knockyou down with a sledgehammer, don't let me have that money, will you?"

"I won't, " she said promptly. 

She was thrilled, exhilarated, as they went below after shaking handssolemnly. She was Siegfried, and the dragon had a pock-marked face, andeach foot had three claws missing. She thought, as she looked throughdream-misted eyes, that the dragon was a very long one, with many legsand many heads. But she had not the faintest doubt that, in the end, hewould fall to her trusty sword. And she told Louis so at the door of hiscabin as she said good night to him. 

Then she turned back to Number 15. She had looked about the deck forJimmy, but guessing that he had fallen asleep in his own bunk, pushedopen the door softly. She was determined that he should not sleep inthere with Ole Fred, who was celebrating a great win at poker. 

Louis stood at his own door. 

"What are you going in there for?" he asked. 

"I'm fetching poor little Jimmy. He's terrified of Ole Fred. He callshim the Beast. I think it's disgusting that he and the red-haired mansleep in here with a little boy. "

He nodded and smiled at her, but Jimmy was not in the cabin at all. Asshe came out Ole Fred came along the alley-way. He leered at her but didnot speak. She hurried into her own cabin, shut the door and pushed thebolt along instinctively. As she switched on the light she saw a verysmall amount of exceedingly dirty water in her basin, and Jimmy's neatpile of tiny clothes folded on the floor. He was fast asleep in thelower bunk. 

She started to undress in a golden glow of romance, and realized that, as her clothes came off, her armour was going to stay on, waking andsleeping, visible only to herself. Then she thought of a small, trivialthing. She tapped on the partition. 

"Are you hungry?" she called quietly. 

"Frightfully. "

"Go and talk to Knollys. He's very nice. He'll find something for you. "

"N-no. I c-can't, " he stammered, frightened immediately. 

"Then I shall, " she said, and, slipping on her dressing-gown, went alongto the saloon. By luck she found Knollys there and he produced bread andcheese and ship's biscuit from the steward's pantry. 

"I imagine you are hungry, miss, " he said respectfully when she askedhim to be sure to give her a lot. 

"No, I'm not. It's Mr. Farne in Number 8. He hasn't had a meal since hecame aboard. "

"Sea-sick?" he said sympathetically. 

"Well--" she began, and realizing that she could not explain, nodded. 

"He's better now, anyhow. "

"I'll make him some tea if you like, miss, " went on Knollys. She waiteduntil he had made it, and ten minutes later she tapped on Louis's door, took the tray in, laid it on his bunk and came out. 

"I won't stay to keep you company. When I'm very hungry I like togobble, but I don't like anyone to watch me, " she said. 

As she came out Ole Fred opened the door of Number 15 and stood watchingher until her door closed. Then he hurried on deck. 

CHAPTER IX

For the next few days Marcella and Louis were inseparable. They were upvery early each morning and did the usual march--seven times round thedeck before breakfast. Afterwards she went up on the fo'c'sle and waitedfor him; for the rest of the day there was nothing to do but talk andread, and there was only a very limited library. Sometimes Louis talkedof medicine; he told her things that had happened, that he had seen atthe hospital; he explained cases to her, quoted lectures, and she, withall a layman's rather morbid interest, was fascinated. He, with the auraof travel, of learning, of experience in the ways of men, began to playOthello to her Desdemona. Feeling at his ease with her, and gettingstrength every day from the fact that yet another day had gone bywithout a victory to his enemy, he lost his shyness; she began to feelvery humble as he talked largely, and her passion for understanding, enlightenment, that had led her to read books she could not understand, to talk to everyone and even to talk to herself, now enveloped him. Sheopened her mouth to be fed from his stores. Sometimes he would talk ofLondon, a marvellous fairyland to her; tell her of "rags" in which hehad played the leading part; of things he had done when he was in Riofor three months--Rio! the very name enthralled her! It smacked ofbuccaneers and Francis Drake--of his life in New Zealand two years ago, when, snatching himself from the outcasts of Christchurch and Aucklandhe had flung himself valiantly into the prohibition district of the KingCountry and lived with the Maoris for six months in the hope of findingthe tribal cure for cancer; of the time when, on a girl-chase, he hadtoured with a theatrical company for a few months while his fatherthought he was at the hospital working. Her sponge-like eagerness forall the Romance, the Adventure he could give her was insidious in itseffect on him; she was flattered that he, with all his cleverness, his"grown-up-ness" that went so queerly with his babyishness, should haveso thrown himself on her mercy; to her nineteen years it seemed awonderful and beautiful thing that a man of twenty-seven should find inher an anchor. Of the three men she had known before, her father hadbeen, even in his weakness, her tyrant; Wullie had been her playmate allher life; the doctor, all alone and friendless in a small, remotevillage, had found in her an intelligent listener, and had talked quiteimpersonally to her, as a safety-valve for his own loneliness. To themall she had been just a girl in certain circumstances; her circumstancesand not herself had really been the thing that impressed them; she wasjust someone who happened to be there. But to Louis she was obviously avery tangible, defined person. She could not forget the wonder of that. 

And Louis, flattered by her admiration, her wonderment, fell into a veryhuman sort of weakness; he tried to make himself even more interesting;with the same quite amiable weakness that makes the witness of a streetaccident spill more blood, bear more pain in the telling than the victimcould possibly have done, he began to lie to her. She was so easy to lieto. He scarcely realized, at first, that he was lying; a description ofan operation he had witnessed, as a student, with Sir Horsley Winansplaying the chief part, had won her horrified, shivering admiration; tenminutes later he was describing how he himself had done trephining(which he was careful to assure her was the most difficult operationpossible) on an injured dock labourer; how the patient had wakened fromthe anesthetic in the middle of it; how Louis had immediately droppedhis instruments and gone on administering the anesthetic because theanesthetist was actually flirting with a nurse who was Louis's petannoyance in the wards; how the electric light had failed at the crucialmoment; how only Louis's iron nerve had prevented tragedy and horror. 

"You may think, seeing me such a bundle of nerves as I am now, that Icouldn't have done it, " he said. "But when I'm doing the doctor job I'ma different being; I lose myself. I just gave him another whiff ofA. C. E. , called to the nurses to fetch candles and got on with it. He'swalking about London to-day--as right as nine-pence. "

She knew nothing about hospitals, had never seen one in her life; hecalled most things by their bewildering technical names and she listenedrespectfully as a layman will always listen to technicalities. She didnot know that the whole thing was a fabrication; in spite of his warningabout his lying she had naturally thought that, if he should lie to herat all it would be about drinking and not about everyday affairs. Andhe, carried away by his imagination and his desire to impress her, scarcely realized what he was doing. 

Marcella was very bad for him; her courteous belief in him encouragedhim to deceive her; he thought she was rather silly; any other girlwould have chaffed him, have capped his tales by others, obviously"tall" as Violet had done until he had sickened her entirely; but toMarcella's Keltic imagination there was nothing incredible in his gory, gorgeous exploits; was not she, herself, the daughter of a farawayspaewife who could slide down moonbeams and ride on the breasts ofsnowflakes? And was not she herself a fighter of windmills? To herRomance could not come in too brightly-coloured garb, and so her Romancewove a net about him. Sometimes it flattered: sometimes it amused:sometimes it gave a sense of kinship that made him think that, unlessshe were a liar she would never have so sympathized with him. He wasunable to trace the fine distinction in veracity between describing aperfectly fictitious operation performed by oneself, and in recountingthe messages given by the screaming gulls, the whining winds onLashnagar. 

On one or two things she was certainly caught up sharp. His taste inbooks showed a width of divergence between them that nothing could everbridge; seeing her with "Fruit Gathering" which the schoolmaster hadlent to her, he asked what it was. 

"It's by Tagore, " she ventured. 

"Tagore? Never heard of him, " he said dismissively. 

In the fly-leaf of the book was a beautiful portrait of Tagore. Sheshowed it to him, remarking that he was the Bengali poet. 

"Oh, a nigger!" he cried contemptuously, pushing the book on one side. She frowned at him and shyly suggested that Christ, in that case, sharedTagore's disadvantage. He laughed loudly. Then she opened the book atrandom. She had been impressed with something before going to bed thenight before. 

"Listen to this, Louis. I thought I'd like to read it to you, " shesaid, and read, "'Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but tobe fearless in facing them. And this--listen, 'Let me not look forallies in life's fight, but to my own strength'; and here's the best bitof all, 'Grant me that I may not be a coward, feeling your mercy in mysuccess alone; but let me find the grasp of your hand in my failure. ' Iwish so much I could have found that before father died and read it tohim. "

"Oh--poetry, " he said contemptuously; "a lot of high falutin'nonsense--and by a nigger too! What's that someone said? 'Intoxicatedwith the exuberance of his own verbosity. ' That's a good description ofa poet. "

Another time she spoke of St. Brigid, the Bride of Christ. 

"Who's she?" he asked contemptuously. 

"The Irish saint. " He interrupted with a long tirade against HomeRule which proved, to his satisfaction, that St. Brigid was also"high-falutin' nonsense. " A pamphlet of Shaw's she found in the saloonhe told her not, on any account, to read. 

"A damned Socialist--a vegetarian--a faddist, " he said excitedly, andshe led the conversation away from books, though he brought it backseveral times to explain to her the jokes in "Punch" which he said wouldhave to be put into her head with a hammer and chisel, since she was aScot. 

But in spite of puzzlement and divergences she was intensely happy. After the solitude of Lashnagar every day was full of thrilled interestto her. The many people, the changes of temperature as the boat wentsouth, the shoals of porpoises tumbling in the blue water; the strangefoods, the passing ships were all amazements to her and the fact thather thoughts had, for the first time, found a tangible resting-placelike homing pigeons alighting at their cot, together with her absorptionin Louis, all gave her a sense of security. 

Louis, on the other hand, though he was trying hard to keep content, realized that the very fact he had to try meant a fight was coming. Andhis inflated sense of being a very fine fellow indeed in her eyes madeit impossible for him to be honest as he had been at first, and tell herthat he had caught sight of his enemy seeing to the edge of his sword, the priming of his pistols. He could not ask her for help now--he couldnot be less than a hero now! He would fight it out alone. Both of themhad yet to realize that life is not a static condition: both of them hadto realize that lives are interdependent. 

At Gibraltar happened something that was to have far-reaching effects. She was watching the frowning Rock; Louis was pointing out the littlethreatening barbettes as they drew inshore slowly. Out in thestream--very much out--lay a Norddeutscher Lloyd ship at anchor. 

"Every inch of this water is mined, " he told her. "A touch from switchesup on the Rock would blow the whole lot of us to Kingdom Come. The ballyold German out there knows that. "

Marcella knew nothing of world politics. He explained. 

"England is mistress of the seas, " he orated proudly. "The empireon which the sun never sets! In a few years' time every foreignship--especially Germans--will be swept off the seas and Britannia willliterally rule the waves. "

"She looks such a nice, comfortable, clean old ship, " began Marcella, feeling very sorry for her. 

"Clean?" he cried. "A German clean? Filthy cockroachy holes, their shipsare! Why, there's only one race on earth dirtier than the Germans andthat's the Scots. "

Then he stopped dead and giggled nervously as he realized what he hadsaid. Her eyes were blazing, her lips quivering; it was impossible forher to speak for a moment, her breath was coming in such sharp pants. For a moment she looked just like Andrew Lashcairn, but before she hadtime to launch her indignation he was stammering and apologizing andlooking so sorry that she decided to bury the hatchet. And he went onbreathlessly, trying to reinstate himself. 

"You know, I hate the Germans. I happen to know a lot about them and themenace they are to Eng--Britain, " he said in a low, confidential voice. He had, as a matter of fact, recently read in proof some spy-revelationshis father's firm was publishing. He was well primed. He went on talkingrapidly, showing her Germany as an ogre. She listened amazed; shethought all that sort of thing had died out years ago, but, thinking ofher own indignant championing of Scotland, decided that she was just asillogical as Louis. 

"However do you know all this?" she asked at last. 

"Well--as a matter of fact--I did a bit of secret service work once. Itwas one time when the Pater spewed me out of home. "

That day he was secretive and bewildering: once he took a little bundleof crackling papers from his pocket and put them away again furtively, watching her as he did so. She was impressed, but puzzled. 

But all the time, in spite of chaffing insults and even friendlyovertures he kept away from Ole Fred's gang and stayed almostdesperately at Marcella's side. They became the subject of gossip;spiteful gossip on the part of the girls, shocked gossip on the side ofthe married women, who, with the exception of Mrs. Hetherington, lefther severely alone. 

Between Marcella and Mrs. Hetherington a queer friendship had sprung up;her quickness, her absolute lack of continuity, her littleness and hertransparently minx-like qualities seemed so pathetic that Marcella tookher under her wing. She never came out of her cabin for breakfast; thestewardess, with her nose very high in the air and a non-committalvoice, had asked Marcella to go to Mrs. Hetherington's cabin the morningafter Gibraltar. She found the little lady propped up in her bunk, herblack hair all over the pillow, her small face rising from a foam ofpink ribbons and laces that seemed unreal to the girl. 

"Oh, my dear, how sweet of you to come to me! I am terriblyill--terribly ill, " she said faintly. 

"I am so sorry. Will I get the doctor?"

"Oh dear no. I am often like this! I suffer terribly, my dear, terribly. My poor, poor head. "

Marcella had bought a bottle of eau-de-Cologne at Gibraltar when theSpanish merchants came aboard; she fetched it and bathed Mrs. Hetherington's aching head. All the time she was staring at herfascinating nightgown. It was the first dainty garment she had seenclose to since her mother's death. 

"That is so nice, dear, " she murmured. Marcella blushed. She was notused to being called "dear" and liked it immensely. 

"Would you brush my silly mop of hair and then pass me my cap, dear? Ohthis hair is a bother! I've often thought I'd have it cut off like aconvict. "

"I think it is wonderful hair, " Marcella told her, brushing it tenderly, and plaiting it back before she arranged it under a ridiculous boudoircap of ribbon and lace. 

"I can't tell you how I suffered during the night, dear, " said Mrs. Hetherington plaintively. "(Just pass me the hand mirror, will you?) Ican't think why I was so foolish as to travel steerage. Those threeemigrant girls in this cabin--my dear, they are absolutely _coarse_! Youshould see their underclothes! Look, Marcella--I'm going to call youMarcella, you are so sweet. Look at that nightgown on the top bunk. _Pink flannelette_! And I hate to share my cabin with them! They've goneon deck now for the day. I told them I simply must be alone. "

"Aren't you going to have any breakfast?" asked Marcella. "I'll make yousome tea if you like. " She and Louis had bought a teapot at Gibraltar, solemnly paying half each and sharing the responsibility for thesacrifice of the other one. 

"No, I don't think I could drink tea. What do you think I could have?You know, my dear, it was champagne that upset me like this! MistahPetahs and I had a small bottle last night and it brought everythingback. "

She began to wipe a plaintive eye on her small handkerchief. 

"The day I married my dear George--the father of my darlings--we hadchampagne. It always brings it all back to me. "

"But--tea makes headaches better. "

"Not mine. " Mrs. Hetherington knitted her white brows and lookedimmensely interested. 

"I think if you were to see dear Mistah Petahs and ask him to come alongthe alley-way and speak to me. He is so gentle, so sympathetic, he mightsuggest something, dear. "

"Um, " said Marcella, thinking of Jimmy. But she fetched Mistah Petahswho came with voluble and pleased sympathy. 

He stood at the door of the cabin smiling fatuously. Mrs. Hetheringtongave a little horrified shriek as she saw the tip of his toe over thethreshold. 

"No, no, naughty boy! You mustn't come in here! I'm shocked. "

"Are you ill?" he asked in a deeply pained voice. 

"My poor, poor head, Mistah Petahs! That champagne last night broughteverything back--dear George and all our happiness. "

"Oh, I say, " murmured Mr. Peters. 

"I feel so ill, so terribly ill. What could I have? If this head doesn'tget better I shall jump overboard, really I shall. And then the fisheswill eat me!"

Mr. Peters contemplated the prospect hopefully. 

"And--I keep thinking of my darlings, " she whispered, reduced to tears. 

"What you want, little lady, is a hair of the dog that bit you, " saidMr. Peters judicially. She gave a gentle little scream. 

"Oh you sound so fierce, Mistah Petahs! Which dog? When?" she askedguilelessly. 

"I'll get it--you lie back, little lady, and rest your pretty head. "

She lay back, with swimming eyes. 

He went half a step along the alley-way. 

"Mistah Petahs, " she called faintly. 

He came back, assiduous. 

"On ice, " she murmured. He nodded and went. 

"So kind--so sympathetic, " murmured Mrs. Hetherington with closed eyes. 

Marcella, who had stood frowning and puzzled, was now pressed into theservice. 

"I think, dear, when Mistah Petahs comes back I could manage a littlebread and butter--only the butter is so nasty. "

"Would you like jam?" said Marcella helpfully, liking jam herself. 

The thought of jam made Mrs. Hetherington feel faint. 

"No, I'll have bread and butter. Get me two slices, dear--thin. And--askKnollys if he could let you have some cayenne pepper. Bread and buttersprinkled with cayenne always does me good when my head has one of itsnaughty fits. "

Twenty minutes later she was sitting up with sparkling eyes eatingdevilled bread and butter and drinking champagne daintily while Mr. Peters sat beaming and bashful and inexpressibly silly on a camp-stoolin the alley-way, and the bedroom steward wondered what on earth hewould do when the officers came along for cabin inspection. 

The night before they touched at Naples Marcella and Louis arranged whatshe called a "ploy. " They would go ashore together and spend the day atPompeii. He had been there before, but he remembered little of itbecause he had been with a party who had hired a car, taken a luncheonbasket and several bottles of whisky and left him asleep in the carwhile they explored the dead towns. 

"It seems an insult to the past--going there and getting drunk on theirtombs, " he said musingly. "But you and I will have a great day. In aRoman town, Marcella--there's something very Roman about you--you'relike the mother of the Gracchi. I happen to know all about the mother ofthe Gracchi because it came in my Latin translation at Matric, and Ihad such a devil of a job with it that I never forgot it. That's theonly bit of Roman history that's stuck to me, just as 'Julius Caesar' isthe only bit of Shakespeare I know because we did scenes from it for aschool concert once. "

During the afternoon the young schoolmaster came along with "The LastDays of Pompeii" in his hands. 

"He's going to suggest coming with us to-morrow, " said Louis, wholaughed at him every time he saw him. "And he's going to read us bits oflocal colour. I can see it glinting in his eye. Let's look very busy. "

"What can we do?" asked Marcella with a giggle. He initiated her intothe mysteries of "Noughts and Crosses" and they sat with heads bent lowover the paper as the schoolmaster came along. 

"I have been tracing the course of the fugitives in Lytton's immortalwork, " he began with a cough. "It would greatly add to the interest ofvisitors to Pompeii if they could follow it to-morrow, so I am giving alittle lecture on it in the saloon to anyone who cares--"

"Thanks, " said Louis shortly. With a sigh the schoolmaster passed on, and, sitting down with his back against the capstan, read studiously. 

"Don't let's go with him if he asks us, " whispered Marcella. "Let's bealone. "

"Of course--he's a bore, " whispered Louis. "I wouldn't lose this day atPompeii for a shipload of footling schoolmasters. "

Very early next morning he wakened her by tapping on her cabin door. Shehad heard him tossing about in the night and was not surprised that helooked tired and rather haggard. But she forgot to ask him what was thematter as Naples burst upon her the moment she put her head above thecompanion-way where he was waiting for her. 

"Oh--look at it, " she gasped. 

"Yes, isn't it?" he said, waving his arm as if he were responsible forNaples. "Look at the jolly old bonfire. "

All round, in the brilliant blue waters of the Bay, ships lay as ifasleep; a few little tugs fussed nervously, a few little boats ladenbrilliantly with fruit and vegetables glided along as though they werecontent to reach somewhere quite near by to-morrow or the day after. There was a cloud over the grey town at the foot of Vesuvius; it lookedlike winding sheets about the dead; it reminded Marcella insensibly ofLashnagar as she saw the mist and smoke wraiths mingle grey and white, rising from fissures, creeping along gullies until they formed a wreathat the crest of the volcano through which a thin needle of yellowersmoke was rising straight as a pinnacle through the windless air. 

"Does it ever do things now?" she asked rather breathlessly. 

"Oh yes. Listen!" She heard faint reports like distant small guns beingfired. "With any luck it'll give us a bit of a Crystal Palace BankHoliday exploit to-night--we sail at midnight, you know. It will berather gorgeous if the old bonfire will oblige. Red fires, white andsilver moonlight--why Naples is making me get poetical, " he added, stopping short. 

People began to come on deck: the schoolmaster walked along, his fingerin between two pages of a Baedeker in which he was going to count offthe items of interest he encountered. 

"Good morning, Miss Lashcairn!" he said with a smile. "See Naples anddie!"

"Oh no--it's too beautiful!" she said quickly. Louis edged her along thedeck as a little clatter of church bells pealed from the many spiresrising above the tall brown houses of the town. A motor-launchchuff-chuffed out from the quay, flying the yellow flag. 

"Port doctor, " he informed her. "If he gives us a clean bill we'll beashore the minute breakfast's over. And I say, Marcella, let me_implore_ you not to have Jimmy or schoolmasters in attendance. This is_my_ show. "

She smiled at him and turned to watch three boys scrambling up theladder after the port doctor, carrying great baskets of grapes andflowers and oranges. 

"I'm going to buy you some grapes--those whopping big black ones. Itseems the obvious thing to do in Naples, doesn't it? Oh, by the way, Imust pay a visit to the Bank of Scotland. You'd better give me fivepounds. "

"You're very extravagant, " she laughed. 

"Never mind. Any other trip I've been broke by this time, and in a devilof a mess as well. Lord knows what these bally dagoes will charge us fora car out to Pompeii. They're all on the make. But I don't care if theycharge thirteen pounds--"

"Eight and fivepence, " she added, laughing at him and running belowto unlock her trunk and bring him the money without a glimmer ofapprehension. 

She put the five pounds into his hand in the alley-way. A minute laterhe was back with an enormous bunch of grapes lying amongst their greenleaves. 

"Lock your door when you come on deck, and shut your porthole, " he toldher. "We're coaling, and coal dust gets everywhere--in your eyes, yourfinger-nails, your food and your bed if you don't hermetically seal themall. It's a good place to be away from, a coaling ship. "

He darted away before she could mention the grapes. She helped Jimmydress, and then, turning him out, examined her three white frocks withminute care to see in which she should do honour to Pompeii. Often, inthe past, she had dressed a part, but always her personality had beenlost in the part she was playing. Now she consciously dressed asMarcella; it was probably the first time in her life she had lookedinterestedly in a mirror; comparing herself with Mrs. Hetherington, shefelt vaguely dissatisfied: she wished she were much nicer. Noticing thevine leaves where she had twined them round the rail of her bunk, shebroke off two or three and tucked them in her dress at the waist. Stepping back, she surveyed the effect, decided that it was as good ascould be managed, and tapped at the partition. She had heard Louismoving about some time before. 

There was no answer, and she decided that he must have gone on deck. 

It was crowded with passengers waiting for the little boats to take themashore; Italians went here and there selling fruit, postcards andjewellery straight from Birmingham; two flat coal lighters were drawingponderously alongside. She could not see Louis. 

From end to end she searched the ship, even going on to the upper deck, which to-day was not sacred to the upper-class passengers. But he wasnowhere to be seen. A lump came into her throat, her knees felt a littleshaky. 

Going below again she saw Knollys looking about eagerly. 

"Oh, there you are, miss. Mr. Fame desired me to give you this. He wasconsiderably hurried. "

She took it with a word of thanks--a little note, folded threecornerwise. 

"I'm more sorry than I can say, " she read. "The port doctor was an oldSt. Crispin's man. He noticed me on deck and spoke. He and I were greatpals at the hospital, and he asked me to go ashore with him. Heremembered how keen I was on gynecology, and has a queer case he'd likeme to look at. It's his wife as a matter of fact. I made all sorts ofexcuses, but he seemed so hurt I had to give way. I know this willdisappoint you horribly, but it seems unavoidable. I'll cut away as soonas I can, and we'll still go to Pompeii. After all, I hear we don't sailtill one o'clock, so there'll be time--we'll come back in the moonlight. Give my love to Jimmy and the schoolmaster. --L. F. "

To her amazement she felt tears begin to prick her eyelids. She blinkedfiercely. 

"Well, of all the babies! Did it cry because it was wanting to go out, then?" she cried indignantly, and stood watching the coal bunkers beingopened. But she could not see much; she was thinking of Louis. 

"You'll get filthy here!" said the third officer behind her, "and mostuncomfortable. I should advise you to go ashore. "

"I can't. I'm waiting for someone, " she explained. 

"Then I'd go up on the boat deck. You've no idea how abominable it getsdown here. Coaling should be prohibited by Act of Parliament. "

"Which is the boat-deck?" she asked, glad that her voice was sensibleagain. He pointed, and she turned away. 

The ship was deserted, practically; everyone had gone ashore. She wentdisconsolately towards the stairway. On the bottom step sat Jimmysobbing dismally. 

"There they are!" he said, rubbing his eyes with one hand and pointingto a little boat out on the blue water. "I did so want to go with them. "

Mrs. Hetherington in a white frock and blue sash was waving her handgaily from the little boat. Marcella suddenly felt indignant with her, and took Jimmy's tear-stained hand. 

"There they are!" she said, smiling. "And here are we! We're both in thesame boat, old man. Come down to my little house. I've something nicethere. "

She broke off a big bunch of grapes for him and, taking pencils, booksand writing-paper, went back on deck. Two Italians were just going offwith a stock of postcards. She bought a dozen for Jimmy, and a littlebasket of strawberries. 

"Now you're going to be a big man, Jimmy. We're going right up on theroof of the ship, and you're having a chair all to yourself so that youcan write postcards to Gran. "

His face cleared immediately, though as they got settled in the shadowof one of the lifeboats and he saw Mrs. Hetherington's white figurewalking along the quay he gave a little sigh. She addressed hispostcards as far as his remembered stock of addresses would go. SeveralAunties who lived "along Gran's street and along the next and over thefield" had to be left out. As soon as postcard writing palled a sailorcame along providentially, took him to see the hen coops, and let himfind two eggs that had been laid. 

Marcella wrote long letters home; only to Wullie did she mention Louis, and even to him she said very little. 

Noon came, and the boat deck was very hot. The chiming of bells in thechurches told when the moment of the Elevation came and passed; thelittle reports sounded from the old mountain: she thought they soundedlike guns that had been fired a thousand years ago. Jimmy said he didn'tfeel well, and went to sleep after a while; an Italian boy with black, hyacinthine curls and swimming black eyes spied her white frock from hislittle boat out in the bay: tying up to the accommodation ladder, hestood singing a passionate song to the twanging of a guitar. Shewondered whether this were a personal tribute or a way of earning money. The cap he held out for a coin showed it was the one; his eloquent eyesand picturesque gestures as he begged her little withering bunch of vineleaves showed it was the other. She tossed them to him carelessly, andhe bowed and kissed them gracefully. 

At last the family parties began to come on board, with hot, tiredmothers, cross children and disillusioned fathers; then came theemigrant girls, their hats covered in bright flowers. They were hustledbelow by the third officer, who was superintending the sluicing of thedusty, black decks. As Marcella went slowly below with Jimmy she heardhim declaring that coaling was the bane of his existence, as he pointedout to the ship's doctor marks of black hands deliberately printed highup on the shining white paint. 

When she had finished her letters Marcella sat for a while perfectlystill while Jimmy slept and the fowls in the coops crooned. Down belowin the bunkers the coal went thudding faintly, heard up on the boat deckmore as vibrations than sounds, mingling with the tinkling of guitars, the lazy splash of oars; somewhere a man with a voice like a rook wascawing:

"A mother was chay-sing her boy round the room, She was chay-sing her boy round the room"

over and over again. Somewhere at the end of a ventilator shaft a manwas polishing boots; he was swearing monotonously, between each rub ofhis brush, using a list of twelve words beginning with "blast" utteredvery softly and increasing in volume of sound and violence of meaning atthe twelfth word, when he would start pianissimo again. Marcella's eyesclosed; she was not asleep, she was thinking very vividly of Louis, butall the murmur of sounds about her intruded on her consciousness, makingclear thought impossible. The peculiar languor of shipboard life seizedupon her mind and her body: when she went below both were partlyanaesthetized; her feet scarcely felt the boards of the deck; herfingers were scarcely conscious of the letters and books she held. Hereyes and her mind took in the returning passengers dully. 

"You look half asleep, kid, " said Diddy with sparkling eyes. "We didn'thalf have a day of it! Young Bill and Mr. Winkle both got shore leaf, and Mr. Winkle knew a man who keeps a little café. He was once chefwhere Mr. Winkle was assistant chef in an hotel. My, we didn't half havea tuck in! Oysters and funny things in French, and chicken done up withjam, and ices. We went to Pompey in the afternoon, but I couldn't move, I was that stuffed up! My, it was a day and a half! Where did you getto?"

"Oh, just about with Jimmy. "

"Where's your young chap?" asked Diddy in surprise. 

Marcella stared at her and flushed. The schoolmaster came up to her andstood silent beside her. He was very full of Naples. His shoes weredustless, though everyone else was covered in the fine, impalpablepowdery dust of Naples. His high collar was spotless, his coatincredibly black. He looked irresistibly as if he had been lay-reading. 

"I was hoping that I might have had the pleasure of your company duringmy journeyings to-day, Miss Lashcairn, " he began after a little cough. "But I was--er--afraid to intrude. "

"I stayed on board with Jimmy, " she explained. "Did you have a goodtime?"

"One cannot have a good time in the tomb of past splendours, " he saidslowly. "Imperial Cesar dead and turned to clay stopping a hole to keepthe wind away is indeed a tragedy to a sensitive mind. But to seeImperial Pompeii desecrated by ginger-beer bottles, cigarette packetsand spent matches--it was more than tragic. It was--it was--but I pausefor a word! All the time I was murmuring sadly to myself '_Sic transitgloria mundi_. '"

"I'm quite glad I didn't go if it was so bad as that, " she said. 

"I had been at great, very great, trouble to trace the path of thefugitives in Lytton's immortal work. But I have an idea that at certainpoints Lytton was rather nebulous. I met your young friend and asked himwhat he thought. He only laughed, however. He is fond of laughing. "

Marcella's dullness disappeared; the clouds from her mind packed likewolves and vanished. Her heart suddenly stood still. 

"He was at Pompeii?" she whispered. 

"Only for a little time this morning. Then he and his party went awayagain in their car. "

"He was with the doctor, " said Marcella, hating to talk about him, butunable not to. 

"Not when I saw him. He was with those exceedingly noisy fellows--theman who is severely pitted with small-pox and the man with the missingfingers. "

"Oh--"

She turned away and answered him at random after that. Even then she didnot see that Louis had deliberately lied to her. She was hurt that hecould have gone to Pompeii without her: she was indignant that he hadgone with her abomination, the pock-marked man. But perhaps it was onlyan accident! She wondered, with sudden misgiving, if he could have beenback on the boat for her and missed her. But that his desertion wasintentional she could not imagine. 

Lights began to twinkle from the houses, to flare from the streets, todance from the boats. The sky of ultramarine became indigo with a greenand mauve lightening to the west. Over Vesuvius was a column of whitesmoke that now turned rosy, now coppery from the fires beneath. Littleboat loads of chattering people who seemed ghosts kept tumbling up theaccommodation ladder out of the grey water; they seemed to comesoundlessly as though they were produced by a conjuror's hand, for noone could hear what they said: only their gestures, their laughing, excited faces were visible. A little cold hand squeezed Marcella's, andshe answered Jimmy's eager questions about his father thoughtlessly, while a steamer coming into port hooted shrilly and desolately beyondthe bar. The little boats glided up and down, in and out of the shadowsof big ships with double lights--lights on board that were determinateand steady, reflections of lights that cracked and shivered and went inlong, shimmering ribbons through the water. 

"Most of the passengers are aboard now, " volunteered the schoolmaster. 

"Are they?" she said, her heart sinking. It came to her that he hadgone, that she would never see him again. And in that moment she knewjust how much she wanted to see him: and in that moment she saw him. 

A boatload of men was zigzagging towards the Oriana with snatches ofloud song, laughter and occasional shouts. It was impossible todistinguish faces until the boat came within range of the vessel's arclamps. And their dead white glare shone on Louis's face--and on his facealone, as far as Marcella was concerned. He was grinning vacantly: helooked very white. As he swayed up the ladder she saw that his clotheswere covered in dust. Catching sight of her the minute he reached thedeck, he lurched towards her. She shrank away a little, frightened ofthe glazed stare of his eyes, his loose, slobbering mouth. She knew thathe was drunk, but he was not drunk as her father had been. Wild thoughtsflickered on the curtain of her mind: "drunk as a lord" was one of them. "That's how father used to be, " and a queer sort of pride in himfollowed. After all, there was something in being a lord, even indrunkenness! But this foolish, grinning, damp-mouthed thing before her, who kept making ineffectual attempts to lift his hand to his head andtake off his hat, who was coming closer towards her with the inadequatemovements she had once seen made by a duck when its leg had beenbroken!--

"H'lo, ole girl!" he said, standing before her at last. "Parlez-vousFranshay? Ah, oui, oui! Give--kith, ole girl!"

"You'd better go below, Miss Lashcairn, " said the schoolmaster in a lowvoice. "It's no use talking to an intoxicated man. "

She knew he was speaking, but she felt mesmerized by Louis, and shookher head impatiently, never taking her eyes for an instant from theboy's dribbling mouth. 

"Give's--kith--kith--kisssh, " he said solemnly after a great effort, managing to close his mouth. "Baisez-moi--ole girl! Ah, oui, oui! Olegirl--I shay, ole girl--voulez-vous coucher avec moi?"

He caught her arm and held it tight, grinning into her face. She stoodwith set face, trembling. 

"What does he mean?" she asked the schoolmaster, who was lookingdistressed. 

"He is speaking French--I--don't quite"--he coughed nervously--"I don'tquite understand him--it isn't classical French. But I should go below. He will be better to-morrow. "

Louis turned to him solemnly, his jaws working. 

"G-g-go to--school!" he cried, and giggled helplessly. "Youw-w-white-livered k-k-kidpuncher! Are you after her yourself? G-goddamn you, you're always sniffing about after her. "

"I wish you would go below, " said the schoolmaster. "Men whenintoxicated say things unfit for the ears of young ladies. You go awayand leave him to me, Miss Lashcairn. "

"Louis, you trusted me to take care of you, " she said in a low voice. 

He laughed hysterically until tears ran down his cheeks. 

"Thass ri', ole girl! Trus' take care of me! Nashly! Fatherdrunkard--father _dead_ drunkard! Nash'ly ta' care poor little Louis. "

Ole Fred and the red-haired man had made immediately for the bar, but finding it closed had come back to claim Louis. They saw theschoolmaster's white face and Louis's passionate gestures; they scenteda fight, and hoped for it. 

"Wan' 'ny 'elp, mate?" cried Ole Fred, putting up his fists. 

Marcella did not see them. She saw her father standing by his bed, holding on to the post, praying for courage. Something in her brain gavea little snap like a fiddle string breaking, and, taking Louis by bothshoulders, she shook him violently. His head wobbled about loosely. Hewas terrified, and so were the others. Ole Fred had seen girls and womenresort to physical argument: in his world of the East End it was quitecommon, but he was rather surprised to see a "young lady" do it. Nor hadthey ever imagined it possible for such a blaze of anger to scorchanyone as shone in her eyes, vibrated in her voice as she loosed him, quite breathless, propped him against the rail and said, very quietly:

"The very next time you mention my father I'll put you in the sea. "

Louis was trembling and staring at her, his mouth open. The schoolmasterwas the first to speak. 

"I regret this, " he began, and stopped, coughing. 

"Just you shut the 'ole in yer fice, " growled Ole Fred. Then, turning toLouis, he became maudlinly soothing. "Look 'ere, mate, no young ladylikes to hear her father spoke of rough--even if he ain't her father, asthe saying goes. I do' know what the rah's abaht, but y' know, ole chap, no man should make sin--sin--sinuation he can't prove--in black an'white. " He looked from one to the other with engaging earnestness. "Life's--life's--slife's too short to quarrel, hearts are too precious tobreak, so shake hands and kissh and kiss and be frien's, for ole time'ssake. "

He was so overcome by the pathos of his own eloquence that he began tosob brokenly, clinging to the red-haired man. "We alwiz bin mates, ain'twe?" he added, trying to shake hands with him. Fired by his example, Louis made a grab at Marcella. He had entirely forgotten his fright, hisshame of a moment ago. 

"Thass ri', Marsh--Marcella. Kith--kith--kisssh an' be fren's! Ah, oui, oui, n'est ce pas? Ole Fred--no, no, Ole girl--voulez-vous coucher avecmoi?"

She looked at him, frowning. The unusual words--she had never heardFrench words before--worried her: she never afterwards was able to hearFrench without an acute sense of discomfort. He was smiling at her withopen mouth and wet eyes. She came quite close to him: he cringedunconsciously, and then lifted his face, expecting her to kiss him. Instead, she said in a low voice, close to his ear:

"You asked me to help you, Louis. Do you know the best way to help you?"

"Kith--baisez-moi--ah, oui, oui. "

"The best way to help you is to drown you. You're--you're not fit tolive! Oh, you're a perfect idiot!"

She turned and ran down below. Dimly she heard the schoolmaster say, "Very foolish to talk to an intoxicated man"; she heard the same boywho had begged her vine leaves singing his passionate love song to thetinkling music of his guitar and the lapping water. Then she was belowdeck, making blindly for her cabin. 

At the door of Number 15 she was arrested by Jimmy. He was standing inthe doorway, his head well back, his hands in his trouser pockets. 

"Marcella!" he whispered proudly. "Look!"

She made herself conscious of him and looked. On the outer bunk was acrumpled mass of clothing that was heaving up and down and snoringloudly. 

"He's there all right. I got him up when he wanted to be on the floor. He pinched my arm fearful. He's very strong, my Daddy is! He didn'tpinch it on purpose, he couldn't help it. "

Pushing back the sleeve of his jersey, he showed her a red mark as asoldier might show his scars. 

"Now he's fast asleep. Marcella, isn't he making a funny noise?" headded with the queerest cross between amusement and puzzlement on hissmall face. She suddenly realized what he was saying. 

"Oh, you little brave man, " she cried, taking him up in her arms andkissing him. He wriggled down quickly, and stood in the doorway again, on sentry duty. She forgot to take him with her. She had forgotteneverything save her instinct to be alone with her misery. 

CHAPTER X

It was not until the _Oriana_ left Port Said that Louis spoke toMarcella again. Three times he wrote to her demanding his money. Threetimes something got beyond and above the pride that told her to send itto him and have nothing else to say to him, and she refused definitelyto give him the money; she asked him to come and talk to her. But heentrenched himself behind the Ole Fred gang and speedily helped to makeit the nuisance of the ship. The germ of self-confidence and couragethat was entirely missing in his make-up was replaced by bombast underthe combined influence of whisky and boredom. Some day, perhaps, theiniquity of fastening up a small world of people in a ship for six weekswith nothing compulsory to do will dawn upon shipping companies, and thepassengers will be forced to work, for their own salvation. On boardship people drift; they drift into flirtation which rapidly becomeseither love-making or a sex-problem; they drift into drinking or, ifthey have no such native weakness, they become back-biting and badtempered. 

Marcella found herself drifting like the rest. A letter to Dr. Angus shehad begun to write the day after Naples asking him to explain the cause, treatment and cure of drunkenness, still awaited completion. She satbeside Louis's empty chair, physically too inert from want of strenuousexercise, and mentally too troubled to get a grip on anything. Napleshad shown her that Louis had not come into her life merely as ashipboard acquaintance to be forgotten and dropped when they reachedSydney, as she would forget and drop Mrs. Hetherington, the schoolmasterand Biddy. His talk of the coincidence of his coming by the _Oriana_ atall had made a deep dint on her Keltic imagination; his appeal to herfor help had squared beautifully with her youthful dreams ofDeliverance; the fact that he was the first young man who had evertalked to her probably had more than anything else to do with herpreoccupation, though she did not realize it. 

At Port Said she and Jimmy spent a stifling morning ashore amid the dustand smells of the native quarter. Turning a corner in the bazaarsuddenly they heard Louis's voice joined with the red-haired man's in afutile song they sang night and day: it was a song about a man who wentto mow a meadow; the second verse was about two men; the third aboutthree and so on, as long as the singer's voice lasted out. It was thered-haired man's boast that he had once kept up to five hundred. AsMarcella turned the corner she saw them sitting under some palm treesoutside a little cafe, bottles and glasses before them. Louis, wholooked dirty and unkempt, was facing her. He broke off and dartedtowards her. 

"I wan' my money, " he started. 

"You're not going to have it--even if you try to get it with a sledgehammer, as you said you might, " she said, white lipped. 

"You--you--you're keeping it for yourself!"

"Don't be such a fool, Louis. You know why I'm keeping it. If only you'dstop drinking for a day or two your mind would come clear and you'd talkto me. "

"Gi' m' my money, I tell you! Thas' why you hooked on to me, at first. You knew I was a gentleman! You guessed I'd plenty of money! Thas' whatyou want of me--you know the Pater's a well-known publisher, an' youthink you'll do a good thing for yourself. "

Marcella had a hard fight then; something told her that this was notLouis speaking. She remembered that he had told her that drinking was anillness. When Mrs. Mactavish had fever she remembered how the people inthe village had talked of the cruel things she had said to Mr. Mactavishand her sister, and it came to Marcella that Louis was no more to beblamed than she. But her native temper made her quiver to take him andshake some sense in him, whether he were ill or not. It was in astrained, quiet voice that she said:

"I'm not going to talk any more about it. You'll get it when you saygood-bye to me in Sydney, " and so she turned away. 

Just as the _Oriana_ sailed, about six o'clock she saw him come aboardalone. His face was swollen, his eye blackened by a bruise; his collarwas splashed with blood and his white drill suit very dirty andcrumpled. She had seen Ole Fred carried on board some time ago bysympathetic, rather maudlin friends. She guessed that war had flamed upbetween the incongruous allies. Mrs. Hetherington, rather breathlessly, confirmed her suspicion. 

"He fought about you--Ole Fred said you'd been in his cabin, and youngMr. Fame went for him, " she said enviously. 

"Of course I've been in his cabin. It's Jimmy's cabin--I had to getJimmy's clean things, " she said indignantly. 

Mrs. Hetherington put on an air of helpfulness. 

"You should always be so careful, dearie. I am. Oh _most_ careful! Inever let dear Mistah Petahs put more than the tip of his shoe over mydoorway. And as for going into his cabin--My _dear_! There is no need toprovoke scandal; you will learn as you grow older to do things morediscreetly. "

"Discreet! I hate the word! And Careful! I couldn't be careful!" shecried hotly, but Mrs. Hetherington tapped her playfully on the arm andturned away, murmuring, "Naughty, naughty!"

It was very quiet on deck that night, with Louis and Ole Fred both belowin their bunks; a few Arabs had come aboard and sat in a corner of thedeck eating their evening meal, which they could not take under the sameroof as unbelievers; afterwards, as the sun sank into the purpledistance of the desert leaving a sky like a palette splashed by achild's indiscriminating hand, they began an eerie, monotonous chantthat went on for hours. Later the stewards rigged up a canvas screenbehind which the women and children could sleep, for the heat of thedesert was making the lower cabins unbearable; mattresses were draggedhere and there, children put to sleep upon them; people walked about, stepping carefully over sleeping forms as the _Oriana_ crept along atfive miles an hour with a great searchlight forrard sending a huge fanof light on to the lapping waters of the Canal, and out into the brownsand of the desert. The schoolmaster became instructive about the rapidsilting up of the Canal with erosion and sand storms: he discussed thegenius and patience of de Lesseps, and argued lengthily on therespective merits of patience and genius. Finally, Marcella told himshe had a headache. He suggested that he could cure it. 

"I have some tabloids--very sedative, very. I make a point of neverbeing without them. You, I take it, have the same type of brain andnerve force as I--always active, always alert. What we both need is adepressant--pot. Brom. Or, as I prefer to call it, K. B. R. "

"Oh no--it's very kind of you. But I'd like best to go to bed. "

"May I carry your mattress up for you?"

"I'm not sleeping on deck. I couldn't sleep among so many people, " shesaid, and, after a hurried good night went below. 

As she paused at her cabin door she heard a little noise and guessedthat Jimmy was within. Opening it quickly, without switching on thelight, she cried, "Here comes a big bear to eat you all up, " as Jimmyoften did to her. She grasped someone, and cried out in fear. It wassomeone grown up, kneeling on the floor. 

She switched on the light and saw Louis looking up at her, blinking inthe sudden glare. 

"Oh, it's you. What do you want?" she said, breathlessly, though sheknew quite well. In his hand he held her little bank bag of orangecanvas in which the doctor had put ten pounds for her to spend on thetrip. 

"I w-want m--my--my m--money, " he began, trembling and afraid to meether eyes. 

"To buy more whisky and make yourself more horrible than ever?" shecried, standing with her back to the door. "Well, I'll not give it toyou, and if you knock me down and fight me I'll not give it you even. I'm a better fighter than you. "

"I w-want it--to--to--pay him back, " he cried and began to sob, violently dropping the money on the floor. "He--he said--you'd been inhis cabin and--and--and in m--mine! He s--said dev--devilish things. And I punched his ugly head for him! All for you! Be--be--becauseyou're--you're--Oh God, give me the money and let me pay him and thencut him dead. "

"Do you mean that you owe Ole Fred money?"

"Of c--course. How on earth have I managed since N-naples?"

"How much is it?"

"He's paid for a lot of drinks, but that doesn't count. I w-won a goodbit at poker, too. I b-borrowed sixteen pounds from him. "

"But, Louis, you hadn't sixteen pounds to pay him back with, " shecried. 

"Do you think I cared? Do you think I ever meant to pay him back?Anyway, he's helped spend it, and when we get to Sydney I shan't have toface him again, so I don't care a damn. I've g-given my credit note forten pounds when I land to--to--the barman, too. I'm b-broke, ole girl. "

He sobbed helplessly. 

"He offered me the money. People always do. They all think I'm well offwhen I tell them who the pater is. And so I should be if he wasn't sucha stingy old devil. "

His sobbing ceased, his face looked hard and cynical again. Marcellawatched him in amazement. She was not sure whether to be disgusted withhim or sorry for him. 

At last she spoke. 

"Louis--I don't understand a bit. Why did you do it?"

"Because he said rude things about you! He hates you! I only made himmy enemy for your sake--and now you won't let me cut adrift from him. That's just like all women! Once they get their claws on money there'sno getting them off again. "

"I'm not asking why you fought him, you idiot. I'm asking you why youmade such an idiotic mess of things at Naples. "

He sobbed for awhile, sitting on the floor, leaning his head on hertrunk where the broken lock dangled. She laid her hand on his head withan incontrollable impulse of pity; his hair was matted and dull asthough it, had not been brushed for years. 

"I c-can't explain it, even to myself, Marcella. But I--I th-think itw-was because I g-got a bit huffy with the idea th-that I was dependingon you for everything. I f-felt as if I was tied to your apron strings. I felt as if I was being a g-good little b-b-boy, you know. So I thoughtI'd kick a bit! But I w-was trying damned hard before. You know I was. "

She knit her brows and said, very slowly, as though she had not knownthe end of the sentence when she began to speak. 

"Louis--don't you--perhaps--think it's wrong--to try so hard? I mean, it's morbid to be always saying 'I'm a drunkard. If I don't keep myselfkeyed up every minute I'll fall--' Don't you think it would be better ifyou forgot all about it, and just said, 'I'm Louis Farne, the biggestthing that ever was in the annals of humanity. ' I don't know, but thatseems more sensible to me. You see, you're rather a self-willed sort ofperson, really. You like to have you own way. Then why on earth not haveyour own way with whisky. "

He stared at her and started in surprise, his jaw dropping. She lookedat the streaks of dust and blood on his face, through which his tearshad made blurred runnels. 

"I n-never thought of that before. Of course you're right--I ought tohave thought of it--even from the point of view of a psychologist. "

"I don't think it's anything to do with any 'ologists at all. It's justcommon sense. Louis, I've been thinking a lot this week. You know, whenfather used to get--ill--no, drunk (Why should I be afraid to tell thetruth, in spite of your sneers about poor father?) I was too wee to knowvery much. But knowing him as I do, I'm certain he tried and triedagain. After mother died he left whisky alone, though he still had it inthe house. He took to reading philosophy instead. You see, he was notlike you. There was a hardness, a bravery in him that you haven't got. You have cussedness instead and cussedness is a thing you can never besure of. You see, " she went on, flushing a little, and suddenly tossingher head proudly, "you don't understand this, and it may sound mostappalling snobbishness to you. But my father's people have always beenrulers--little kings--fighters, while yours have been just ordinary, protected folk. My people have had to fight for everything, even theirfood, their lands, their home. Yours have had shops and investments andpolicemen round every corner--there is a difference--Louis, am Ioffending you?" she asked anxiously. 

"Go on!" he said hoarsely. 

"Well, father tried. But trying wasn't any use. He read philosophy toget himself interested in something. But philosophy wasn't grippingenough. It seems we've all got to find something to anchor on, and it'sdifferent for almost everyone. That's where we can help each other bytrying to understand each other's needs and offering suggestions. Likesailors do--with charts and things. All this philosophy of father's! Itreminds me of a horse I saw once at Carlossie Fair. It had a mosthorrible ulcer on its shoulder and they'd tried to hide it up byplaiting its mane and tying it with a great heap of ribbons. Thatdoesn't cure anything! You know there's a phrase we use often aboutpeople who are miserable--we say, 'Oh, he needs to be taken out ofhimself. ' Isn't that a vivid way of putting it, if you stop to think?"

He nodded, and still stared fascinated at her, drinking in every slow, halting word. 

"I suppose father brooded just like you do. He used to get very grumpy, and very, very unhappy. He begged and pleaded with me for understanding, and I couldn't give it to him. Then one day he got dreadfully drunk, after a whole year away from it. And mother's cousin came. He talkedto father for five or six hours while Aunt and I kept shivering andthinking father would murder him. Our people usually do murder peoplewho annoy them. But Cousin came out of the room and said, 'Andrew hascast his burden on the Lord. ' He said it as if he was saying, 'Andrewhas sneezed, or put some coal on the fire'--the most ordinary way youcan imagine. And that was the end of whisky for father. After that hetried to make everyone he knew cast their burden on the Lord. I ratherfelt like laughing at the time. It seemed rather silly, and just a bitvulgar--most religion is, isn't it? But since I've been worrying myselfto death about you I've understood all about poor father. "

"I don't see it, " he said hopelessly. 

"Listen. Until father gave up trying himself and realized that he wasweak, he was--was--sort of hiding the ulcer with a bunch of ribbons. Butthe minute he gave up, everything was different. He didn't say any more, 'I'm Andrew Lashcairn, the son of generations of drunkards and madmen. 'He changed it and said, 'I'm God's man--I've given Him my homage andmade Him the Captain of my life. ' And then, don't you see, he stoppedbeing shut in inside himself any longer. He began to love me and begentle to me. Louis, do you know, I believe you're tackling this worryin the wrong way. It can't be right--being rude to me, growling all thetime about your father and mother--thinking, thinking, thinking all thetime about yourself and your weakness until the whole universe isyourself and your weakness. Can't you see how bad it is, you who are adoctor? You know the old saying about giving a dog a bad name andhanging him. Louis, you're giving yourself a bad name, and hangingyourself. "

"Oh, I say, Marcella, " he gasped. "Do you think--" he broke off, andgroaned again. 

"Louis, I _know_. I don't _think_ anything about it! The other day I wasreading a most extraordinary book the schoolmaster lent me. It was aboutSt. Francis of Assisi. It said that, by contemplation of the wounds ofChrist, in time he came to feeling pain in his hands and feet andside--"

"Balderdash!" muttered Louis impatiently. "Auto-suggestion!"

"Auto--what's that?" she asked. He explained and she cried out eagerly:

"Well, can't you see you're doing exactly the same thing? And you callit balderdash when other people do it! Those wounds of St. Francis werecalled the Stigmata--can't you see that you're giving yourself thestigmata of drunkenness?"

"I've got them, " he cried hoarsely. "I'm done. I'm even a thief. "

"Oh, you idiot! How sorry I am for my father! He used to call me anidiot, and have me to put up with. And now I've got you, and you're athousand times denser than ever I was! You're neither a drunkard nor athief, Louis. Look here, to begin with, how much do you owe Fred? Youshall have all I've got. If I give it to you you can't be a thief anymore. "

Between them they had just enough money for Fred and a few shillingsleft. He wept as she fastened it in an envelope and asked him to take italong to Fred's cabin at once. 

"I--I s-say, Marcella. I--I--d-daren't, " he groaned. "He'll ask me towet it. And I'll not be able to say no. And oh my God, I don't want todo it any more. "

"Then I'll take it, " she said promptly, and darted along with it toNumber Fifteen, listened while Ole Fred said every insulting thing hecould about Louis and all Louis's ancestors and then calmly asked himfor a receipt for the money. 

Louis was still sitting on the floor. He looked up, his bloodshot eyesappealing as he looked at her. 

"I say, M-m-marcella. I'm sorry I said all those nasty things about yourfather. "

"There you are again, Louis! Forget them all! Forget everything but thefuture now. I can't imagine where I've got this conviction from, butit's absolutely right, I know. If you'll wipe out all your memory andstart clean, you'll be cured. "

"I could never do as your father did--all that religion business. "

"I don't think I could, Louis. Father saw God as a militant Captain, someone outside himself. I'd never get thinking that about God. But itseems to me, in your case, you want to find someone you could trust, someone who would take the responsibility from you. Just as God did forfather. Even if we say there is no God at all, he thought there was andacted on his thought--I suppose it's when we feel weak as father didthat we get the idea of God at all. "

"It all seems rot to me, " he told her. "I laugh at God--as a relic offetishism. "

There was a long, hopeless silence. At last he said dully:

"There are some doctors--our old Dean at St. Crispin's, that I couldthrow myself upon as your father threw himself upon God. But they're nothere. "

As she sat, frowning, trying most desperately to help him, finding herunready brain a blank thing like the desert, realizing that, in all herreading there was nothing that could help, since there was no stronghelper in the world save that Strong Man God who had gripped herfather's imagination and could never grip Louis's, a whole pageant ofdreams passed before her; dreams, intangible ideas which she graspedeagerly--visions--she saw herself John the Baptist, "making straight theway of the Lord"--she saw Siegfried, King Arthur--and, with aheart-leaping gasp she asked herself, "Why should not I be Louis'sDeliverer? Why should not I be God's pathway to him? Why should not I beSiegfried?" And all the time her brain, peopled with myths, saw only theshining armour, the glittering fight; she did not see the path of Goddeeply rutted by trampling feet, burnt by the blazing footsteps of God. She heard herself as John's great crying voice and heeded the prisonand the martyrdom not at all: it was a moment's flash, a moment'srevelation. Then she turned to him. Her eyes were very bright. She spokerapidly, nervously. 

"Louis--that doctor you know--the Dean. Do you think they are the onlywise folks on earth? I mean, do you think wisdom begins and ends withwise people? I don't, you know. " she paused, frowning, not quite surewhere this thought was going to lead her. 

"They're the best chaps on earth, " he murmured. "I c-could have b-beenlike them. "

"But what is it makes them wise and fine? It's--I think--because theyget rid of themselves, and let God shine through them to other people. "

He turned impatiently. She caught his hot, damp, dirty hand in hers. 

"Louis, I don't know very much. I've proved I can't hold you very wellalready, but I care an awful lot. Louis--how would it be if you threw itall on to me for a while till either you believe in God or in yourself?And I've a sort of belief that, whichever you believe in first, you'llbelieve in the other automatically--I'm not a bit clever, Louis. I neverwas. Always I get puzzled, always I realize how utterly unlearned I am. Always father called me an idiot and threw things at me for it. But inspite of being a duffer I'm sure I can help you. "

"You could if you were with me every minute. I'd rather be with you thanmost people. But the minute I'm away from you I get dragged. "

"Well, why shouldn't I stop with you the whole time, never leave you aminute? Let's be married, and then I could. "

She looked at him anxiously. There was not a glimmer of shyness orexcitement about her. She was still in her dream world; she knew thatmarriage would keep them together always. So she suggested marriage. Shewas not, yet, consciously in love. 

He stared at her, stammered a little as he tried to speak and then, suddenly sobered, snatched at her hand. 

"Do you mean it, knowing what I am? I'm an awful waster, Marcella--there's nothing on earth I can do for a living. "

She frowned a little. 

"But that's nothing to do with it. We'll find some way of living. Youknow that. We'd have to if we were not married, wouldn't we? And stopall this about being a waster. You're not anything of the sort. You'renot anything but what you're going to be. "

"And you really, really, won't go back on it? I make so many promisesand break them. I can't believe other people much. "

"Of course I won't go back on it. I want to stay with you. I never wantto be with anyone else at all on earth. "

"But why?" he asked, humble for the first time in his life. 

"I haven't the slightest idea. You seem very clever to me. That's onething. And--and the way you _depend_. Oh dear, I feel I've got to kidnapboth you and Jimmy and run away with you to some safe place. "

"Good Lord!" he said, laughing harshly. "I'm just thinking of Violet. "

"Why? She can't mind, now she's married. "

"No. It was the idea of Violet's trying to kidnap me, and loving mebecause I depended on her. Lord, she did the depending. "

"That was why she wasn't any use to you, I suppose. Besides, Louis, youknow, I love you when you're not--not ill. And I love the way your eyeslook. "

"Good Lord, " he cried again, and started up sharply. "I say, Marcella, I'm off to have a bath. Wait here for me--" He peeped into her mirror. He had not shaved for a week and looked thoroughly disreputable. Holdingout his hand he looked at it earnestly. It shook, as he had expected. 

"Oh, I say, what a waster I look. I do hope to the Lord my hand's steadyenough for a shave. "

"Let me do it, " she said. "It would be fun. "

"I'm damned--Oh, I beg your pardon, old girl!--but I'm hanged if I'llnot make my hand steady. I'll do it, I tell you! If I cut myself inbits, serve me right! I'll be half an hour and then--then--well, wait!"

She heard him in his cabin, whistling as he dragged out his trunk, pushed it back roughly, dropped and smashed a tumbler and then rushedalong the alley-way. After awhile she heard him come back, heard thesound of violent brushing, heard him kick things and swear, drop things, bundle things about. She sat down on her trunk suddenly weak as sherealized what she had done. She had never thought of being marriedbefore; marriage seemed a thing for elderly people; there seemedsomething ungallant, something a little dragging about marriage thatrather frightened her. Her mother's marriage, she was beginning tounderstand, had been a thing of horror. She thought of those stifledcries in the night at the old farm, cries that she had thought meantthat ghosts were walking; she heard with terrible distinctness the voiceof the Edinburgh specialist as he said, "In my opinion the injury wascaused by a blow--a blow, Mr. Lashcairn. " Then, quite suddenly shelaughed. It was quite amusing to think of Louis's making anyone ill bya blow. 

"He'd never have fought Ole Fred if they hadn't both been drunk, " shesaid slowly, staring at the boards of the floor, and her quickimagination showed her the two of them, fighting ignobly, all dust andsweat and ill-aimed blows. They could only hurt each other because bothwere too unsteady to dodge futile lungings. There was nothing of theBerserk about Louis. 

Panic came to her. The things she realized about marriage were that itwas irrevocable, and that it meant a frighteningly close proximity; andin that swift vision of Louis's fight--even though it had been indefence of her--she had realized that it was utterly impossible forher to be with him for the rest of her life. 

"Oh how could I? How can I? How can I be glittering and shining with aman who is always crying? How can we be--be conquerors together when Inever, never think of him except as 'poor boy' or 'silly idiot'? Ohno--no--I can't! I can't! Even if I do save him, what is there in thatfor me? I want to shine--I daren't have hot, dirty, damp hands draggingat me. I can't. I must be free, uncaught--"

The cabin became a cage; she wanted to push out the strong steel platesand get out into the night: Louis's weakness, which had been all hisappeal to her, seemed an intolerable infliction, a cruel hoax on thepart of fate, just as though, for her shining lover, someone hadsubstituted a changeling stuffed with sawdust. 

"I must tell him. But it's so cruel of me. I'm cruel--but I must tellhim. "

In the next cabin he began to sing, rather jerkily, a song everyone onthe ship was singing just then. 

"Won't you come back to Bombombay?Won't you come back to Bombombay?I'm grieving, now you're leavingFor a land so far away. So sad and lonely shall I be, When you are far away from me. "

It was not the tipsy singing she had heard in the morning; it was jumpy, tuneless singing; she guessed that it was assisting in the process ofshaving, for she heard a few "damns" peppering the song, which suggestedthat his shaky hand was wielding the razor badly. And with the song camepity that swamped disgust and disillusion. It seemed so sad to her that, when hope dawned upon him, he should celebrate it by singing a piece ofsentimental, however haunting, doggerel. To go there and tell him thatshe, too, was going to break promises, to change her mind--it wasimpossible. It was like breaking promises to a little child. Came ablinding flash of self-realization. 

"Marcella Lashcairn, " she said, standing under the white flare of theelectric light and facing herself squarely in the little mirror, whichshowed her two scornful grey eyes, "You're a hypocrite! You think it'svery splendid and grand to save a big, grown-up man from getting drunk. That's only because you're a girl and are flattered at his dependence onyou. If you saw any other girl acting as you do you'd say it was sheerimpudence! And you think it's very wonderful that anyone so clever asLouis should notice you. You're flattered, you see--that's self-love, not Louis-love! Oh very beautiful! And you're such an illogical sort ofidiot that you want to save him, and yet you want him so splendid andshining that he doesn't need any saving. Oh go--get out--all of you!"and she waved her hand to her dreams and sent the shining Lover ridingon on his quest without her. It was just as she used to talk to thegulls and the winds on Ben Grief--when she was having things out withherself before. "I've taken the man I want--as all the Lashcairns dounless they are like Aunt Janet and--Oh, anyway, I'd rather be killedthan be like her. It's rather illogical to growl at my choice the minuteI've made it. "

Before she could stop herself she was out of the cabin; she did not stopto think that Louis might be embarrassed: she dashed into his cabin. Hewas fastening his tie. 

"Louis, " she cried, and stopped breathless. He seemed very different asshe looked over his shoulder into the mirror. Cold water had removed thetraces of a week's neglect; the razor had done a good deal, too, and aclean suit had transformed him. His eyes were different: there was alight of resolution in them and they met hers direct. She scarcely knewhim. 

"Hello!" he said and let the tie hang as he stared at her. 

"Where's the other man who used to sleep in here?" she asked. That wasnot what she had intended to say when she came in. 

"He's gone. He was on the way to Cairo. I've got it to myself now. "

"Oh--"

"Marcella, " he said solemnly. "You really mean it? You're not going tolet me down? Violet let me down--and I'm always letting people down. Ican't trust people now. "

"Supposing I'd wanted to marry Violet, I'd have married her, " she said, her brow puckered. "And I wouldn't _be_ let down. "

"No, I suppose you wouldn't, " he said, slowly. 

"Louis--" she began again, breathlessly, and then let the words out in atorrent. "Louis, I _know_ I've got to marry you. Do you understand that?It's--it's inevitable. It was from the minute I met you. You'll neverunderstand that, not being a Kelt, though. I know it quite well. And I'mafraid I'm going to shy at it. And, for my sake as well as yours, I'venot to shy. Louis, will you grab me tight?"

He stared at her, utterly at a loss. He did not begin to grasp what shemeant. To him she was just "fickle woman" always changing her mind. Hehad, all his life, generalized about woman; he had never known a womanwho was not rather vapid, rather brainless; he had the same idea ofwomen as Professor Kraill had ventilated in his lectures--that they werethe vehicles of the race, living for the race but getting all the funthey could out of the preliminary canter, since the race was a ratherstrenuous, rather joyless thing for them. And it was in men they foundthe fun. Yet here was Marcella, who was quite different from anythingfeminine he had ever seen or imagined, suddenly appealing to him not tolet her be fickle. Immediately he felt very manly, very responsible. Then he laughed. 

"_Quis custodiet ipsos custodies?_" he said, looking into her eyes. 

"Father often said that. What does it mean?"

"Who'll look after the looker-after?" he said, with a laugh. "Here's mebegging you to look after me and save me from going to hell. And here'syou asking me to grab you for fear you'll change your mind. I wonderwhich is going to have the hardest job?"

She looked at him and said hurriedly:

"Louis, couldn't we be married now--to-night? In Scotland we do, youknow--just in any room without church or anything. "

"But--I wish we could!" he said, his hands beginning to shake. 

"I want to be sure--"

"I'm afraid we can't, " he said, anxiously. "I'm afraid we'll have towait till we get to Sydney. "

Unexpectedly memory brought back the thought that when he became engagedto Violet he had kissed her and held her in his arms; he remembered itvery well. To get to the necessary pitch of courage he had had to getvery drunk on champagne, for champagne always made him in a generallykissing and love-making mood that involved him often with barmaids andstreet ladies. He knew very well that he would never have thought ofmaking love to Marcella: if she had not taken things into her own hands, they would have parted in Sydney, necessary as he considered her to hiswell being, much as he liked to be near her. He had, even through hisself-satisfied alcohol dream, seen her disgusted looks at Naples when hehad spoken to her. He guessed that the sort of half-maudlin love-makingthat had won Violet would never suit Marcella. And he knew beyond theshadow of doubt that no power on earth save whisky could ever get him tomake love to anything--even a young girl who seemed in love with himalready. 

He was extraordinarily shy with and cynical about women. He had alwaysbeen detested by the servants at home--more or less unjustly. He spoketo them abominably because he was frightened of their sex. Had he notbullied them when he wanted small services performed, they never wouldhave been performed at all, for he would have had no courage to askcivilly for anything. To his sister's friends when he was forced intotheir company he was boorish, simply because girls put him into such apanic of inferiority that, in self defence, he had to assert himselfunnaturally. Years ago his sister had refused to make one of a theatreor concert party that included Louis; either he got drunk in theinterval and rejoined them later, making them conspicuous by hisbehaviour, or else he sat at their side glowering and boorish, afraideven to look at the players on the stage, too shy even to negotiate thepurchase of chocolates or programme. The last time he had been at thetheatre with his sister and Violet had been after a whole fortnightwithout whisky. They were rather late; the play had begun. His sisterhad whispered to him to get a programme. Afraid of being conspicuous hehad refused; she had ordered him to get it. People behind had hissed"Hush" indignantly and finally Violet, with a contemptuous smile, hadbought programmes and chocolates for herself and the sister, cuttingLouis dead. 

But whisky transformed him from a twitching neurotic into amegalomaniac. He imagined that every woman he met was in love with himindecently and physically; without whisky he saw women in veils andshrouds; whisky made him see them with their clothes off, their eyesfull of lewd suggestion. Even to the elderly suburban ladies who visitedhis mother he was tipsily improper. To find a girl like Marcella, whodid not put him either in a fever or a panic of sexuality was supremelyreassuring: she seemed to him like a nice man friend might be--though henever had been able to acquire a man friend. He was intensely gratefulto her for marrying him: he was not her lover; he was her dependent: hewas treating her as he might have treated the old Dean at the hospital, or as her father had treated God. But--his conventional sense told himto kiss her and make her "just a girl. "

He took both her hands in his and drew her towards him. Her eyes, whichbegan by being startled, grew suddenly soft, as his face came close tohers and his eyes looked into hers for a wavering second before theydropped awkwardly and looked at her cheek. And then he kissed her. Ittook a long time. It took just as long as it takes to transform a wholesystem of reasoned thinking into something chaotic, nebulous. Thechances are that, had that kiss never happened to Marcella, she wouldhave gone on with her dreams of deliverance, her ideals of a high roadthrough life. Louis's lips opened a locked door in her personality. Whenhe let her go again she looked at him, rather frightened and bewildered. She was trembling almost unbearably; her face, usually the fairestwhite, made gold by the sun and the wind, was flushed; her grey eyeswere deep blue; her mind, for the while, was a blank. 

"Oh Louis!" she gasped. 

"Marcella--" he began but she seized his hands again. 

"Oh Louis, please do it again. " That time she closed her eyes and wasonly conscious of thinking that, if the ship went down, it would notmatter just so long as nothing interrupted the kiss. 

"Dear little girl, " he whispered, and ceased to feel frightened of her. As he saw the tremendous effect his kisses had on her, masculinesuperiority put pokers into his backbone and made him feel a very finefellow indeed. He had no time to think what his kisses had done toMarcella. All that he grasped was that she was not like Violet who haddrawn away from him to lead him on further; who had flirted with him andteased him seductively, and made him pay dearly for kisses by pleadingsand humiliations: who had never given anything, and had never come oneinch of the way to meet him. 

"I say, Marcella, " he said, as he let her go. "Don't you know anythingat all about the art of lying? Can't you lie?"

She frowned at him. He went on quickly. 

"I've never met a girl yet who admitted that she liked a man to kissher. They lie and lie--they put up barriers every minute. "

"There can't be barriers between us, Louis. I'd rather die than havebarriers, " she said quietly, though she did not realize why, or what sheimplied. 

CHAPTER XI

Looking back in after years on the six weeks of the voyage Marcella sawthem as days and nights coloured by madness and storms through whichJimmy went like a little wistful ghost, hanging on to her hand, the onlything in grey tones amidst splashes of wild colour. Many a time in thesun-drowned days and windless nights Marcella was reminded of those oldtales she had heard on Lashnagar from Wullie's lips, of the hot summerwhen the witch-woman came and men went mad just before the destructioncame on the village. It was as though the _Oriana_ went on ploughingthrough the waters, with the Dog-Star hitched to her masthead inflamingmen's blood. Marcella was in a state of puzzlement. She was puzzled atherself, puzzled at Louis, puzzled at the people round her. Men wentabout barefoot in pyjamas, women in muslin nightdresses all day afterSuez; in the Indian Ocean, one blazing day, they ran into the tail of amonsoon; the lower decks were swamped and the steerage passengers weresent on to the upper decks, where Marcella and Louis sat surrounded byhalf a dozen forlorn children whose parents had succumbed to thepitching of the ship and the heat. Great walls of green, unfoaming waterrose sullenly and menacingly higher than the ship, which tossed like aweightless cork; seas came aboard with an effect of silence; down inthe saloon glasses, crockery and cutlery crashed to the deck with amomentary fracture of the deadly quiet which seemed all the more silentafterwards: occasionally a child screamed in fright and was hushed by analmost voiceless mother, while stewards went about with trays of iceddrinks, slipping to the deck in a dead faint now and again with amomentary smash that was swallowed to silence immediately. Underneaththe sulky, heaving water lurked death, silent and sharp, from which theshoals of flying fishes escaped for the moment by soundless, silvery, aimless poising in the blue air, only to fall back exhausted again intothe green water and the waiting white jaws. Some of the fishes floppedon board, and were put out of life by the blows of the sailors who driedand stuffed them and sold them afterwards to the passengers. To Marcellaeverything seemed cruel and mad and preying. The passengers werecruel--to each other and to the stewards; one day, going into the saloonby chance, she found Knollys leaning over a table looking white andsick, as he tried to polish spoons and forks. 

"Are you ill?" she asked him. 

"There's only two of us--including me--that haven't crocked up, " hesaid; "people don't seem to think it's hot for us, or that we feel fedup at all. That Mrs. Hetherington seems to think I'm a private sort oflady's maid to her alone. All these women do--sitting about in deckchairs calling 'Steward' all day long! In the third class alone there'ssix stewards in hospital! And only yesterday I caught it from the Chiefbecause the cutlery hadn't been polished--not that that's my job at all, really--"

The next moment Knollys fell over in a dead faint, and copying what shehad seen him do when passengers fainted, Marcella fetched a pillow fromher cabin, laid it under his back on the floor and left him while shepolished the cutlery. Louis found her there and they came near tofighting about it. 

"What on earth are you doing?" he asked in amazement. 

"Poor Knollys has gone down, " she said, thinking that adequateexplanation. 

Louis looked at him casually. Marcella was coming to understand that helooked upon illness with a certain hardness and lack of pity thatsurprised her; he was immensely interested in it, he liked to dabble init, but not from a passion of healing nearly so much as from curiosityand technical interest. To him, in illness, curing the patient matteredinfinitely less than beating the disease. He had a queer snobbishnessabout illness, too, that amazed her. To him Knollys, a steward, illmeant infinitely less than the illness of a member of his own classwould have meant. This struck Marcella as illogical. To her it seemedthat, in illness at least, all men were brothers. 

"There's a stoker just died of heat apoplexy: there'll be a funeralpresently, " he said coolly. "What on earth are you doing?"

"People are so unkind. Knollys got into trouble yesterday because thesesilly things were not clean, " she said, polishing away furiously. 

"But you can't do the work of a servant, " he said, aghast. 

"I can. Of course I can. I often have. I've worked in the fields withthe men, and I've milked the cows and made the butter. Oh, lots ofthings--"

"Oh well, I suppose a farmer's daughter can do those things, Marcella. But, look here, old girl, when we're married you'll have to be on yourdignity a bit. "

She flushed a little and the storm light came into her eyes. Louis didnot see it. He sat on the edge of the table, and expostulated with herfor a long time. But she went on until the last spoon was polished. 

"Don't you think we'd better get something for Knollys? Sal volatile oriced water, or something?" she said at last, looking at her black hands. 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

"Oh, leave him alone. It's typical of the servant class to be bowledover on the slightest provocation. I expect, as a matter of fact, he canhear what we're saying now. He's got you taped pretty well and knew thatif he worked on your sympathies you'd do his work while he miked about. The working class is always like that--no backbone. "

She wondered if he were joking, but she saw from his solemn face that hemeant it all, and she gathered that he considered himself very muchbetter than Knollys. He did not see the contemptuous amusement in herface, and went on, stammering a little because he had at last broughthimself to say something that had been on his mind for days. 

He lit a cigarette nervously, fumbled with a bunch of keys in histrousers pocket and then, looking at her dirty hands, said:

"L-l-look here, old girl. I d-don't w-want to quarrel with you. But Iw-want you to f-face things a bit. Y-you s-see--you've been used to aclass of society quite different from mine. You know--look here, I say, I don't want you to go making _faux pas_. "

"What do you mean?" she asked ominously. 

"That's French for mistakes, don't you know--mistakes in--er--well, whatone might call breeding, don't you know. Y-you know--associating withstewards and--and--common people like Jimmy, for instance. He's the verylowest bourgeois type. "

"Much lower, I suppose, than Ole Fred, and those drinkers in NewZealand, isn't he?" she said calmly, her eyes glinting. He flushed hotlyand looked hurt. Immediately she was sorry. 

"There, I'm sorry, Louis. I ought not to have said a thing like that. Itwas unforgivable. But you do talk like an idiot. How on earth can onemake mistakes in breeding? Oh, you and I talk different languages, that's all, and it's not any use at all trying to think and talk thesame. "

"Well, I know more of the world than you do, and you must let me teachyou, Marcella. Oh, I know you're--you're braver and stronger morallythan I. But, you know, when we get to Sydney and are married we'll haveto stay in hotels and--and--I don't want my wife making _faux pas_. It'dbe just like you--you're such a dear, really--to go doing thingsservants ought to do--in public, I mean, and make a fool of me. "

She looked at him and smiled reminiscently and rather cruelly. But helooked so solemn, so serious that, in sheer mischief, she told him thatshe would be very careful not to make him conspicuous by her blunders. And then she asked him an unexpected question. 

"Louis, did you write and tell your father you didn't want any moremoney?"

He took out his packet of cigarettes--he never possessed a cigarettecase, such things were to be turned into money too easily. His handswere trembling as he struck a match. 

"Yes--I--t-told him, " he said jerkily. 

"What did you say about me?" she asked curiously. 

He pondered for a moment. At last he decided to be honest. 

"I didn't tell him. "

"Didn't you, Louis?" she said, looking hurt. "Why?"

"He'd only think you were a waster. He wouldn't think anyone but awaster would marry me. If I told him you were a Scotch farmer's daughterhe'd picture something in short skirts, red cheeks and bare legs thattalked like Harry Lauder. Or else he'd think I was lying, and had gotoff with a barmaid and wasn't married at all, and was living on somegirl. They'd always think the worst of me, at home. I'm not even goingto tell the Mater--"

She thought for some minutes. 

"I don't much care, " she said at last. "I think your father's rather ahorrible man, but I may be wrong about him. My impressions of him areformed from yours, you see. It seems that no one but a most inhuman mancould kick his son out. But then--well, I don't know just how much youworried him. But I'd have liked you to tell your mother. She looked sogrieved that day on the tender, and she was crying so miserably. I'dhave liked her to know you were taken care of. "

"She wouldn't believe it, either, Marcella, " he said gloomily. "And youdon't know my Mater. The very fact that you were in the steerage wouldmake her think you couldn't possibly be any good in the world. If I toldher you cleaned spoons and forks for a steward she'd think you did itfrom habit because you'd been someone's servant. They've noimagination--"

"All mothers have, I'm sure, " she told him. "I'd have liked your motherto be my friend. I'd have liked to write to her about you--"

"God forbid, " he said fervently, and once more she gave way. 

Later on that day they discussed ways and means. His definite picture ofgetting married and staying in hotels in Sydney had made the dreamconcrete. She had hitherto simply seen them both glittering along in anaura of Deliverance. Right at the back of her mind she still clung topictures of knightly mail, obtained from she had not the slightest ideawhere. But that fitted badly with hotels in Sydney and conventions hewas going to teach her. In the evening they went to their favourite seaton the anchor and watched the phosphorescence shimmering away in ghostlypaths to the star-splashed sky. 

"Louis, " she said hurriedly, "how much does it cost you to get marriedin Australia?"

"Lord knows, I don't, " he said, sitting up sharp. "There's a music-hallsong about 'She cost me seven and sixpence; I wish I'd bought a dog. 'But that's in England. I've a hazy notion that it's much more expensivein Australia than England. Why?"

"I'm wondering how we're going to do it. We've about eleven shillingsin the world--you see, uncle is meeting me in Melbourne. I had a cableat Port Said to say so. And I'm afraid I'll have to do a little evasion. I don't know him at all, but he may think it his duty to see that I gowith him to Wooratonga. Or he may enquire into your prospects likeuncles do--"

"Good God!" he said, throwing his cigarette overboard and staringstraight at her in horror. "I hadn't thought of that. "

"Nor had I. It was all just romance till you mentioned it to-day, andthen--probably because I was doing such a prosaic thing as cleaningspoons and forks, I saw all the details for the first time. Weddingrings are made of gold. They must cost a tremendous lot of money. And ifbeing married is only seven and sixpence, I don't see how we are goingto spare seven and sixpence out of eleven shillings--we've got to eatsomething, and live somewhere. You can't eat marriage licences, nor usethem as shelter. I've seen one once, belonging to Mrs. Mactavish. Shekept it sewed inside the lining of her bodice, all among the bits ofwhalebone that made her stand up straight. It's a crackly thing like acheque--"

"Oh, do stop talking nonsense, " cried Louis, suddenly desperate whenfaced with a problem. "Marcella, what are we going to do? Oh, why did Ispend that money? Why were you such a fool as to pay it back to Fred?He's drunk it all by now. It did him no good, and think how useful itwould have been to us!"

"Don't be so idiotic! As if I'd be married with money belonging to him!My goodness! The best thing is not to be married at all, until we'veworked for some money. "

"Oh yes, " he cried bitterly. "Just like a woman, backing out now thingsare a bit difficult! I tell you, if we're parted when we get to SydneyI'll be in with the first waster that comes along and start the wholebeastly pub-crawl again--"

"But--eleven shillings, Louis!" she said, laughing at the absurdity ofit. 

"We've _got_ to get the money!" he cried wildly. "If I do a burglary!Look here, Marcella, the only thing is for me to get boozed and borrowit! If I had half a dozen whiskies I'd go to the Governor-Generalhimself and get it out of him! But if I were not boozed I couldn'task--ask even for the job of gorse-grubbing or road sweeping. I haven'teven the courage to ask you for a kiss if I'm not boozed. "

He looked at her. His eyes were infinitely pathetic. 

"Is there anyone about?" she whispered. 

"Only the man in the crow's-nest, " he said, "why?"

"Never mind him--give me a kiss, Louis. I'm not frightened, if you are!"she whispered softly, and half awkward and shy he held her in his arms, gathering courage as he felt how she trembled, and guessed how hiskisses made her soft and helpless in his arms. "Let's forget worries fora while--we'll never be sitting on an anchor in the Indian Ocean again, in a sea of ghost lights, shall we, Louis?"

"Say 'Louis dear, '" he ordered, gathering courage, kissing her hand. Shesaid it, a little hesitatingly. 

"We never say words like that at home, " she whispered. "Only mother did, because she was English--"

"I'm English, too. I like words like that. Now say 'Louis darling. '"

"It sounds as if you're a baby. "

"So I am--Marcella's baby, " he whispered. "Say 'Louis darling. '"

"I can't, Louis, " she said uneasily, "I can't _say_ love things. I canonly do them. I love you--oh, most dreadfully, but I can't talk aboutit. "

She buried her face on his shoulder. Through his thin canvas coat shecould feel his heart thumping as hers was. 

"I'm going to kiss that funny little hollow place at the bottom of yourneck, " she whispered in a smothered voice. "What a good thing you don'twear collars in the Indian Ocean! Louis, tell me all the funny Latinnames for the bones in your fingers, and I'll kiss them all--I can't saysilly words to you like--like Violet could. "

After a while he tried to carry his point. 

"Now say 'Louis darling, '" he insisted. 

She shook her head. 

"Why can't you be like an ordinary girl?" he objected, holding her tightso that he could look into her face. "Ordinary girls don't mind callinga chap darling. "

"I can't, anyway. I _never_ can talk much, unless I'm simply taken outof myself and made to. I can't imagine what we'll find to talk about allthe time when we're married. But--do you know, whenever we get up herein the dark like this, I always wish it was Sydney to-morrow, and wecould be married. I hate to be away from you a minute; I wish we couldbe together all day and all night, without stopping for meal times--"

"You've got the tropics badly, my child, " he said, laughing a littleforcedly, as he tried to light a cigarette with trembling fingers andfinally gave it up. 

"Why? Do people love each other more in the tropics?" she asked. "Youlove me, don't you?"

"Of course I do. But girls are not supposed to talk about it like mendo. Girls have to pretend they don't feel all wobbly and anyhow, becauseit's more fun for a man when a girl doesn't hurl herself at him. "

"But why pretend? Why not be honest about it?" she said, her voice alittle flat. "You want me to love you, don't you?"

"Course I do. But you're so queer. Most girls let a chap do thelove-making. They dress themselves up--all laces and ribbons and things, and pretend they're frightened to make a chap all the keener. "

She thought it out, sitting up as straight as possible. 

"I couldn't, Louis, " she said decidedly. "I've read that in books, yearsago. I didn't understand it then, but I do now. And I think it'shorrible. Father had a lot of books about those things and I read themto him when he was ill. I was looking one up again the other day--thatday you threw the teapot in the sea. " And she told him about the"preliminary canter. "

"Well, that's absolutely right, " he said coolly. "Women are like that. They're specialized for sex. Don't you admit that you've no brains?You've told me so many a time, and your father always said you were anidiot. And don't you admit that when I kiss you--especially here in thetropics where everything is a bit accelerated--you feel different--allwobbly--?"

She nodded, looking startled. 

"Well, what does it mean? It simply means you're specialized. Yes youare, Marcella. Specialized as a woman. All this--this liking to bekissed, and feeling wobbly. They're Kraill's preliminary canter. "

"Oh no--no!" she cried in horror. 

"Oh, yes, yes!" he mocked, laughing at her gently. 

"But Louis, how horrible!"

"Well, you're always preaching honesty and facing facts, " he saidbluntly. 

"Yes--" she said thoughtfully. "But--I don't like it. I hate it. I don'tbelieve Kraill thinks like that, really--I've read three of his coursesof lectures and in all of them he doesn't seem to approve of women beinglike that. Just vehicles of existence or bundles of sensation. He seems, to me, to resent women. "

"Yes--after many love adventures, " he began. 

"But--don't you think all the time he was just getting his education?Like I am? A month ago I'd have been horrified at the thought of kissingyou. Now I like it. A few months ago I loathed the thought of having abody--and just everything connected with it. Now, ever since that day Iwas getting my nice frock ready to go with you to Pompeii I've notminded it a bit. All the time, now, I wish I was nicer. "

"Because you've fallen in love, my child, " he said, smiling in supremesuperiority. "And falling in love instructs even fools. "

"It's taught me some very lovely things the last few days, Louis, " shesaid dreamily. "It's taught me that I've to be very shining, for you. And it's taught me that I'd die for you very happily. But what you'vejust said--about kissing--has suddenly taught me something very beastly. I wanted to love you with my soul and my mind. And now you say it's thehot weather!"

"Well, so it is, dearie. Love's not a spiritual nor a mental thing. It'spurely physical. A love affair is always a thousand times swifter underthe Southern Cross than under the Great Bear. And it's a million timesswifter on board ship than anywhere else because people are thrown intosuch close contact. They've nothing to do and their bodies get slack andpampered, and they eat heaps too much. It's like the Romans in the dyingdays of Pompeii--eating, drinking and physical love-making. One day Iheard Kraill say in a lecture that men and women can't work together, inoffices or anything, or scientific laboratories becausethey--well--they'd get in each other's light and make each otherjumpy. "

"And do you believe it?"

"Course I do, " he said. "Even if you had the brains or the knowledgefor--say research work, I couldn't work with you. I'd be thinking of theway your lips look when they're getting ready to kiss me; and of yourwhite shoulders that I can just catch a peep of when you sit a littleway behind me, in that white blouse with little fleur-de-lys on thecollar. Naturally if I tried to work then, the work would go to pot. "

"But--" she tried to control her voice, which shook in spite of herself, "do you--think of those things--about me?"

"Of course. All men do about their women. "

"It's horrible, " she gasped, frowning at the Southern Cross. "Anddoesn't it mean that men are specialized, too?"

"Not a bit of it! Men have to do the work of the world. Women are justthe softness of life. "

"Cushions for men to fall on?" she said mischievously. 

"No, half-holidays when he's fed up with work. " He looked at her, laughing at her indignant face. "Why be superior, Marcella? You're justas bad as anyone else, only you're not used to it and haven't thought ofit before. Who likes being kissed?"

"Oh, but it wouldn't get in the way of my work, " she cried, flushinghotly. 

"Wait till you try it, dear child. The first time I ever got the fevertaught me a lot. It wasn't love, of course. "

"When you loved Violet?" she asked in low tones. 

"Oh Lord no! This was a little French girl who picked me up when I wassquiffed after I'd passed the First. About twenty of us--all from St. Crispin's--had been up for the First. We all passed but two, and we allhad to get drunk to buck those two up. We went to the Empire and kickedup such a gory din that we were helped out. A little mamzelle from thePromenade took charge of me. I--I hadn't thought about those things muchbefore. At home they were taboo. I'd always been terrified of girls--IfI hadn't been drunk then I'd never have done it. I thought itunutterably beastly. For months after that I was afraid to look theMater in the face. I thought she was unutterably beastly, as well, justbecause she was a woman. It made a tremendous dint on me. "

Marcella grasped about a tenth of what he meant. The rest sank into hermind to puzzle her later. But something sprang to the top of herconsciousness and raised a question. 

"Louis, " she said quickly, "That night at Naples--when you were naughty. You talked French to me. I don't know what you said, but theschoolmaster looked shocked. "

He flushed. 

"Yes, I've been told that before. I always do talk French if I meet agirl when I'm boozy. I used to, to Violet, and she was--oh frightfullydisgusted. And once I did to my sister! She, unfortunately, understandsFrench. I suppose it's a good thing you don't. "

"Louis, do you say--_wrong_ things in French" she whispered. "Things--you know, beastly things?"

He hesitated a moment and an impulse of honesty made him tell her thetruth. 

"Yes, I believe I say perfectly appalling things. You see--it's likethis. I'm a queer inhibited sort of thing, dear. I'm always--till youtook me in hand--fighting drink. I'm in a state of fighting andinhibiting. I've always been like that. Even when I was a little kid Iwas afraid to be natural because I was taught that the natural impulsewas the wrong one. I sometimes want to say something frightfullycharming to you, and don't for fear it's silly. I'm always wonderingwhat people will think of me--because I'm so often wrong, you know. "

"I just don't care what anyone says or thinks, " she broke in. 

"There's the difference between us, then. Well, you see, being anordinary, average sort of human being, I think a lot about girls and allthat. Only deep down is the puritanical old idea that it's wicked to doso. Really, honestly, Marcella, I'm not pulling your leg--when I firststarted dissecting at the hospital, I felt horribly indecent. It was afemale thigh! I felt as if it ought to be clothed, somehow--I sort ofkept thinking the Pater or someone would come into the lab, and round onme for being immoral. If it had been a male thigh I wouldn't have careda brass tanner!"

"It must be awful to have barriers in your mind, " she pondered. 

"It was just the same with booze. If I had a beer or a whisky in theclub as all the others did, I saw the Pater disembodied before me, andhad another to give me the courage necessary to face him. Everything, you see, everything--girls, drink, curiosities, courtesies, kindness--all got lumped together as things to keep in hand. I got in afever of self-consciousness. I do now. I think everyone is watching andcriticizing me. Then, you see, when I'm drunk, the watch I set on myselfis turned out to grass and I get a damned good rest. I let myself rip!In my sober moments I daren't go and order tea for the Mater in abunshop because I'm petrified with terror of the waitress. When I'mdrunk I'd barge into a harem. That first affair--with the Frenchgirl--was a tremendous thing to me. Most boys have played about withthat sort of thing before that age. They looked down on me because Ihadn't. But it made such a deep dint on my brain that whisky and sex andFrench are all mixed up together and the one releases the other. "

She sighed. 

"I do wish Dr. Angus was here, Louis, " she said. "I wish I understoodbetter. "

"You understand better than Violet did. She used to stay at our place agood deal, you know, and go with us to the seaside and to Scotland. Evenwhen I was right off whisky she used to drive me to it. Evening dress, you know. Oh, frightfully _evening_! And--in a queer old place we stayedin in Scotland once there were heaps of mice. She used to run out of herroom in the middle of the night saying she was frightened of them. Andthen I had to carry her back, and rub her feet because they'd got cold. She was rather a maddening sort of person, you know. She'd lead one onto biting one's nails and tearing one's hair and then she'd laugh andkiss her hand and run away with my sister into her bedroom. And they'dboth laugh. She understood the value of being a woman, did Violet. Andshe didn't let herself go cheap--I used to get the key of the tantalusand cart a whole decanter of whisky to bed to get over it. If she'd justhave let me kiss her--"

He paused, frowning reminiscently. 

Marcella sighed, and laid a cool, firm hand on Louis's. 

"Louis--I think I'm--cheap. "

"So are air and water, dearie, " he cried, with sudden passion thatsurprised her. 

"I don't think I'll ever understand men, though. Wine, women and songthey seem to lump together into a sort of tolerated degradation. "

"I don't know much about song, but women and wine are certainly to belumped together. They're both an uncontrollable hunger. And they giveyou a thick head afterwards! You say that Professor chap in his lecturesresents women. Of course he does. Don't you think I resent whisky?Wouldn't any man resent the thing that makes dints in him, makes himundignified, body and soul, and gives him a thick head and a sense ofrepentance? I guess I look a pretty mucky spectacle when I'm drunk. Isee myself afterwards, and can imagine the rest. Well, a man in thethroes of a woman orgy is just as undignified--even if he doesn'tlurch--oh and slobber! I've never heard that your Professor drinks. Thatdoesn't happen to be his hunger, you see. But if he drank to the sameextent as he has love-affairs he'd be in an asylum now; and if he were awoman he'd be on the streets! No woman--even if she were a GrandDuchess--would be tolerated with the same number of sex affairs as a mancan have. She'd just have to be a prostitute out and out--withoutchoice--or else keep herself in hand. "

"Like Aunt Janet, " murmured Marcella to herself, "and come to aciddrops. "

Aloud she said. "Louis--I wish you wouldn't tell me. I always think ofclever men like Kraill as gods and heroes--I hate to think they haveholes in them. They have such wonderful thoughts. "

"That's the devil of it. I know they have. He has--Kraill. I've been tohis lectures and felt inspired to do anything. They most of them thinkmuch better than they can do, that's about the size of it! I suppose weall do that more or less, but we don't put it on paper to be used inevidence against us. We think fine things and do smudged ones, and sothe world goes on. "

There was a long silence. She crept a little closer to him and put herhand into his. He held it tight. It was almost as if her world wereshaking about her and even his unsteady hand seemed some support. 

At last she said, as if talking to herself. 

"Louis--can't something be done for us all? Can't we have these thingscut out of us like cancers? Can't we get rid of these horrible desiresas we've lost tails and hair and things we don't need? Then in timepeople would be born without them. Louis--you don't think--think of melike that, do you--as a--a hunger? As something you must have if youdon't have whisky, or as something that will drive you to whisky if I goaway as Violet did?"

"I'm--I'm afraid I do, old girl, " he said. "It's natural--I say, Marcella--you're only a kid. I don't believe you quite realize whatyou've taken on--in that way. "

She looked startled. Then she laughed gaily. 

"I'm not afraid of my part of it, Louis, " she said, "but I can't helpthinking that if I'm to be--as you put it--a sort of hunger substitutedfor whisky, we're all wrong. Suppose I died, for instance?"

"Marcella, if you die I shall die too. Anything else is unthinkable. Ican't face life without you, now. I can't be a pariah again. You're ahunger to me. I'll admit it. But you're more. You're a saviour. And--youdon't know anything about it, dearie. But when we're married you will, and I suppose I'll be just the same sort of hunger to you, then. It's nouse blinking your eyes to it. And--be damned glad I love you, and am notlike some sort of men. Otherwise--well, Lord knows what would havehappened to you. You're so honest that you think everyone else is. Andyet, transparent little fool that you are, in common-sense things, Iknow that you're going to keep me straight. "

Back came trooping all the visions of Deliverance, a rich pageantryshutting away the footmarks of the beast she had just glimpsed. 

As every beat of the engines brought them nearer and nearer to Sydneyconsideration of ways and means became even more anxious. Louis spentglowering days. Marcella was quite certain that everything would turnout well. 

It was in the dull run between Colombo and Fremantle that they decidedupon a plan of action. The nights were getting colder now; they had tosit in thick coats in the evenings. This particular evening it wasraining greyly, but they could not sit in the saloon because Ole Fredand his gang had started a smoking concert, and Marcella and Louis wouldhave been ejected forcibly. 

"You're such a fatuous optimist, Marcella, " he said impatiently. "Lord, I wish I'd never started on this business! Everything's against us--Iknew it would be! We'll give it up. You go off into the back blockswhere you will at least be sure of food and a roof. And I'll go to thedevil in the same old way as quickly as possible. "

"Oh, I could shake you!" she cried. "You know quite well I'm not goingto leave you, if we have to live on eleven shillings for the rest of ourlives. It isn't eleven shillings now, either. I gave Jimmy half a crownto spend at Colombo. "

"Fool, " he muttered gloomily. 

"Who spent fifteen pounds?" she retorted. 

"I say, I'm sorry, old girl, but my nerves are a bundle of rags! I'venever had a wife to worry about before--and I can't see how I'm going tomake enough money to make her my wife yet--"

Marcella knew nothing whatever about money. She had a few jewels of hermother, but it did not occur to her that they were worth money. Louishad absolutely nothing of value. Guided by past experience his motherhad given him the barest necessities for clothes; his watch and most ofhis clothes he had sold before he sailed. What made him so irritablewith Marcella was the knowledge that he could easily get the money bybeing drunk. Publicans are proverbially open-handed; most publicanswould have lent him ten pounds to spend in their establishment if he hadthoroughly and courageously drunk and pitched some tale about expectingmoney by the English mail. He certainly looked worth ten pounds and hisfather's name as a publisher was fairly well known even in the Colonies. He had frequently "raised" twenty or thirty pounds in this way in NewZealand. Once or twice he had borrowed a few pounds from a doctor bytelling him a pitiful tale, but most doctors recognized his symptoms andrefused to help him to hurt himself. 

Suddenly Marcella gave a little giggle of sheer amusement. 

"I don't see much to laugh at, " he growled. 

"I'm thinking of how worried you were about my dignity as your wife andafraid I'd disgrace you in hotels by being friendly with the servants, "she said. "It doesn't look as if we're going to get a tent even. "

He read unkindness into her chaffing words and flushed hotly. 

Suddenly his silly pride that had lain asleep, for the most part, sincePort Said, gave a little struggle and came to wakefulness again. Hecould not have her laugh at him however good-naturedly. Just as he hadnot realized he was lying to her when he told her highly colouredversions of his surgical exploits, so he scarcely realized he was lying, as he said, mysteriously:

"Don't be too sure, my child. You won't be laughing at me soon. I may bea bit of a waster, but I'm not the sort to marry a girl without knowinghow I'm going to support her. How do you know you won't be the guest ofthe Governor-General as soon as he knows I'm in Sydney--"

"Whatever do you mean? Oh, Louis, don't tell me stories! And I don'twant to go and see people like Governor-Generals. I want to be alonewith you. "

"You probably will, my dear girl. But you must remember that a secretservice man has to cover up his traces in every way. He has to hideeverything, even from his wife. "

"Louis, " she said in real distress, clutching his arm, "are you reallyin the secret service? I'll--I'll forget it all, if you're telling melies. I'll never think of it again. But it so awful to think you arelying to me!"

"Why should I lie, my darling?" he said, looking hurt, but staring ather mouth instead of looking into her eyes. 

"You--you told me--never--to believe you, Louis. Oh, you do make it hardfor me. I don't know what to believe. If you're in the secret servicedon't they pay you any money?"

"Of course--they pay me enough to keep myself going. But it's apatriotic work, you know. And as for not believing me, I told you not tobelieve me about drinking. That was all. "

"But Louis, if you have money, why are you so worried about it now?And--didn't you tell me your father sent you out here?"

"Yes, he did, dearie, " he said earnestly. "It's quite true. I was arotter and he got fed up with me. But I've done a lot of secret servicework and didn't dare even tell him. I'm under an oath of secrecy. Thetimes I've had to let him think I was out all night, simply too squiffyto get home when in reality I was working--for England--"

"And you really, truly mean it, Louis? Louis, it would break my heartright in two if I thought you were lying now. "

"I swear it, on my love for you. I can see, now, that I ought to havetold the Pater all about it. But I thought when he was so unbelievingI'd take his bally pound a week. After all, it isn't much. It's what hespends on one dinner often, and it would keep me in cigarettes, at anyrate. So I thought I'd stick to it, as well as my secret service screw. Besides--supposing he wasn't my father at all? Supposing he'd been paidby someone--someone very much more exalted than he, to bring me up?"

"Whatever do you mean, Louis?" she cried. 

"Oh, never mind, never mind, old girl. But some day, perhaps, you'llknow all I've had to go through--"

There was a pause full of strained thinking. At last she burst outnervously, "But you've told your father not to send any more money, haven't you?"

"Yes, of course. I felt I couldn't be married to you on money I didn'tearn. But this secret service--it is all so confidential--we have toguard our orders most carefully in case they get anything--"

"They? Who are they?" she asked quickly. 

"The enemy--Germans and Chinese. There's quite a conspiracy on foot inAustralia, " he added, looking important. But he would tell her no more. 

"Shall you be at work as soon as we get to Sydney?" she asked. 

"It all depends on my orders. If we can stagger through the first fewweeks, till I can get some cash--I say, Marcella, why shouldn't you askyour uncle for some money?"

"Because he'd make me go home with him if I did. "

"But couldn't you tell him you'd changed your plans, and had a good jobin Sydney? We can make up a tale for him. Just think how jolly it willbe to be together, darling! I know it isn't nice to ask people formoney, but--it's worth it, isn't it? You need never see him again. Anyway, if you went to live with him you'd cost him a considerableamount, wouldn't you? Why shouldn't he give you some money now insteadof that? After all, it's up to well-to-do relations to help a girl who'sall alone in the world. Your father's dead--"

It took him all the morning to persuade her. It was only when he toldher how he went all to pieces if he had to worry about money, and amoment later painted glowing pictures of the month they would havetogether if his orders permitted, before they attempted to do anythingdefinite, that she consented. He very rapidly sketched a tale for her totell her uncle; Marcella hated the lies, for they seemed unnecessaryuntil Louis told her that no uncle in his senses would let her marry aman she had only known six weeks. 

"But if you talked to him, Louis, " she pleaded, "I'm sure he'd likeyou. "

"I'm not. He'd ask what my job is, and if it was known that I'd givenaway the fact that a secret service agent was in Sydney I might even getshot as a spy, " he said earnestly, and at last, in a maze of worry, shegave way. 

The night before Melbourne she gave him her father's signet ring--aheavy gold thing that Andrew had given her just before he died, tellingher it must never leave her possession. He seemed very pleased with it, and told her laughingly that if they could not afford to buy a ring shewould be married with that as a temporary measure. 

CHAPTER XII

It was a wet, miserable day when they drew alongside at Port Philip. Louis took the communal eight shillings, Marcella kept sixpence forluck. He went ashore before most of the passengers; she waited on boardfor her uncle. 

When he came he was not at all what she had expected him to be. To beginwith, he was very chilly--a queer, nervous man who told her he had notbeen in Melbourne for ten years and found great changes. He seemed tolive so much alone that he was frightened to talk to anyone. His handswere hard with labour, but he told her casually that he had a sheep runbigger than Yorkshire and a hundred thousand sheep. His wife had beendead for five years: his house was run by his three daughters. 

"We live seventy miles from a station, and fifty miles from the nearestneighbours, " he said, looking at her doubtfully. "You don't think you'llbe lonely? It's a hard life--I had no time to tell your aunt the manydisadvantages, for she said you'd started when she cabled. "

Marcella saw quite well that she was not wanted and felt immenselyrelieved that there was no necessity for her to go to Wooratonga. Haltingly and stumblingly she asked him for the money, without tellinghim Louis's chain of lies at all. He took little notice of what shesaid. Money means very little in Australia where things are done on alarge scale. Looking immensely relieved he said it would no doubt bemuch happier for her to go to stay with her friends--and how much moneydid she want?

Marcella thought ten pounds--she really did not know. But he laughed atthat and, taking her along to his bank, gave her fifty pounds. It seemeda lot of money to her, but he waved her thanks away, telling her a longtale about catching fresh-water oysters in the creek near his homestead. He seemed frightened of the traffic, frightened of the people. 

"I'll be very glad to get back, " he said, as they stood outside the bankwatching the street cars clang by. "I've lived in the back blocks solong that houses suffocate me and people all look like monstrosities. I'm glad to have seen you, though. I was very fond of Rose, as a boy. "

But he asked no questions about her or Andrew. He simply took forgranted all that Marcella said, and was immensely interested in hissheep and his garden. He had recently imported a Chinese gardener whowas going to do wonderful things. 

"I ought to take you somewhere to get lunch, " he said doubtfully, looking at the crowds of people and then at his watch. "There's a trainin one hour that will let me catch a connection at midnight. "

"Then I'll take you to the station, " said Marcella promptly, and addedon impulse, "I'm a bit sorry I'm not coming with you, though. I'd haveliked to see my cousins--"

"I don't suppose you'd like them much. They are nothing like Rose. Imarried an Australian, you know, and the girls are like her. They havehad very little schooling. They are good girls, very good girls, butjust a little hard, " he sighed a little, and Marcella felt a quick pangof regret for his loneliness. Obvious though it was that he did not wanther, she wished, for a moment, she could have gone with him to cheer hissolitude. 

"But Ah Sing makes all the difference to me, " he added hopefully. "He'sgrowing strawberries, and next week, I hope, we shall see the asparaguspeep through. "

So she left him on the platform to dream of his sheep and Ah Sing hisonly friend, while she dreamed of what next week would bring. 

She felt it was almost impossible to wait to tell Louis the good news;she wished she had arranged to meet him in the city; she wished allsorts of things as she wandered, solitary, round the streets, feelingvery unsteady on her feet after so long on a buoyant floor, andexpecting the pavement to rock and sway at every step. She went into thePost Office and despatched letters home. As she was going down thestreet again rather aimlessly she caught sight of Mrs. Hetherington andMr. Peters coming out of a restaurant, and was reminded forcibly ofJimmy who would be alone in the drizzling rain on board. 

Buying a great box of chocolates, a basket of peaches and a clockworktrain she hurried back to the ship, feeling very wealthy. 

It was a dreary day. Great Customs House buildings blotted out anypossible view, reminding her very much of the ugliness of Tilbury. Therain drizzled down, warm rain that covered the walls of the cabins instreams of moisture; the sailors loading and unloading cargoes with loudcreakings of donkey engines swore in sheer irritation; somewhere on thewharf sheep kept up an incessant and pitiful bleating all the day whilesirens shrieked out in the stream. Jimmy was the only happy person onboard, loading his train with chocolates and unloading them into hismouth after a tortuous trip along the dining table amongst glasses, knives and forks. It was the longest day Marcella had ever known; as theswift twilight passed, the passengers came aboard damp and damped; mostof them were grumbling; all looked thoroughly pessimistic aboutAustralia. The schoolmaster was one of the first to come solemnly alongthe deck under an umbrella. He had avoided Marcella rather pointedlylately, but he came and talked quite affably for a while, didacticallycontrasting Melbourne with Naples and Colombo. 

The _Oriana_ was to sail at eight o'clock; Marcella would not letherself be anxious; she had resolved that she must trust Louis now, and, knowing that he had scarcely any money and no friends, she could notimagine he would get into mischief. But as the last passengers cameaboard and the first warning bell rang out, she began to grow cold withfear. The rain was pouring now in a sheet of water; she stood on deck inthe green white glare of the arc lamps, which only lighted acircumscribed pool of radiance, and made the surrounding darknessblacker. 

The second bell went; she heard the engine-room telegraph ring and theship began to vibrate to the throb of the engines. She was feelingchoked with fear: a thousand apprehensions went through her mind: he hadbeen run over and was dead: he had lost his way: he was ill in hospital, crying out for her. 

"Has your friend not come aboard?" asked the schoolmaster at her elbow. 

She shook her head. It was impossible to speak. 

"I suppose he has mistaken the time of sailing, " said the schoolmastersoothingly. 

"Do you think I ought to go ashore to look for him?" she cried, articulate at last in her misery, and ready to take advice. 

"I think he should be able to take care of himself, " he said carefully. 

"Ah, but he isn't. I must go and find him, " she cried wildly. "What sortof hands will he get into if he's left to himself?"

At that moment the last bell rang, and the boat began to move veryslowly away from the wharf--perhaps a minute early. Knollys toldMarcella afterwards that he guessed the captain had sailed early onpurpose, for just at that moment he saw a group of four people drippingwith rain rush on to the slippery boards of the jetty. They were fourwho had been pretty noticeable as law-breakers during the whole trip--atleast, so the captain thought. Marcella gave a cry of haplessdisappointment as she saw Louis with Ole Fred, the red-haired man andanother. They were laughing wildly, and almost close enough to touch therails of the ship. 

"Jump, Louis, " she cried wildly. 

"Some flow's--for you, ole girl!" he cried, grinning loosely. "Mishedbally boat! Catch, ole girl--flow's, " and he threw a great bunch ofbedraggled-looking flowers that had very obviously been dropped severaltimes in the greasy mud. They fell helplessly into the water. Marcellacould not stop to think of anything sensible. All she could see to dowas to jump overboard to him and snatch him from the grinning men whowere lurching at his side. But as she put her hand on the rail theschoolmaster drew her back. 

"Thass ri! Come on, ole girl! Marsh--Marshella--come an' sleepin--sh-sh-shtreets! Got no money, ole girl. Marsh--Marshella! _Parlezvous Franshay?_ Eh? Ah, _oui, oui_. Marsh-la! I wan' a woman! Beau-fulwi' shoulders--"

"Oh--oh, " she cried, burying her face in her hands in horror. 

"I should advise you to go below, " said the schoolmaster's restrainedvoice. 

But she was irresistibly drawn to look at Louis, to plead with him withher eyes, though her voice refused to work. And at that moment hisunsteady foothold on the streaming planks gave way, and he sat downheavily. There were six or eight feet of black water now between theship and the quay, but Marcella could hear plainly the foolish laughterof the other three as they tried to lift him to his feet. Ole Fred fellbeside him, smashing a bottle as he did so, while several cans of tinnedstuff went rolling out of his arms into the water. Louis sat, laughinghelplessly until he realized that Marcella's white face was vanishingand he kissed his hand to her solemnly. 

"Goo' ni' ole girl. Going fin' woman. Meet thee at Philippi! Ah, _oui, oui_! Marsh--ella! Look! Noblest Rom' of them all! Elements somixshed--mixshed--can't stan' up, ole girl. "

She heard no more for the laughter of the others who were all sittingheaped together on the slippery boards now. Sick and aching she stoodthere in the rain, scarcely realizing when the schoolmaster wrapped hisraincoat round her; she was wondering whether she would have beenhappier if she had known he was lying dead in the mortuary, or ill inthe hospital instead of sitting, too drunk to move out in the rain onthe quay. And suddenly she knew quite well. He had said love was ahunger, and she would understand some day that it was as tigerish ahunger as drink hunger or any other. In that moment of utter disgust andpain and despair she understood that that hunger had come to her thoughshe did not yet comprehend it. It had taken hold of her now--she writhedat the indignity of the thought, but she knew quite well that sheactually wanted his presence with her whether he were rude andoverbearing, weak and appealing, superior and instructive or drunk andfilthy. She simply hungered to have him about her. Always ready toquery, to examine motives, she asked herself whether this were not, after all, merely a species of vanity in her that wanted to hold andsave this helpless man who, it seemed, could not live for a day withouther. And she got no answer to the question--the black water rushed past, chill and pitiless: the rain-swept sky was starless, the streaming decksdeserted. 

At last she went below, and found it impossible to pass his cabin door. Everybody else was there, about the alleyways or in the saloon, safe andhappy: only Louis had to bring himself to disaster every time. Openinghis cabin door she went in. His things were all thrown about, hisshaving tackle on the bunk, his pyjamas on the floor. Taking them upwith hands that trembled she noticed that there were no buttons on them. The pathos of this was more than she could bear. On the floor were thetwo cups in which he had made tea before they reached port that morning. The teapot they had bought at Gibraltar lay overturned. Quitemechanically she cleaned up the tea-leaves and washed the cups. Then shecould bear it no longer and, throwing herself on his bunk, she buriedher face in his pillow and sobbed until she was exhausted. 

CHAPTER XIII

There were things to be endured the next few days. The purser camealong, got Knollys to pack Louis's things and then sealed them. Thismeant that Marcella was shut away from all association with him; itseemed an unwarrantable interference with what she considered herproperty. The schoolmaster was surprisingly comforting and kind; he wentout of his way to entertain her: Knollys brought unexpected tea in themorning in an attempt to make up for the loss of Louis. A youngScotsman, a sugar planter going out to the Islands, to whom she hadtalked until the fact that she was "another man's girl" had put a tabooupon her, insisted that she should, in the cold evenings on deck, wearhis fur coat which he had brought rather unnecessarily; Jimmy tried tocomfort her with apples. Mrs. Hetherington, whom the end of the voyagehad left nervy and cross, said cattish things. She thought Marcella hadshown very little tact in throwing herself at Louis; she advised her, with the next man, not to tire him out. 

"Oh, you're an idiot, " cried Marcella, her eyes full of tears, anddecided that this was an occasion for her father's favourite epithet. "Adouble-distilled idiot! How have you managed Mr. Peters except by neverleaving him alone for a minute?"

"I am a woman of the world, and understand men, " she said airily. "Iwove a net about him--in ways you would not understand, my child. "

"Don't want to, " snapped Marcella. "I'm not a spider!"

They anchored out in the stream in Sydney Harbour, going ashore intenders. Marcella scanned the quay anxiously to find Louis, thoughKnollys told her that he would, most probably, be in by train to-morrowat noon. But she had an idea that he might have got through earlier, andhurried up to the General Post Office, which he had told her was hisonly address in the Colonies, to which his letters were sent. But it wasa fruitless errand. Enquiry at the station told her that, as Knollys hadsaid, the next train possible for Louis would be in at noon to-morrow. She turned back through the streets that were so extraordinarily likeLondon in spite of Chinese, German and Italian names. As she passed thePost Office for the second time it occurred to her that there might beletters for her there, and found quite a bundle of them in a littlepigeonhole high up. There was also a cablegram that had been waiting twodays. She opened that first. It was extravagantly long; the name"Carlossie" at the head of it gave her a sickening pang of homesicknessfor a moment. She read:

"Letter from Port Said arrived. Very anxious. Only way you treat drunkardis leave him alone. Impossible cure. Above all do not marry him or shallblame myself. Writing. Await letter I implore you. --Angus. "

It was extraordinary extravagance for Dr. Angus. She felt guilty athaving worried him. 

"But I never mentioned marrying Louis! I simply said he was one of thepassengers I was interested in. "

There was a letter from Aunt Janet written after the _Oriana_ had sailedand sent overland to Marseilles. 

"I certainly miss you, " she wrote, "but I shall get over it in time, Iexpect. One gets very used to everything in time. I wonder if you willever come back? I expect so. Wullie the Hunchback came along with fishfor me twice. He misses you badly. You were always a great deal withhim. "

Letters from Mrs. Mactavish and from Wullie, dictated to and written byBessie, said that she would be back soon; standing under the portico ofthe Post Office, surrounded by the flower sellers with their bunches ofexuberant waratah, feathery wattle and sweet, sober-looking boronia, shelet her mind travel back to Lashnagar and the acrid smoke of thegreen-wood fires, the pungency of the fish, the sharp tang of the saltwinds pushed the heavy perfume of flowers aside. In a moment the lastsix weeks of mad, unhappy dreaming and hoping vanished; she saw herselfback again in her own sphere among her own people. She tried to pictureLouis there, too, and realized horribly that he would never fit into thepicture. Against Wullie and the doctor and her aunt he would look sovulgar, so pretentious, so tinsel-coloured. And how they would laugh ata man who could not master himself, a man who cried!

"Why, I'm a snob! I was hurt when he thought I'd disgrace him by my badmanners. And now I'm being just as cruel!"

Then she jerked herself away from Lashnagar and stood with the lastletter in her hand, afraid to open it. It was postmarked Melbourne andhad come in that morning. It was in Louis's writing, and gave her anacute sense of distress. She stood still by a shop window, looking intoit blindly until she realized that she was looking at a crocodile andsome snakes squirming about in tanks in a naturalist's window. Thestraggly writing reminded her of the ugly snakes: it told her that hewas drunk more or less when the letter was written; she looked from theletter to the snakes. One of them crawled writhingly over the others, lifted its head and put out its tongue at her: shivering, she opened theletter. 

"MY OWN DARLING, "Wasn't it a sell? That damned captain's had a down on me all the trip. Ireported him to the shipping company and I'm trying to get a free passfrom them by rail. Otherwise I should come by the train that has broughtthis letter. By great luck I ran into an old girl I knew in New Zealand. She's a nurse who saved my life once when I was in hospital there. She'sa dear--Oh quite old; don't get jealous, my pet! I'm staying the nightat an hotel in Little Collins Street. The landlord has lent me a fiver, so don't worry about me. One thing I've to tell you--a terribleconfession. I lost your father's ring in my haste the other night, butnever mind. I'll buy you another. I hope your Uncle stumped up. Australia's a damnable place to be hard up in. Will you tip my stewardsfor me and see my things through the Customs? Give Knollys and the otherchap ten shillings each. They haven't killed themselves on my behalf, orit would have been a quid. Tell them I sent it. I don't want them toknow I'm hard up. If I hit up that railway pass I should be throughbefore lunch on Saturday. And then, old girl, there'll be doings! I hearyou can get hitched up in Sydney for about twenty-seven bob, withoutwaiting for notices of any sort. Till then, all my love and all mythoughts are for you. 

"Your own Louis. 

"P. S. (Just like a woman) You'd better get something decent and notScotch to wear if your uncle came down decently. And book us rooms atthe Hotel Australia. They do you very well there. "

It was her first love letter. She felt, vaguely, that it lackedsomething though she did not quite know what. She hated the talk aboutmoney and about her uncle. She hated that he could borrow money socasually from a nurse who had been good to him. She wished that terriblehunger he had predicted had not happened to her. She knew, with absolutecertainty, that Dr. Angus had gauged her fatal habit of conceitedanxiety to help other people when he cabled to her not to marry adrunkard whom she had merely put to him as a hypothetical case. And sheknew the doctor was inevitably right about the folly of marrying a manlike Louis. 

"But he's wrong about there being no cure. When he is with me everyminute and I can look after him as if he is my little baby, he won't beable to do it. I'll be a gaoler to him--I'll be his providence, hismother, his nurse, his doctor. Oh everything--I'll be what God was tofather. "

Down on Circular Quay she felt she could not go aboard the Oriana yet. In spite of the unsteadiness of her feet it was very pleasant to bewalking about in a new land, so, taking out Louis's letter again shewent on rather blindly through the wharves, reading it. A Japanese boatwas loading; smells of garlic and of spice and sandalwood were wafted toher from the holds and weaved into her thoughts of Louis; a littlefurther along there was a crowd of stevedores clustered in the roadwayround a violent smell of whisky. She turned away, sickened by hermemories of that smell, with her father's ghost and Louis's at her side, but uncontrollable curiosity made her press on again. A greatbarrel--like the barrel at Lashnagar--had been broken by falling fromthe top storey out of the clutch of a derrick; there was a pool ofblood, dreadful and bright in the roadway and men were lifting thecrushed body of a man into an ambulance; quite close to the pool ofblood was one of whisky that was running into the gutter. Two big, bronzed, blue-shirted men were kneeling beside it, dipping their handsin it and licking them greedily; trembling at the same time and lookingsick with the fright of sudden death. From a warehouse near by came aheavy smell of decay--sheep skins were stored there in great, stiffbales. She went on, feeling as though horror happened wherever she went. But along by the sea wall it was very peaceful; only the soft lapping ofthe landlocked tide against the stone, the slow gliding of ferry boats, the lazy plash of oars and the metallic clanking in the naval dockyardon Garden Island came to her. On a man-of-war out in the stream thesailors were having a washing day; she could hear their cheery voicessinging and laughing as they hung vests and shirts and socks among therigging, threw soapy water at each other and skated about the decks onlumps of soap. 

A little further along by the wall was a great garden; she went in in adream; unfamiliar flowers covered unfamiliar bushes with pink andscarlet snow; a bed of cactus looked like a nightmare of pincushions andtumours. She sat down beside them, under a low, gloomy leaved eucalyptusand dreamed. The champagne quality of the air, the sunlight dancing onthe blue water, the great banks of dark green trees on the oppositeshore, with prosperous, happy-looking little red houses nestling amongthem brought about an effect of well-being that soft weather andbeautiful surroundings always gave her. She had, all her life, been ableto escape from unhappiness by the mere physical effect of going into thesunshine and the wind--and then unhappiness and grief seemed impossible, incredible. Sitting there with half-closed eyes she dreamed of thefuture; the disgust of Melbourne had gone; the disillusionment ofLouis's letter had gone, and yet she had very few delusions about whatwas going to happen to her. 

She wished she had the courage to run away now, to her uncle, oranywhere away from Louis. And she knew quite well that nothing on earthwould make her leave him. She was beginning to realize, vaguely, whatmarriage to him might mean; she had flashing visions of him, drunk, dirty, foolish and--beastly. She shrunk from him fastidiously; eventhinking of him made her heart thump in sheer horror; she felt that, tobe shut up in a room with him when he was drunk would be an indignity, adisgust too horrible to contemplate. And he had hinted things thatfrightened her, about her "having her work cut out" about her "notrealizing what she had taken on. " Next minute the soft sunlight and thefluttering leaves made her think of him when he was not drunk, and shefrowned; she so hated his air of superiority, his calm pushing aside ofher opinions as not worth notice, his cool insistence on her inferiorityas a woman. 

"Still, he's awfully clever, " the dancing water told her. But she knewthat he was not more clever than very many other people and that hiscleverness had never been of any use except in getting money. 

"He's grown up--a big, grown up man, and you're only a girl, " said thesoft, exhilarating breeze that sang in her hair. And that thoughtallowed no answer, it was so flattering, so satisfying. 

"And--he needs me. He says he'll die without me, " she told herself, andthat was unanswerable. 

Suddenly she stood up and looked over the sea wall. There seemed to betwo Louis in her hands, being weighed and, all at once, she felt alittle helpless and leaned rather heavily against the sea wall. 

"It isn't a bit of use. I don't honestly believe any of these things arethe real reason I'm going to marry him. I honestly believe I want to, sowhat's the good of lying to myself about it? But--oh what an idiot I am!It seems to me--there's something a bit degrading--in marrying a manlike Louis--simply because--because--you _want_ to. "

She walked round and round the big eucalyptus as though she were in acage. Then she came back and stood against the wall again, watching thesailors on the man-of-war with unseeing eyes. She felt hot and flushedand a little ashamed of herself. She felt that there was somethingrather disgraceful in wishing Louis were there to kiss her; something alittle humiliating in longing so utterly that to-morrow might come whenthey could be together. 

"I never, never, never thought I'd be such an idiot! I thought I'd fallin love with a king, or something--Oh my goodness, what a mess!" Herfather came into her mind, striding giant-like over Ben Grief in hisshabby old tweeds; she frowned and bit her lips and told herself, inbewilderment, that if only Louis had been like him she would havemarried him without any feeling of humiliation. And she had theuncomfortable feeling that, had her father been alive, she would neverhave dared to marry Louis. Andrew would have put him in the sea, orsomething equally final and ignominious. 

She stared fixedly at the rippling water, with tight lips, and noddedher head at it. 

"Yes, it's perfectly disgusting. It's degrading--it's--it's beastly tobe shutting myself up like this with a drunken man. I believe I'd bebetter dead--from a selfish point of view--"

Next minute her eyes softened. 

"But think how eager he is--what a boy he is--like Jimmy! And how hetrusts me not to let those awful miseries happen to him any more. "

She turned round, shook herself together and began to march back to theship, her father's eyes shining through hers for a while. 

"Marcella Lashcairn, " she said solemnly, "you're going to stop askingyourself rude questions for ever and ever, Amen! You haven't time towaste on introspection. You love him. That's a good thing, anyway. Nevermind how you love him, never mind if it's a John the Baptist love or amother love or a fever produced by the tropics, as Wullie said, you'veto do things as best you can and understand them afterwards, justtrusting that God will burn out all the beastliness of them in the end. And--" she added, as an afterthought, "If he gets drunk I'll shake thelife out of him. "

If Louis had seen her just then he would probably have shied at marryingher. 

She went on board to a deserted ship, hating to stay ashore withoutLouis. Even the passengers who were going on to Brisbane had gone tosleep ashore. Knollys told her that Jimmy had cried desperately becausehe was being taken away from her, and that Mr. Peters was drunk in hisgrief at ending his acquaintanceship with Mrs. Hetherington. Later, seeing her standing lonely on deck, watching the lighted ferries go by, Knollys came up to her. 

"I beg your pardon, miss, " he said, deferentially, "but it occurred toJules and myself that you might possibly care to join us in a game ofdominoes?" and, rather than appear unfriendly, she played with them foran hour. She was very glad when morning came. 

CHAPTER XIV

Marcella hurried to her field of Philippi that day. She went up to thestation to meet Louis at half-past eleven in alternating moods oftrembling softness and militancy, softness to welcome him, belligerencyfor Ole Fred and the gang, and strange gusts of helpless, blazing, hungry joy at the thought of getting him away from them, all to herself. Almost she wished she could snatch him from life itself. As the traincame in she caught sight of him, laughing foolishly, dirty anddishevelled from the long journey. She ran down the clanging platform onfeet of wind to meet him. He tumbled out of the carriage with half adozen draggled men after him. 

"Oh--my dear, " she cried, clinging to his hand, her face flushed, hereyes shining. 

He stared, his eyes glassy and pale, almost startled. 

"Hello, ole girl, " he stammered. "G--g--good of you to mm--mm--meet me. "

He stood awkwardly, undecided, the others edging round him. 

"Louis, you'll never guess how awful it's been without you! I know whatyou meant, now, about not being able to do without each other--Unclegave me the money--let's get away and talk--" The words all tumbled outbreathlessly. 

He gazed at her again, as though he scarcely knew her. 

"These chaps have been awfully good to me, " he said thickly. "Wemust--must--s-say good-bye. They s-sail for New Zealandthis--safternoon. "

"That's good. Then say good-bye now, and come away. We've a lot to do. "

He stared moodily. 

"Look here, where's my baggage? Did you g-get it th-through the Customsfor me?"

She explained about it, and said that he must go aboard for it when theOriana came alongside during the afternoon. 

"Right-o, then. I'll say good-bye. Wait a minute. "

He went down the platform and stood talking to the others for a fewminutes. They looked towards her and laughed several times, and at lasttrooped off together. 

"I think a wash is indicated, don't you?" he said, looking at himself. "Lord, don't I want a drink! And don't I just want to be alone with youa few minutes! What shall we do? Did you book rooms?"

"No. I was so busy thinking that I forgot. There's plenty of time. I'lltell you what. Let us go back to the boat and get your things, and thenyou can get cleaned up and--change--" she added hesitatingly, for he wasstill wearing the suit in which he had fallen on the jetty at Melbourne. It was splashed with mud and rain; it had been obviously slept in, andsmelled of tobacco and spilled whisky. 

"Right. We'll have a cab and then we can talk on the way, " he said. "Bythe way, I haven't a penny in the world. Broke to the wide! What didyour uncle give you?"

"Fifty pounds. "

"Lord! What a decent sort of uncle to have about. I haven't a relativewho'd let me raise a fiver. Well, you'd better lend me some, old girl, till I get mine through. "

"You can have it all if you like, " she said quickly. "I don't want it ifI'm with you. " She was thinking that he had told her not to let him havemoney; but if they were to be together all the time there could be nopossible danger, and something told her that it would be good for him tobe trusted with all her worldly goods. 

In the cab, as soon as it started its two-mile crawl, she handed it tohim solemnly. He seemed to make an effort to pull himself together as heput the money into his notecase. 

"I say, Marcella, " he jerked out, "you'll not let me out of your sight, will you, darling? It's no end risky, with all this money. "

"Poor little boy, " she whispered softly. "You couldn't be naughtyto-day, could you? Besides, you've me to look after now, as well asyourself. You've been here before. I've never been away from home in mylife. "

He caught at her hand and held it tightly. 

"I'm just dying to kiss you, darling, " he whispered. "Oh, I wish weneedn't waste time on that bally rotten ship. I want us to get away fromeverywhere. "

On the ship they found that he could not get his things until the pursercame aboard at seven o'clock in the evening, as he had them sealed up. But Knollys provided him with clothes brush and toilet apparatus whileMarcella waited. 

"I've found out all about getting married, " he explained when they gotoutside on the quay again. "It's frightfully simple. Knollys has justtold me where the Registrar's place is. Lord! Marcella, do you feelfrightened?"

"No, " she said, rather faintly. 

"It's worse for me than for you, after all. It's fun for a girl to getmarried. But I've all the ordeals to go through, facing the Registrar, buying the ring--"

"Well, I'll do it, " she said resignedly, "if you're frightened. "

But as they passed the first jeweller's shop he dived in suddenlywithout speaking to her. After a few minutes he emerged, his faceflushed and damp, his hand shaky. 

"Look here, come up a side way somewhere, old thing! They've given me achunk of cardboard with little holes in it. You've got to poke yourfinger in till you see which fits. Lord, I'm glad you don't get marriedmore than once in a lifetime. "

"Don't you like it, Louis?" she asked, as she fitted her finger into thelittle holes and found that she took the smallest size ring. "I do. Ithink it's frightfully exciting. "

"I know you do. Women love getting married. They're cock of the walk ontheir wedding days, if they never are again. On her wedding day a womanis triumphant! She's making a public exhibition of the fact that she hasachieved the aim of her life--she's landed a man!"

"Louis!" she cried indignantly, and next minute decided to think that hewas joking as they reached the jeweller's shop again. She had beenlooking at the jewellery in the window: it was her first peep at ajeweller's shop, and she thought how expensive everything was. Shenoticed the price of wedding rings. When Louis came out with the ring ina little box which he put into his pocket, he told her casually that itcost something three times more than the prices in the window. 

As they walked up the street he told her that he was tired to death, that he had not been to bed since the _Oriana_ left Melbourne. 

"I thought you stayed at an hotel that night, " she said. 

"No, as a matter of fact, my pet, we got run in, all of us. I don'tknow, now, what we did when we found the boat had gone without us, butwe made up our minds to paint the town red. So we got landed in thepolice's hands for the night and locked up. "

"Oh Louis!"

"It was a great game! The funny old magistrate next morning was assolemn as a judge. He read us a lecture about upholding the prestige ofthe Motherland in a new country. Then he made us promise him faithfullynot to have another drink as long as we were in the state of Victoria. We promised right enough, and kept it--because we knew we were leavingVictoria in a few hours. Ole Fred was as solemn as the judge himselfabout it. But when we got to Albury--that's on the borders, you know--myhat, how we mopped it! I haven't got over it yet. But after to-day I'mon the water-wagon, Marcella. Lord, here's the marriage shop!"

It looked like a shop, with green wire shades over the glass windows, not at all a terrifying place. But Louis took off his hat, mopped hisforehead and looked at her desperately. 

"Look here, old girl, I shall never get through this without awhisky-and-soda. I'm a stammering bundle of nerves. I'll never get ournames down right unless I have a drink to give me a bit of Dutchcourage. If it hadn't been for that Melbourne madness I'd have been allright. But look at me"--and he held out a trembling hand. "Marcella, forGod's sake say you'll let me--"

She felt she could not, to-day of all days, preach to him, but she couldnot trust herself to speak. She merely nodded her head, and withoutwaiting another instant he darted into the nearest hotel, leaving herstanding on the pavement. Her heart was aching, but every moment, everyword he said made her all the more cussedly determined to see the thingthrough, and he certainly looked better when he came out ten minuteslater. 

"That saved my life, darling, " he said feelingly. "Now for it. "

He vanished behind the green windows and came back in a few minuteslooking jubilant. 

"Nice, fatherly old chap. Asked me if I realized the gravity of the stepI was taking and if you were twenty-one, because if you weren't I'd haveto get the consent of the State Guardian. And by the way, Marcella, thatreminds me. You'll simply have to do something to your hair. "

"Why?" she asked, flirting it over her shoulder to see what was wrongwith it. It was tied very neatly with a big bow of tartan ribbon. 

"You'll have to do it up, somehow--stow it under your hat, don't youknow--hairpins, old girl, smokers' best friends. You can't be marriedwith your hair down, or they'll think it isn't respectable. "

"Oh, " she said meekly. 

"By the way, I got the religion wrong. I simply couldn't think what youwere, so I said an atheist, and he said as the Congregational clergymanhadn't a full house to-night we'd better go to him. Lord, what would theMater say? She wouldn't think it legal unless you were married in churchwith the 'Voice that breathed o'er Eden' and a veil. "

"But--to-night?" she questioned. 

"Yes, half-past six. And I got our father's professions wrong. Icouldn't remember what the Pater was for anything, so I said they wereboth sailors! Lord, I was in a funk--and at half-past six to-night I'llbe married and done for. It's the biggest scream that ever was!"

They went to a restaurant for lunch. She was very hungry; he could eatnothing. He ordered lemonade for her, adding something in a low tone tothe waiter who went away smiling faintly. She thought he was drinkinglemonade too, but he began to laugh a good deal, and his eyes glitteredqueerly all the time. 

She was a little overawed by the magnificence of the Hotel Australiawhen they went to book rooms; she wished very much that they could be atthe farm; there were so many people about, so many servants quiteinhumanly uninterested in them. At home Jean would have been fussingabout, making them welcome. 

It was the queerest, most unromantic wedding. The streets were full ofthe Saturday night crowd of pleasure seekers. The chapel was next to aChinese laundry; glancing in at the door through the steam she got aswift vision of two Chinamen ironing collars vigorously. Outside thechapel door stood a gawky-looking group--a young sailor, very fat andjolly-looking was being married to a rather elderly woman. Both hadshort white kid gloves that showed a little rim of red wrist; theirfriends were chaffing them unmercifully; the bride was giggling, thesailor looking imperturbable. Louis edged towards Marcella. 

"I don't want those two Chinks to see me, " he whispered nervously. 

She stared at him. 

"I wish they'd open the door, " whispered Marcella. 

"So do I. My hat, I wish Violet could come past. She'd kill herself withlaughing. She was married at St. George's, Hanover Square. "

That conveyed nothing to Marcella. She was watching a German bandcomposed of very fat, pink Germans who, on their way to their nightlystreet playing outside various theatres and restaurants, had noticed thegroup and scented a wedding. They began by playing the "Marseillaise"and made her laugh by the extreme earnestness of their expression; thenthey played the Lohengrin "Bridal March" and had only just reached thetenth bar when the chapel door opened with a tremendous squeaking andcreaking. The conductor paused with his baton in mid beat and his mouthwide open as he saw his audience melting away inside the door. Marcella, laughing almost hysterically, whispered to Louis:

"Give them a shilling or something. They look so unhappy!"

"They're spying on me, " he whispered, tossing them a coin which fellamong them and received the conductor's blessing. 

Marcella and Louis sat on a bench in a Sunday-school classroom, lookingat "Rebecca at the Well" and a zoological picture of the millenniumwhile the sailor got married. Both were subdued suddenly. She foundherself thinking that, if ever she had children, she would never letthem go to such a dreary place as Sunday-school. 

"Isn't this awful?" she whispered at last. "People ought to be marriedon the tops of hills, or under trees. But it makes you feel solemn, andsort of good, doesn't it--even such a fearful place?"

He nodded. They heard the sailor and the bride chattering suddenly andloudly in the next little room and guessed that they were married. Abent little woman--the chapel cleaner--came along and asked them wheretheir witnesses were. Her dark eyes looked piercingly among grey, unbrushed hair; her hands were encrusted with much immersion in dirtywater. 

"Witnesses?" said Louis anxiously. 

"Two witnesses, " she said inexorably. "Haven't you got 'ny?"

"We didn't know--" began Marcella. The old woman looked pleased. 

"Well, I was wondering if yous 'ud have me an' my boss. We often make acouple of bob like that. "

Louis nodded, and she shuffled off, appearing a few moments later withan old man who had evidently been waiting about for the chance ofearning a few shillings. 

"It isn't a bit like Lochinvar, " whispered Marcella, "or Jock ofHazeldean. "

"Poor old lady, " he whispered, suddenly gentle. 

The two old people sat down on the form beside Louis, who edged a littlecloser to Marcella. 

"It's forty years since we was married, my boss and me, " began the oldwoman. "Forty years--and brought up twelve--"

"Buried six, " mumbled the old man, shaking his head and wiping a wateryeye on his coat sleeve. 

"I say, I feel no end of an ass, don't you?" whispered Louis. "Tell theold idiots to shut up. "

"Poor old things--forty years ago they thought it was all going to be soshining, " she whispered. 

"It isn't as if he's had very good work, " went on the old woman, "butyou must take the rough with the smooth. "

A small old man with a black suit and a long white beard came to thedoor and beckoned them. They suddenly realized that he was the priestand followed him meekly. 

"I've often been the officiating surgeon, " whispered Louis, gigglingnervously, "but I never understood the point of view of the man on theoperating table before. "

"Oh hush, Louis. I feel so solemn, " whispered Marcella. She wished verymuch that Wullie was there. She felt that he would have understood howshe felt as she repeated mechanically the words the old man told her;she did not hear them really. She was making an end of all her doubts ofLouis; she knew, quite definitely, that whatever misery or degradationmight come to her in the future, whatever wild or conceited or cussed ortropical thoughts had brought her to this dull little chapel to-night, God was quite surely making her His pathway, walking over her life withshining feet, burning out all the less fine things that did not belongto Him. She woke up to feel Louis fumbling with her hand to put the ringon; she had been miles and years away, through fires and waters ofconsecration. 

The old clergyman looked at her; he looked at Louis. The actual serviceaccording to the book was over. He gave a little sigh, turned to leadthem to the vestry to sign their names, and then quite suddenly cameback and asked them to kneel down. He talked to God very intimatelyabout them. Marcella got the queer idea that he was talking to her allthe time. 

"He must have thought a lot of you, " whispered the old woman. "It isn'tlike him to make up a extry bit like that. Well, I'm sure I wish yousluck, both of you. Mind not let him have too much of his own way, mydear. "

Smiling she led away her toothless old man. Marcella handed Louis themarriage certificate, which he put in his pocket. Out in the street itwas quite dark. 

"Phew, wasn't it an awful experience? Lord, we're married! Married! Doyou really believe it, darling? And I haven't given you a kiss yet. Icouldn't with those old dodderers about. Oh, Marcella, isn't it great?And isn't it a lark? But if anyone had told me I'd have got married in atin tabernacle, slobbered over by a lot of Non-bally-conformists I'dhave had hysterics. We'll simply have to tell the Mater and Violet!It'll be the joke of the century to them. "

She drew a deep breath. 

"Louis, can't we run right away into the Bush? I do wish we were athome on Ben Grief in the wind--the thought of that great, big hotelterrifies me. I feel sort of--like I used to feel when I went to churchwith mother on Easter Sundays, when everything was cool and white andsmelt of lilies. Oh, Louis, I _do_ so love you!"

Suddenly he stood still and looked at her. 

"Let's find a cab and get down to that bally boat for the baggage. Oh, bother the baggage! My darling, I want you alone. You stood there soquiet and still, looking just like a little girl being very, very good. Oh, my dear, you're a damned sight too good for me. Lord, I'll feedmyself to the sharks in the harbour if ever I hurt you! What luck tofind you! What amazing, gorgeous luck! Me--the waster, the unwanted, thedo-nothing. Marcella--Lord, what's the use of words? I'm getting yourtrick of not being able to find words for what I mean. But you wait. Just you wait. There's a new Louis born to-night, in a funny littleNonconformist chapel. Look at him, girlie--can't you see he'sdifferent?"

They found a cab and drove down to the quay again. Heedless of thepeople in the streets he kissed her again and again and did not stoptalking for an instant. 

"You know, the very fact of being married alone is going to do wondersfor me. It's going to give me a grip on things. I've been an outcast, dear--I've never known, when I've been this side of the world, where mynext bed or my next meal is coming from. But to have a wife--and we'llhave a home and everything--why, you can't think what it means. "

When they reached the quay he left Marcella in the cab, telling her hewould only be two minutes. She watched him vanish in the shadow of theCustoms shed. A moment later he was back. 

"I hate to leave you, even for a minute. I must have one more kiss. Oh, my darling, if you could only guess what it means to me to know that youlove me, that you are waiting here for me. You've never been a throwout, a waster, or you'd realize just what you mean to me. "

Then he was gone, and she lay back, her eyes closed, dreaming. She feltvery safe, very secure. 

It seemed a long time that he was gone, but she was accustomed to goingthousands of miles in her dreams, only to find, wakening suddenly, thatthe clock had only measured five minutes. But at last she realized thatit really was a long time. The horse began to paw and fidget; thedriver, smoking a very reeking pipe, looked in at the window. 

"D'you think your boss'll be long?" he asked. 

"How long has he been?" she asked. 

"More'n half an hour. I've got some folks to take to the theatre, butI'm afraid I'll have to give them a miss if he don't hurry hisself. "

"I wonder if you'd go and see, please?" she asked doubtfully. "You see, we've only just been married to-day and I feel so silly--the people onboard are sure to start making a big fuss if I go--"

"Right-o, ma. I'll go, " he said, and made off across the quay. He, too, was gone a long while; the horse got more fidgety, but at last heappeared, carrying two of Louis's bags. 

He grinned as he came up to the cab. 

"He's a lad!" he said genially. "Would make me stop an' wet the wedding. But it do seem hard to me for the bride to be out of all the fun. Whydon't you go an' wet it, too, ma?"

"Where is--my husband?" she said, stumbling over the word and feelingsick with fright. 

"Over there with his pals. They aren't half having a game. If I was youI'd go and rout him out! Not much use in a honeymoon when one's boozedand the other ain't. Now if you was to have a drop too--"

She did not hear what he said. She did not stop to think of dignity oranything else; the same panic that had almost made her jump overboard atMelbourne sent her running across the quay, over the gangway on to theship. The voices of the men guided her towards them on the silent ship. Louis was sitting on the hatchway; two champagne bottles were overturnedbeside him; he was just pouring whisky from a bottle into a tumbler ashe saw her. 

His jaw dropped and he tried to stand up. 

"Here's your missus, " laughed Ole Fred, who was leaning against him. 

Marcella looked from Louis to Fred. 

"So you didn't go to New Zealand?" said Marcella quietly, looking at himwith blazing eyes. He blinked at her and tried to smile affably. 

"Of course I never thought you would, you horrible, wicked, idiotic oldliar!" she said. 

Ole Fred looked thoroughly startled. Louis gazed at Marcella and then athim. 

"Now, ole man--I pu' it to you, " said Ole Fred thickly. "Is tha' thesort of talk you le' your wife use to your bes' pals?"

Louis shook his head reprovingly at her. 

"Marsh-shella! Naughty lil' girl! 'Pol'gize! Good Ole Fred! Bes' pal ev'man had, Mar-shella! Going t' Newze-eeelan'! All 'lone--way from'smother--way from Ole Country! Give him kish, ole girl--noill-feeling--"

Ole Fred got up unsteadily, grinning, and lurched towards her muttering, "No, no ill-feeling. " She realized what he was going to do, and suddenlyfelt that she could not live any longer. But first--her father's tempercame to her for a moment and she lost all responsibility. It was thefirst time the Lashcairn madness had seized her--and it was not theraging Berserk fury of her father. She stood quite still, very white. Ole Fred thought she was waiting passively for his kiss. But when hereached her on his unsteady feet she caught him by the shoulders, shookwhat little breath he had left out of him, and slid him deliberatelyalong the deck. He was too surprised to resist effectively and theothers had no idea what was in her mind. Reaching the rail of the ship, with the strength of madness she lifted him up--he was a thin little ratof a man--and dropped him calmly overboard. There was a heavy _plonk_and a rush of feet as Knollys, who had watched fascinated, ran down thecompanion-way with another man. She looked at her hands distastefully. 

"You're very foolish if you rescue him, Knollys, " she said, with an airof giving impartial advice. "He's not a bit of good. I knew quite wellI'd put some of these idiotic men in the sea before I'd done with them. "

She turned away towards Louis again. He cowered as she came near him. She smiled at him kindly and reassuringly. 

"Poor little boy! You needn't be frightened of Marcella. She doesn'toften put wicked ole men in the sea, " she said gently, holding out herhand to help him to his feet. Before she had put Fred in the sea she hadfelt it would be much better to go herself than live with Louis anymore. But the flood of madness ebbed; Louis's cowering as she came nearhim seemed to her so appalling, so appealing that she could not leavehim, and her hatred of Fred made her set her teeth and determine not tolet him have Louis. 

No one spoke. The cab driver was looking at her with adoration in hiseyes; looking round she guessed he was a friend. 

"Have you all our luggage?" she asked him. 

"Yes, ma--missus, " he jerked, jumping and suddenly touching his hat--anepoch-making thing for an Australian to do. 

"Will you help me get my husband to the cab then, please?"

"Aren't you going to wait and see if they fish him out, missus?" heasked hopefully, jerking his head over towards the companion-way, downwhich several sailors had vanished. 

"It's no use, " she said impatiently. "He isn't a bit of good. If he'sdead all the better. He's a very, very wicked man, you know. He's notjust weak and wobbly. He is so wicked and dreadful that he laughs atpeople when they try to be good, and fights the goodness. Naturally it'sbetter to put him in the sea. If it was a few hundred years ago they'dburn him as a devil, " she nodded reassuringly to the cabman. 

"There are sharks in Sydney Harbour, too, " she added reflectively. 

"Oh cripes!" cried the cabman reverently. "Come on then, boss, " headded, turning to Louis. "Heave hold of my shoulder. If old monkey faceis drowned your missus'll hear sharp enough from the police. "

Suddenly she ran back to the companion-way. She did not look to seewhere Ole Fred was. Keeping her eyes averted she called, "Good-bye, Knollys. Thank you for being so kind to me. "

Then she took Louis's hand without a word. He stood immovable. 

"Feel sh-shick, ole girl, " he gasped. 

She stood still, feeling sick, too. 

"Go on, ma--I'll tend him, " said the cabman. Marcella walked on with herhead in the air, looking disgusted. After a few minutes she turned andsaw the cabman struggling to drag him along. His legs lagged foolishly. 

"Can't walk, ole girl. Legs all cross-nibbed, ole girl, " he moaned. 

"You're not to talk, Louis, " she said calmly. 

"Talk? Talk? Can't talk. Parlez-vous Franshay, Marsh-shella? Voulez-vouscoucher avec moi? Baisez-moi, ma petite--!"

She faced him suddenly. 

"Look here, Louis. If you talk French one of us goes in the harbour. I'drather it was me. Either that or I'll take my hands and choke you. _You_know they're strong hands--made in Scotland, Louis--bony, not a bitwobbly. Now what do you think?"

He made a sudden effort, threw off the cabman's detaining hand, swayed alittle and then steered a straight course for the cab, stumbling overthe step and crawling in on his knees. 

"Isn't he a lad!" said the cabman admiringly. "Pair of lads, that's whatyou are! By cripes, you are! Where are you making for, missus?" Hiseyes, full of curiosity, were on the ship as a babble of voices rose. "Listen, they've got ole monkey-face! That's him singing out now. We'dbetter put our best leg forward for fear he comes after you. "

"If he does I shall put him back again, " she said; "we were going to theHotel Australia--but I don't think I'll take my husband there. I thinkthey mightn't like him. Do you know anywhere else we could go--ahouse--where there are poor people who won't be rude to me about him?"

He thought for a moment. Then his face brightened. 

"I know the very place, ma. It's quite near. The boss boozes, but Ma's agood sort. She'll have a room, sure. It's all among the Chows, if youdon't mind that. "

"Chows--what are Chows?"

"Chinese--Chinks--a good many white people won't live among them. "

"If they don't object to us, I'm sure I shall not to them. "

The next minute she was sitting beside Louis, but he was fast asleep. 

"Louis, " she whispered, shaking him gently. He stirred and muttered, butcould not waken. She stared at him in the passing light of the streetlamps. He looked so helpless, so much at her mercy. Quite unexpectedlyshe leaned over and kissed the tip of his ear. Next minute she wassobbing uncontrollably, leaning against his arm. 

"Oh, why didn't I go in the water? I can't bear it--I can't! I'll neverbe able to go through with it! I'm making him no better--and no one cankeep on being disappointed and disappointed and still keeping theirfaith. Even to-day, when I ought to have been so happy. "

She sat up suddenly, and turned away from Louis, holding out longingarms for the softness of her mother, the autocratic strength of herfather. But she had to dry her eyes quickly because the cabman hadstopped and was speaking through the window. 

"Here we are, ma, " he said. 

She wrestled with her voice. 

"Do you mind--will you ask her, please? I've been crying, and I looksuch an idiot. "

"Right-o, ma. But don't bother about that. Mrs. King has had her shareo' crying in her time. She won't think nothing of that. "

She realized that it was necessary to waken Louis as she heard the dooropen and a conversation between two people. A little figure of a womancame out to the cab and spoke to her. 

"It's all right, my dear, " she said quietly. "I've got a top room. I'llbe glad to let you have it. "

"It's very kind of you, " said Marcella. "My husband is--rather--asleep. How on earth am I going to get him upstairs?"

"I'll get some of my young fellows to carry him up for you, " said Mrs. King. "Don't you fret about it now, dear. Men often have a drop toomuch, and it's better to take no notice provided they don't get toonoisy or too ready with their fists. "

Marcella smiled faintly and stood stiff as a sentry while Mrs. Kingfetched out half a dozen of her lodgers who were playing cards in thekitchen. They carried Louis upstairs. He was so drugged that he did notwaken. 

CHAPTER XV

It was a bare room, up three flights of stairs. Marcella watched whilethe men carried him in and laid him on the bed. Mrs. King seemedinclined to stay and gossip in whispers, but, after thanking her, andsaying they would talk to-morrow, Marcella shut the door and locked it. 

Then she looked round. There were three candles burning. With a littlecry of superstitious fear she blew one out and pinched the wick. Throughthe two big windows she could see the ships in the harbour with rows ofshining portholes: ferries were fussing to and fro like fiery waterbeetles. From the man-of-war she saw the winking Morse light signallingto the Heads. Trams clanged by in the distance; in a public-house nearby men were singing and laughing. In the room Louis was snoring gustily. She turned from the open window and looked at him. 

"There! I'm married to him now, " she said, and looked from him round theroom. The walls were whitewashed: there was a good deal of blue in themake-up of the whitewash, which gave the room a very cold impression. There was a text "God Bless Our Home, " adorned with a painted garland ofholly, over the door. Above the mantelpiece, which was bare save for thetwo candles, was a Pears' Annual picture--Landseer's "Lion and Lioness, "fastened to the wall with tacks driven through little round buttons ofscarlet flannel. There was a table covered with white oil-cloth on whichstood a basin and jug and an old pink saucer. Two chairs leaned againstthe wall; one of them proved to have only three legs. A small mirrorwith mildew marks hung on the wall. Under one of the windows was a smalltable covered with a threadbare huckaback towel. The floor was bareexcept for a slice of brown carpet by the bed; Marcella liked the bareclean boards. They looked like the deck of a ship. She liked the room. Its clean bareness reminded her, a little, of rooms in the farm afterthe furniture had been sold. 

Her baggage lay in a forlorn heap with Louis's, all jumbled togetherjust as the Customs Officers had left it. Taking off her shoes she puton her bedroom slippers and began to move about quietly, unpackingthings, hanging her frocks on a row of pegs in the alcove, for there wasno cupboard of any description--putting some books on the mantelpiece, her toilet things on the table. She was doing things in a dream, but itwas a dream into which outside things penetrated, for when she hadarranged the table beneath the window as a dressing-table it occurred toher that it would have to be used for meals and she packed her thingsaway on the shelf above the row of pegs. Quite unthinkingly she hadaccepted this place as home; after the tiny cabin it did not seem verysmall; she was too mentally anxious to feel actual disadvantages. It wasdays before the cramping influence of four walls made her stifle andgasp for breath. 

She had a vague idea that Louis ought not to be wakened, but, looking athim, she saw that his neck was twisted uncomfortably and his collarcutting it. Raising him gently she tried to take his coat and collaroff; he half wakened and made a weak motion as though to strike her. Shenoticed that his hands were very dirty. 

"Louis, you're so uncomfortable, " she whispered. "Let me help youundress and get into bed. "

"Le' me lone, " muttered Louis, lying heavily on her arm. "Aft' myblasted papers. Blast' German--even if you did play Marsh--laise!Marsh--laise! Marsh--shella!"

His voice rose in an insistence of terror and she laid her face againsthis soothingly. 

Then she drew back, sickened by the smell of the various mixtures he hadbeen drinking. 

"Ugh--he is horrible, " she whispered, and bit her lip and frowned. 

Then his frightened eyes sought hers and she whispered softly. 

"Poor boy. Don't be so frightened. Marcella is here. "

"Marsh--Marcella, " he said, making a desperate effort to sit up and lookround. He looked at her, bewildered, at the room, and then his eyesfocussed on the lion over the mantelpiece. 

"Bri'sh line, ole girl! Shtrength! I'm a line--fi' f'r you when we'remarried. "

"We are married, dear, " she said. "Can't you remember it?"

He stared at her again and dragged himself on to his elbow, looking intoher face, his brain clearing rapidly. After a moment's desperategrasping for light he burst into tears. 

"Married! And drunk! Oh, my God, why did you give me that money, littlegirl?"

She was crying, too, now, holding his damp, sticky hand. 

"I thought--if I trusted you--to-day--"

"You mustn't trust me. Oh, damn it all, I'm a chunk of jelly!"

"I thought--Oh Louis, if someone loved me and trusted me to make myselfa musician, I'd do it somehow--and I've about as much music in me as asnail!" she cried passionately. "You know I trusted you! It seems to methat if you can't remember for ten minutes, and try to be kind the veryhour we're married, the whole thing is hopeless--"

He was getting rapidly sobered by his sense of shame, and looked at herwith swimming eyes. He struggled off the bed, lurched a little andnearly fell. 

"Don't you see I'm not like you? We're intrinsically different. I mighthave been like you--once. It's too late now. If I'd been trusted beforethis thing gripped me so tight--Marcella, the thing that makes otherpeople do hard things is missing in me! I've killed it by drinking andlying! I'm without moral sense, Marcella! Can't you see? I'm castratedin my mind! There's lots of people like that. "

"I don't understand you, Louis, " she said weakly. "And--and I haven'tgot a dictionary to look up things. " He was not listening to her. Hewent on raving. 

"You mustn't trust me! Do you hear? If a doctor got hold of me, he'dlock me up! And that would do no real good! Nobody wants to help adrunkard, nobody tells him how to get a hold on himself. They'rebarbarous to us--like they were to the lepers and the loonies in theBible. "

"I'm not barbarous, Louis. Oh, my dear, my dear--you know I'd doanything. "

"No, but you're a fool and don't understand! Why can't some wise persondo something for me? Marcella, you're a fool, I tell you. You don'tknow. You don't understand when I'm lying to you. God, why aren't yousharp enough--or dirty enough yourself--to see that I'm brain and bone, a liar? You didn't know that I was drinking champagne at lunch to-day, did you? Violet would have known! You didn't know I'd two flasks ofwhisky in my pockets, and kept getting rid of you a minute to have aswig, did you? If only you were a liar yourself, you'd understand that Iwas!"

She sat back against the foot of the bed, feeling as though all herbones had melted away. 

"Then what _am_ I to do?" she said weakly, letting her hands drop. "I'veno one to tell me but you. "

"And I lie to you! God knows what we're going to do. I've lied againabout the money. I never wrote and told the Pater be damned to hismoney! There'll be two weeks waiting for me at the G. P. O. Now. Why didyou believe me?"

"Louis--listen to me. I thought you were giving yourself a bad name andhanging yourself. I thought if you sponged out all thought of drink fromyour mind you'd be cured. "

There was a gloomy silence. At last he burst out impatiently. 

"Why aren't women taught elementary psychology before they get married?That is very good treatment for anyone who has a scrap of moral fibre inhim. But I haven't. It won't work with me. You mustn't trust me. I'm aman with a castrated soul, Marcella. I've killed the active part of meby drinking and lying and slacking. You've got to treat me like a kid ora lunatic. I am one, really--there, don't look frightened, but it'strue--Listen, old girl. Keep me locked up. I mean it, seriously. If Ican be forcibly kept off the blasted stuff I'll get some sort ofperspective. Now everything looks wobbly to me. Then, when I've got thedrink out, you've to graft something on to me. Why in hell's name didn'tI marry a girl who knew medicine? Don't you know that if a great chunkof skin is burnt off anyone, more is grafted on?"

She nodded, her eyes wide with terror. 

"Well, I'm telling you this now honestly. Presently I'll be lyingagain. Marcella, I've to have will-power grafted on to me, and until Ihave, I'm going to stay in bed. See?"

He was fumbling for his keys in his pockets. He gave them to her withtrembling hands. There was a flask of whisky untouched in his pocket, and two empty ones. He threw them through the window regardless ofpassers-by. 

"Get out of here, Marcella, or look through the window a bit. I'm goingto get undressed and lock up all my things. I'm a filthy object. Youmustn't look at me till I've cleaned myself up. Then you must see that Istay in bed till this hunger goes off. If I do that every time it comeson--Lord, you always make me feel I want to wash myself in somethingvery big and clean, like the sea. "

She turned to the glimmering window, feeling very humble. She felt thatshe had let him down, somehow, in not being more wise. And yet she knewvery certainly that she was going to grope and grope now, hurtingherself and him until she did know. 

"Why am I such a fool?" she asked, helplessly. The Morse lights winkedat her from the flagship and she got back the memory of a night manyyears ago, when she had walked on Ben Grief with her mother just beforeshe was too ill to walk out any more. They had seen a ship winking sothat night, far out at sea, and it had passed silently. That night hermother had talked of God's Fools and how they were the world's wisestmen. 

"If you are not very wise, darling, " her mother had said, "God has achance to use you better. It is so very hard for clever people to dothings for God, humbly--which is the only way--because they are egotistswanting to show their own cleverness and not His all the time. "

That night she had told Marcella the story of Parsifal, the "pure fool"and how he, too big a fool to know his own name properly, had come tothe court of the king who was too ill to do anything, God's work orman's. 

"You see, this king had been given the sacred Spear. So long as he hadit no enemy could hurt him or his kingdom. But when he forgot, andpleased himself just for a moment, the enemy got the Spear and woundedhim with it. No one could cure him till poor Parsifal came along--apoor simpleton who had been brought up in the desert. And the onlyreason he could win back the Spear, and cure the king, and bring backthe symbol of God's Presence on earth again, was that he was so sorryfor the king. He wanted so much to heal him that, whenever he got tiredand sick, and whenever he got into temptations he was able to conquerthem. It was his pity made him conquer where wiser people, more selfishand less loving, had failed. "

Marcella let the far-off, gentle voice sink into her mind, then. She sawherself very consciously as Parsifal; he, too, had been a fool. She feltshe could take heart of grace from the fact that another fool had wonthrough to healing and victory. When, presently, Louis's voice came toher, she turned with a swift vision of him as King Amfortas with theunstaunchable wound. 

He had washed and brushed his hair, and changed into pyjamas. He lookedvery pitiful, very ill. He was standing in the middle of the room withthe two candles flicking in the light night breeze, making leapingshadows of him all over the walls. 

"My head's damn bad, " he groaned. "It feels as if it's going to burst. "

He swayed and almost fell. She helped him over to the bed. He sunk on itwith a sigh of relief. 

"I feel damn bad, " he said again, and burst into tears. 

"Don't cry, Louis. I'm going to make you better now, " she said, sittingon the edge of the bed and stroking his damp hair gently. 

"Light me a cig-rette--light me a cig-rette, " he said, rapidly, shakinghis hands impatiently. "In my coat--find my cigarette-holder. Bequick--be quick--There, I'm sorry, old girl. I felt so jumpy then. Itseems as if there are faces watching me. Marcella--I'm sure there areChinks about. "

"You're quite safe with Marcella, " she said, soothingly, as if she werespeaking to a child. He puffed at the cigarette but his hands shook somuch that she had to hold it for him. It soothed him considerably. Sheregistered that fact for future reference. Presently he threw thecigarette across the room into the grate and turned over. 

"Lord, I'm tired. Not had a decent night's sleep for centuries. Thosedamn bunks on the Oriana were so hard! Marcella--I want to go to sleep. If I don't get some sleep I shall go mad. Let me put my poor old head onyour shoulder and go to sleep. I--dream--of your--white shoulders. "

She sat quite still, trembling a little until his heavy breathing toldher that he was asleep. His hair, which he had soaked in water to makeit lie straight, felt wet and cold on her neck. After a long while shelaid his head on the pillow and stood up, stretching herself because shewas so stiff. 

"Don't leave me, " he murmured, without opening his eyes. She laid a coolhand on his head again. When she took it away he was fast asleep. Shestood with her hands clasped behind her, watching him for a long time. Then she turned away with a sigh, to gaze through the window, trying tolocate her position by the stars, only to be puzzled until sheremembered that, for the last three weeks, the stars had been differentfrom those that kept their courses above Lashnagar. She would not havefelt so lonely had she been able to turn towards home as a Mahommedanturns towards Mecca. After awhile, chilled and hungry and aching in herthroat, she turned back into the room. 

"Being married is horrible, " she whispered. "I thought it was such anadventure. "

Going across to the bed she stood looking at him, her eyes filled withtears and, bending over him, she touched his forehead with her lips. 

"Oh, my dear, my dear, " she whispered. "I wish you weren't drunk. "

He stirred, and his hand made a little, ineffectual movement towardsher, and dropped again. 

Something in its weakness, its inadequacy, made her impatient; she feltit impossible to come near to anything so ineffectual as that futilehand and, taking the pillow from the other side of the bed, laid it onthe floor. She started to undress and stopped sharp. 

"I can't get in my nightgown--in case he wakes up and sees me, " shesaid. A moment later, rolled in her old plaid travelling rug she lay onthe floor. It did not seem uncomfortable; it did not seem anextraordinary thing to her for a girl to go to sleep on the floor; shehad her father to thank for immunity from small physical discomforts. 

CHAPTER XVI

Marcella was wakened several times during the night; she was cold andstiff, but only apprehended her discomfort vaguely as she listened toLouis muttering--mostly in French. Each time she spoke softly to him asshe used to speak to her father when he was ill. To her he suddenlybecame an invalid; as the days went on she accepted the role of motherand nurse to him; only occasionally did a more normal love flame out, bewildering and enchanting as his kisses on the _Oriana_ had enchantedand bewildered her. She felt, often, contemptuous of a man who had tostay in bed and have his clothes locked up to save him from gettingdrunk; at the same time she admired him for attempting so drastic acure. It was a wholly delightful experience to her to have money andspend it on buying things for him; she would, at this time, have beenunrecognizable to Dr. Angus and Wullie; they would never have seen theirrather dreamy, very boy-like, almost unembodied Marcella of Lashnagar inthe Marcella of Sydney, with her alternate brooding maternal tendernessthat guarded him as a baby, or with the melting softness of suddenlyreleased passion. All her life she had been "saved up, " dammed back, save for her inarticulate adoration of her mother, her heart-rendinglove of her father and her comradeship with Wullie and the doctor. Louishad opened the lock gates of her love and got the full sweep of theflood. But he gave nothing in return save the appeal of weakness, therather disillusioning charm of discovery and novelty. 

For the first few weeks in Sydney she walked in an aura of passionstrangely blended of the physical and the spiritual. She knew nothingabout men; what she had seen on the ship made her class them asnuisances to be put in the sea out of hand. Her father was the only manshe had known intimately before. Her father had been a weak man, and yeta tyrant and an autocrat. Logically, then, all men were tyrants andautocrats. The women in Sydney whom she saw in Mrs. King's kitchen, where she went to learn how to cook, talked much of their husbands, calling them "boss. " Hence she meekly accepted Louis's autocraticorderings of her coming and going. Again, her father had been gripped, in the tentacles first of the whisky-cult, and later of the God-cult. Therefore, she reasoned, all men were so gripped by something. It was apity that they were so gripped. It seemed to her that women must havebeen created to be soft cushions for men to fall upon, props to keepthem up, nurses to minister to their weakness. She slowly came torealize that the age of heroes was dead--if it had ever been, outsidethe covers of story-books. It seemed that Siegfried no longer lived toslay dragons, that Andromeda would have to buckle on armour, slip herbonds and save her Perseus when he got into no end of entanglements onhis way to rescue her. By degrees she came to think that men werechildren, to be humoured by being called "boss" or "hero" as the casemay be. Reading the extraordinary assortment of books sent to her by thedoctor, as time went on, it seemed to her that John the Baptist ofto-day had gone aside from making straight the pathway of the Lord tolie in the tangles of Salome's hair. In all the great names she readthere seemed to be a kink; some of them were under a cloud of drugs ordrink; de Quincey hurt her terribly; sitting one day on the side ofLouis's bed reading "John Barleycorn"--she had discovered Jack London inthe "Cruise of the Snark" and loved his fine adventurousness--she feltthat she could not bear to know a thing so fine, so joyous and sodashing as he should have so miserable a neurosis. 

Dr. Angus, among other things, sent her Kraill's Lendicott Trust Autumnlectures in the form of six little grey covered pamphlets. They weremuch coloured by recent inspiring German and American sex psychology. But she did not know that. She thought that they began, continued andended in Kraill and, though she fell down in adoration before hisuncanny wisdom, his cynicism made her miserable. They showed herhumanity in chains; particularly did they show her man in chains; sheread them all--six of them--in one afternoon and evening; students andtrained scientists had taken them in doses of one a fortnight. Naturallyshe got mental indigestion that was not helped by the fact that, six toa dozen times on every page, she had to find the meaning of words in adictionary she had bought to look up the meaning of Louis's remark thefirst night they were married. He was amused and tolerant about thedictionary. He seemed to think girls need not trouble to understand whatthey read. He was particularly superior about "little girls trying totake strong meat when they were at the milk-for-babes stage ofdevelopment. "

"But you know, Louis, " she said, looking up from her pamphlet with aperplexed frown, "He seems to think that if a man wants a cup of tea anda piece of bread and butter, it's sex!"

"Well, so it is, " said Louis calmly, puffing at his cigarette andwatching her through the smoke. "Every hunger on earth is sex, right atbottom--every desire is generated by the sex force; drinking, love ofparents and children, love of God, the artist's desire for beauty and tocreate beauty--just sex, old lady!"

He laughed at her horrified face. 

"And you're such a bally little Puritan you think that's terrible, don'tyou?"

She nodded, flushing. 

"You aren't a Puritan, really, Marcella, " he said, watching her face. "It's your upbringing has made you a Puritan. "

"Louis, " she burst out, "I'd rather be a Puritan, I think--and be alldead and dried up like Aunt Janet, than--than--what you call bowledover. I'd loathe that anything should have me; put me in chains; make medo things! Louis--" her voice dropped to a meek whisper, "it isn'tthat--that--beastly sort of thing makes me love you, is it? Makes melove to buy flowers and books for you, and make food for you, and benear you? Louis--just because you're a man and I'm a girl?"

"Of course it is, you little silly, " he said complacently. 

"Then I won't!" she cried hotly. "I won't do a thing because somethinginside me, over which I have no control, says I've got to! I hate it!It's a chain--I'm--a thing with a will, not just a bundle of instincts. "

He looked at her queerly, laughed a little and said nothing. She got theterrible idea that he knew more than she did, that something was weavinga net which all the while she thought was beautiful devotion when it wasreally something that was getting entangled in her arms and legs so thatshe could not move as she wished. 

"I resent it!" she cried, suddenly, starting up as though she wouldpush the wall through and escape into the street. "I can't bear chains, Louis. "

"Then commit suicide, " he said, stretching his hand out to her. "Eventhen some of these mad psychics say that that doesn't kill the thingyou're escaping from. They say you die with an appetite and are soearthbound that you come to life again with it still about you. Lord, ifI died now I'd come back and be the bung of a whisky barrel--and you--"

"Louis, don't, " she cried, staring up wildly. "It's beastly. Oh it'sbetter not to understand anything at all! Do you know, I believe lots ofpeople who stop to think resent these tyrannies of the body, only theydon't mention it because it's the sort of thing that makes people blush!In this last lecture Professor Kraill says the same thing you told meonce. "

"Considering I've already told you quite a million things--" he began inthe tone one uses to a child. She broke in passionately, turning thepages of Number Six of the Lendicott Lectures swiftly. 

"Listen. This is what he says. "

_"We are loaded with sex and sex tradition, which the body and itsburdens have imposed upon humanity. Poets have written and dreamed ofthe delights of wine, woman and song; priests and prophets have writtenand thundered and dreamed of the world, the flesh and the devil. It isonly a difference of terminology. Poet, artist, priest and anchoritealike thought all the time of the tyranny of the body until it became amillion-horse-power steam hammer crushing out his microscopic pin-headof a soul. To man, woman is still the siren tradition made her; shelikes to be. She likes to think hers is 'the face that launched athousand ships and fired the topless towers of Ilium. ' She insists thatman shall set out on his high adventure in quest of her. But he isbeginning to see through her. He has her fate in the test-tube of hisscientific laboratories to-day. She has refused to join him as a comradein armour; she has preferred to remain the vehicle of reproduction, theprize of his play-times, his allurement, his passenger. Then let herremain so. Man is going to keep her under. Think what has been done inplastic surgery, what is being done in what I call plastic psychology!Think what selection has done in the breeding of lower forms of life. And then let woman tremble! If she is perpetually going to chain man inthe meshes of her hair, the curves of her fingers, he is going to getrid of her--except as a thing for pleasure and for use. Most of the timehe hugs his chains. One day he will get clear vision, realize that womanhas got too much for him and--limit her! It is, to some extent, beingdone unconsciously already. Why is it a disgrace to be the mother of agirl-child in certain Oriental countries? Why do they drown girl-babiesin the Ganges? It is simply that they realize the danger of thissoftness, this overlordship of women! Clearer thinking than we, they seethe menace of femininity. We of the West will soon see that woman hasbeen the passenger in the rather frail life-boat of the world. And inself defence we shall put her overboard before long--unless--unless--shetakes an oar. "_

"Lord, he _does_ lap into them, doesn't he?" said Louis, gleefully. 

She frowned and pondered. 

"I think you are ungenerous, all of you, " she said softly. "Men seemsuch unbalanced children to me. Wanting to put women overboard. "

She looked at Louis, and they both broke into an uncontrollable fit oflaughter as they recalled that that was exactly what she had literallydone with an annoying man. 

"Perhaps we're all ungenerous, " she said presently. "I believe we areungenerous towards the thing that chains us. It's only natural. But Idon't think that you or the author of 'John Barleycorn' or poor deQuincey ought really to put drugs and drink and all that out of theworld at all. You ought to live with them in the world, and not let themchain you. Don't you think so? And--poor Professor Kraill! Isn't hewistful about the stuffiness of women's hair? Oh Louis, do you know whatit reminds me of?"

He lit a cigarette, watching her with amused tolerance. 

"Knollys put a horrible sticky fly-paper in the stewards' pantry oneday. I was looking at it, and wishing flies needn't be made at all. ThenI wished I could let the poor things all loose, no matter how horriblethey are. There was one big bluebottle that had got stuck there on hisback with his wings in the sticky stuff. He struggled and struggledtill--Oh, horrible!--his wings came off. Then he crawled and crawled, over other dead flies till he got to the edge of the paper. And he wentall wobbly and horrible because nearly all his legs had got pulled off. "

"Lord, what a mind you've got!" he said. 

"Can't you see that's how people are--most of them. Oh, poor things! IfI'd stopped to think I'd have been sorry for Ole Fred instead of puttinghim in the sea for the sharks. "

He looked at her amusedly again, and then at the kettle boiling on thelittle spirit-stove. 

"I say, old lady, theories are all very nice--after tea, " he suggested. 

"Oh, is it tea time?" she said, with a little sigh. Then, brightening, she hummed a little tune all wrong as she cut bread and butter, laid alittle spray of bush roses round his plate and went down to the kitchento ask Mrs. King's advice about what treatment she could give to eggs tomake them nicer than usual for him. 

At the door she turned back. 

"You know, Louis--they've such lovely, shining wings--all beautifulcolours--"

"What?" he said. He had already dismissed the "silly little girl's"arguments from his mind. 

"I'm thinking about people and bluebottles! Lovely iridescent wings allsploshed down in sticky stuff. And swift legs--it seems such a pity tocripple them so that they can't fly or run. "

"I _do_ so want my tea, " he said, pretending to groan. 

She ran down the stairs with a laugh. 

That day she discovered the possibilities of the roof. 

At the end of the landing on which their big top room opened was a shortiron ladder. She decided to explore and, climbing up the iron ladder, pushed up the trapdoor. A cry of delight escaped her as she thrust herhead through the opening. It was a great, flat roof, separated from thenext ones by low copings of stone work, flat topped and about two feethigh. The town, as she climbed out and stood on the roof, lay beneathher like a plan. People looked like flies in the streets, the tramcarslike accelerated caterpillars. The water of the harbour was still andsmooth and as incredibly blue as the water she had seen Mrs. King usingin her laundry work that morning. Wharves or trees ran right down intothe blueness. The big ships lying at anchor made her heart beat fastwith their clean beauty and romance; the bare, clean roofs running alongfor perhaps fifty houses gave her a breath of freedom that brought backLashnagar and Ben Grief. She thought, with a pang of pity, about Louis, the product of suburban London, chained to streets and houses almost allhis boyhood, knowing nothing of the scourge of the winds, the courage ofwide, high places. She tumbled down the ladder, her eyes bright. 

"Louis--Oh Louis, come up on the roof! It's perfectly beautiful! I'vebeen so worried about you shut up here like this, and I've felt sochoked myself with this one room. But up there I'll make you shut youreyes, and I'll tell you all about Ben Grief, and you'll think you'rethere. I'll make you hear the curlews and the gulls and see Jock andTammas come in with the boats. "

"But on the roof!" he protested. "Whatever next?"

"Oh, come and see. You'll love it, " she urged and, though he said it was"a beastly fag, " she got him at last into his dressing-gown and slippersand sitting beside her on the coping. 

She was happier than she had been for months; she felt that there wasenough breath up here for her, and not even his laughing at her forbeing "such a kid" could damp her enjoyment. Presently a new ideaoccurred to her. 

"Let's sleep up here!" she cried, and once again over-ruled hisobjections, and dragged up the mattress and blankets. 

The shadows of the chimneys were long across the roofs as she laid themattress down by the coping. The day had been hot with the clear, brightheat of early summer. They sat on the mattress, smoking--anaccomplishment Marcella had learnt from him and practised rathertentatively. She talked to him of Lashnagar, pouring into his earslegend after legend of her people, until she came to the tale of thespaewife and the coming of the ruin upon Lashnagar. 

"Do you mean to have the cheek to say this is an ancestor of yours?" heasked as, with glowing eyes and quickened breaths, she told him of thetwins born on Flodden Field and wrapt in their foemen's trappings. Hadhe been less self-centred he could not have tried to hurt her by makingfun of her legends. 

"Yes. She is my great, great, goodness knows how great grandmother. I'mrather proud of her, but she takes some living up to. I often feel Idisappoint her. But if ever I feel flabby or lazy or tired of hardthings I switch my mind on to her. Fancy her, sick and weak, trampingafter her man to the battle, and then leaving him dead as she took hisheirs and his shattered pennant back to the ruins of his home. I feelashamed of myself for ever daring to think I'm ill-used when I think ofmy spaewife grandmother! We're not brave and hard like that now--But I'drather like to get her here to settle you and people who talk about'limiting' women. She wasn't much of a passenger. "

"Oh, that witch story comes in lots of mythologies, and old familyhistories!" he said, teasingly. "I don't suppose she ever existed atall, really, or if she did it was because she'd been tarred andfeathered and took refuge at that out of the world show because she wasafraid of being burnt. "

"Afraid!" she cried, and began to tingle all over just as she hadtingled when Mactavish played the pipes at her father's funeral. Justfor an instant she wanted to push Louis over the roof, hear him smashfar below on the street for daring to say the spaewife was afraid. Then, just as swiftly, she remembered that he was weak and must not be annoyedbecause he could not stand it. It came to her in a flash how impossibleit was for him, with no pride but self-love, no courage but Dutchcourage, to understand fearlessness and endurance. Her tingling smart ofmadness and anger passed, leaving her penitent and pitying. She put herarm round his neck and kissed him behind his ear. He, not knowing theswift processes of her thought, imagined that he had "knocked a bit ofthe silliness out of her" effectively. 

"Poor little boy, " she whispered, and he liked it. 

The waters of the harbour began to deepen to indigo: the sun went downbehind the roofs of the city at their side. There was a faint farawaycrackling in the air as of straw and twigs burning in a fierce fire;the sky was flooded with streamers of mauve and green, gold and rosylight that flickered over the bed of the sinking sun for an hour or moreinstead of leaving the sky suddenly grey as it usually was after therapid twilight. The sundown bugle called down the flag on the mastheadof the flagship, and the headlights twinkled out. Marcella and Louisgrew very quiet as the streets quietened and only an occasional carclanged by in George Street, an occasional band of singing sailors wentback rollicking down the street, a solitary ferry glided along in thewater, with brilliant reflections and blaring German band. She crept alittle closer to him; when he did not speak she forgot, for the while, the chasm between them. It is so easy not to criticize anything seenthrough veils of glamour. People socially, spiritually and mentallyworlds apart can love violently for a while when there is physicalattraction. And they are very happy, breathlessly, feverishly happy. Then they wake up with a memory of mutual giving-way that embitters andhumiliates when the inevitable longing for something more stable thansoftness and breathlessness sets in. 

Louis had not been drunk for three weeks; so many things had happened toher, new things, charming things, adorable things and sad things sincethey left the ship that she had almost sponged the memory of it from hermind. The faculty that had been forced upon her in self defence duringher childhood, of forgetting hunger, hardness and repression the momentshe left the house and got out on to the wild hillside in the sun andthe wind came to her now with a kind of rapture. She had never, in herchildhood, dared to resent anything that hurt herself. This spirit ofnon-resentment had become a habit of mind with her. She forgot--if sheever realized--that Louis had hurt her, in the soft beauty of theaurora, the silent fall of the night, the exhilaration of the roof withits loneliness, its romance. 

After awhile she went down the ladder and brought up grapes andgranadillas, and four candles. Louis looked disappointed: he would havepreferred mutton for supper, but for once said nothing as she stuck twocandles on the coping and two at the foot of the mattress, and lightedthem. They burnt unnickering in the windless, blue air. 

It was the setting of romance. Dreams, play-acting came back. Breakingoff a bunch of grapes for Louis she said:

"This is a roof garden in Babylon. You're a king. Oh no, it's Jerusalem. I'm Bethsaibe, bathing on the roof and you're King David. You've got tofall in love with me. "

Louis was too self-centred, too introspective to make love to anyone; itwas only alcohol that released unconscious longings in him: he hadnever, consciously, loved anything on earth: his desperate pleadingswith Marcella on the ship had been pleadings for a mother, a caretakerrather than for a lover. His gross suggestions when he was drunk--therelics of his boyish first sex adventure--she did not understand. Nordid she understand why, when he had lain drunk and asleep that firstnight in the room below, she had looked at him feeling choked to tears;why she sat up at night watching him as he slept, vaguely discomfortedand distressed; why she looked at him with blinded eyes. Had Louis notroused first her mother love to guard his helplessness, he would neverhave got into close enough touch with her to rouse the physical passionwhich might have thus slept on for long years. All her frowning, bewildered self-analysis could not explain the whirlpool of sensationsinto which she had fallen, which alternately buffeted her with vagueunhappiness and drew her along to ecstasies. She did not realize thatall her dreams of a splendid Lover had become mixed up with the familylegend about "taking the man she needed" and had crystallized roundLouis, the first man to waken physical passion for her. 

In a warm rapture up here on the house-top in the still night air herconscious mind went to sleep; she lived her dreams. And Louis did notunderstand; out of the reach of temptation for three weeks, he felt verystrong; her tenderness, her passionate love flattered him: he became avery fine fellow indeed in his own eyes as he lay there, half asleep, under the silver and purple of the midnight sky. He must be a very finefellow--so he argued--if she could love him. She had won his reluctantadmiration long before she had wakened his love. 

"She's a queer stick, " he told himself drowsily, "and a perfect darling. Lord, the way she shook the life out of me that night at Naples! Justbecause I mentioned her bally old father. I believe--I really believe, in spite of her being in the steerage--that she's pretty well born! Andthe way she stuck Ole Fred in the water without turning a hair. And gotfifty quid out of her uncle as easy as falling off a log! Lord, I'venever raised more than a fiver out of an uncle in my life--and that on abirthday. "

He felt for her hand and held it drowsily. It was a very cool, hardhand--not in the least like Violet's pretty little product of creams andmanicure. 

"She's _some_ girl, " he thought. "And what a blazing wonder that she'lllook at me. Yet I can twist her round my little finger--on occasionslike to-night. "

By a very humanly understandable metempsychosis she became just a littleless shining because more reachable; some of her shine transferred tohim. His conception of the whole thing was physical; hers was notconsciously physical at all. But as she lay, long after he was asleep, watching the candles fade one by one, leaving a fainter purple in thesky, she felt vaguely disappointed; all this business of love-makingseemed to mean so much less to Louis than it did to her; he did not takeit seriously, or rather he did not make it the high feast she found it. He could be flippant about it. For her it broke down every barrier, every reservation. Louis was able to come down immediately from ecstasyto everyday things. This, she argued, meant that he had not flown sovery high after all. He was able to make a laughing, half-embarrassedremark to the effect that he hoped no one else was on the roofs roundabout. She would not have cared if everyone in Sydney was on the roofs. For her no one existed just then but Louis. That had jarred a little. Then there were no more cigarettes and he had, quite petulantly, complained of the trouble of going down into the room for a new tin. Shehad gone cheerfully, as she would have fetched things for her father. She did not realize that, by waiting on his whims, she was loweringherself in his esteem. He had taken the cigarettes without a word ofthanks. It was only when she lay awake for hours afterwards, with avague discomfort that was certainly not physical, that she rememberedand was amazed that he could have remembered cigarettes just then. Itdid not square at all with her Lover dream. And the Southern Cross asshe lay with unblinking eyes staring into the great, still dome aboveher, was disappointing. She had heard so much about it; she had thoughtit would be a group of flaming suns in the night sky. And its separatepointers were not even so big and bright as Venus. She felt, somehow, that she had been cheated a little; and immediately told herself that itwas not so really--either she had expected too much, or else she was notclever enough to see what was really there all the time. 

She did not go to sleep all the night. It was at four o'clock that shecrept quietly from underneath the blankets and sat on the coping, perilously near the edge of the outer wall, with the dawn wind from thesea blowing deliciously cold through her thin nightgown. Daybreak camelike the rolling up of a blind; thoughts and memories chased each otherin her mind. She looked across at Louis, fast asleep. Her impulse toldher to waken and ask him to kiss her good morning. And then she stoppeddead. Her feet were carrying her, very uncomfortably, over the rustedcorrugated iron of the roof towards him. Her brain signalled to them tostop, and they would not! She felt herself being carried by them quiteagainst her will, and in another moment she knew that her lips would beon his eyes, kissing him to waken him. And at that moment her footcaught on a nail that the weathering of the iron had exposed. She gave alittle, repressed cry of pain and saw her foot bleeding. 

She sat down exactly where she was; her foot went on bleeding, but shedid not notice it. The slight pain had done its work in jerking her toan awareness of her body. 

"Oh, my goodness, " she said out aloud, "I'm caught! I'm chained! Louiswas right when he said I didn't understand about these hungers. Oh, mygoodness, it's like Louis's feet take him to a whisky bottle. My feetwere simply coolly walking me off to waken him up. "

She sat motionless, scarcely breathing. Her heart began to thumpunpleasantly and she felt a flush tingling down to her feet and to thetips of her fingers. 

"If I hadn't torn my foot then I'd have given way to that blaze--andeach time you give way to a thing it chains you a bit more! I'd neverhave had a chance to sit cool and think it out, because I'd haveforgotten, before I knew where I was, that it needed thinking out atall. I'd have wakened him by now. "

This jerked her, wakened her, widened her. Swiftly she was able to seethat Louis, on his whisky chase, de Quincy on his opium chase, KingDavid, Solomon, Nelson, Byron and Kraill on their woman chase were notperhaps so fortunate as to get a nail jabbed in their feet, pulling themup sharp and giving them time to think. 

"There I've been blaming them a bit--pitying them a lot! Heavens, I was_superior_!" she said. 

The sun came up out of the sea and looked at her. 

"Because I didn't know, " she told it. "I was superior! Because I'd neverfelt the pull of a chain. "

She thought the sun took on a horribly knowing, superior expression. 

Another rather shaking thought came. Since her recollection of theblameless fool that first night in Sydney she had sought the bookshopsfor the text of "Parsifal" and had found it, a ragged copy for twopence, in a second-hand bookshop near the station. She had been puzzled whenParsifal, trying to free himself from the enchantment of thewitch-woman's embrace, had suddenly been confronted by her exultant:

"And so then, with my kiss, The world's heart have I shewn thee?In my soft arms enfoldedLike to a god thou'llt deem thee. "

"Yes, that's it, " she cried. "Oh, you old sun, listen to thespeciousness of it all! Listen--I mustn't let Louis hear, because he'dbe hurt. He isn't my Lover, my Knight at all. He's just the same thingto me as women used to be to the Knights--he's something to rescue, todeliver from bondage. And--just like those beautiful, soft women, he's--he's a sort of seduction to me. Oh--it's horrible!"

She waited a minute tensely. Thought always came to her in flashes. 

"And so are all men. They're all in bondage. "

The sun seemed to have a big, fat, knowing face. One of his eyes winkedat her. 

"Here am I getting myself into a chain that's going to drag at me everytime I'm fighting for him. This--this softness, this love-making and allthe thrill of it--it's going to make holes in my armour and stuff themup with--_crêpe de Chine_!"

She had seen _crêpe de Chine_ yesterday for the first time; Mrs. Kingwas making a blouse of it. Marcella had loved its fine sheen anddelicacy. But it did not seem much use as armour. 

"Here's this thing happened to wake me up, give me insight. There is theplausibleness of it, the temptation of it. I _know_ last night taught methings, millions of things. It promises to teach me more each time it'srepeated. And each time it's repeated I get more and more _crêpe deChine_ patches on my armour. I get bowled over like a ninepin. How am Ito know I'll not be permanently bowled over--till I get--like--like--" Along line of those people she had pitied for their weakness came to her. "I nearly was this morning. If it hadn't been for that nice kind nail inthe roof! Wagner knew all about this when he made the witch-womanrealize that her kiss had unlocked all the world's wisdom for the fool. And one can't help wondering how it is that a thing so natural andbeautiful can be bad for one--"

She began to bite her thumb-nail fiercely and stopped, disgusted withherself, as she realized how she had often condemned Louis for exactlythe same habit when he got perplexed. 

"You see!" she told the sun desperately, "even a little thing like that!I do think we're censorious and cruel to each other. "

She began to walk about the roof. Her foot was bleeding neglected; atevery step she left a little, red print unnoticed. 

"Of course it's natural and beautiful--and abominably instructive! Wherethe wrong comes in is that it gets you down, beats you, takes hold ofyou. Eating bread would be wrong if you made an orgy of it. So wouldreligion, or anything. All this time I've been posing as something sosplendid, wanting to save Louis from Drink; I've been deceiving myself. I've been in love with him. And it's the sort of love that would soondegenerate into an orgy--if I let it!"

She felt that she was so full of ideas that she was getting muddled, but one thing was very clear. 

"I wonder if that queer remark in Genesis, 'Adam knew Eve, his wife, 'means this strange understanding that has happened to me to-night? I'veoften been puzzled by what it could mean. Did it mean that he becameaware, in a flash as I did, of what this sex business might mean in hislife--how it might be a chain to him as it has been to so many people?It's queer--it's like waking up from a dream that's been over you allyour life, and suddenly seeing things very clear. I see them clear now. "She looked out across the shining sea. "Either it can be a chain, or itcan be a Spear of Deliverance as it was to Parsifal. "

She looked from the sea to Louis, unconscious, untroubled by problemsnow that she had taken his burdens upon herself. She realized that shehad even more battles to fight now. She had her own; there was an enemywithin her own camp. Even as she stood there watching him her nailsgripped the stone coping fiercely because half of her was wanting lastnight's tornado back again. 

"No, I won't put up with chains. I'll carry a Spear, " she said, andtumbled down the ladder to dress . . . Tumbled because her feet wereunsteady. 

CHAPTER XVII

As she was dressing she became aware of sounds of violent scrubbinggoing on in the next room--she had often heard such sounds almost beforedawn. She had noticed, too, the almost painful cleanliness of the ratherbare, big house. She knew that no servants were kept; she never saw Mrs. King scrubbing; most of her time was spent in cooking and washingclothes. Mr. King had never, yet, put in an appearance. 

Presently the scrubbing stopped and shambling steps came along thelanding as someone slopped along, dragging his slippers into which hehad merely thrust his toes. There was a scratching sort of tap at thedoor. Marcella opened it quickly. 

A man stood in the doorway, a man with bent shoulders, grey hair andbent back. His face was yellow and unhealthy-looking; his eyes werefilmed and colourless. He seemed half asleep as he looked round over hisshoulder suspiciously. 

"Missus--have you got a tray bit?" he whispered. 

"What's that?" she asked. 

"A tray bit, missus--just thruppence--a mouldy thruppence to get alivener. "

"Oh, you want some money?" she said hurriedly, and realizing theimpossibility of offering a grown up man threepence gave him half acrown. He shambled off without a word and she saw no more of him. Later, when Louis came down from the roof, he slid along the landing on thesoap the scrubber had left there. When Marcella went down to the kitchenwhere Mrs. King was already busy ironing, the mystery was explained. 

"My boss has gone off for the day, " she complained. "I went up intoDutch Frank's room just now, and found the pail of water left there!He'd hardly begun his scrubbing. I don't know where he got his moneyfrom. "

"Was _that_ your husband?" cried Marcella, stopping short in hertoast-making. 

"Oh, he's bin at you, has he?" said Mrs. King resignedly. 

"I gave him--a little money. I didn't know he was your husband, " saidMarcella apologetically. 

"I ought to have warned you, but there, you can't think of everyblooming thing at once. Don't you worry, kid. I'm not blaming you. Hewould have been at you sooner or later. It's all the same in the longrun, but it means I've got to scrub the floors. And my back's thatbad--I do suffer with my back something cruel. "

"Where has he gone, then?"

"Oh, beer-bumming. He goes off every day, and comes in every night afterclosing time, shikkered up. "

"I've never seen him before, " ventured Marcella. 

"He's a lad, Bob is. We had a bonser hotel once, kid--a tied house, youknow. He was manager, on'y he drunk us out of it. So then I took on thisplace on my own--got the furniture hire system, else he'd raise money onit, and sell it up under me. He's no damn good to me, you know, kid--only I do manage to get a bit of scrubbing out of him, of amorning. "

"Does he scrub floors?" asked Marcella in awestruck tones. 

"It's all he's good for. He never earns a penny. He goes and tacks on toany fellow he sees looking a bit flushed with money and boozes with himall day. He often meets a fellow that knew us when we had the hotel, andhe gets a beer or two out of him. "

"Oh, I am sorry, Mrs. King, " began Marcella, but Mrs. King laughed alittle harshly. 

"I don't mind so much now, kid--got past it. So long as my back don'ttrouble me too much. The boys are very good to me--they put him to bedif he's dead drunk. If he isn't dead drunk I won't sleep with him, because he's always forward and vulgar when he's only half there. Thenhe haves to sleep on the sofa in the dining-room. Next day he gets upand cleans the grates and scrubs for me. If he didn't he wouldn't getany money out of me--and well he knows it. "

"But do you give him money for drink?"

"Yes. But not till he's done his scrubbing. You see, being in the hotelbusiness all his life, he can't get started of a morning till he's had adog's hair. So he'll scrub all three storeys down for thruppence. Whenhe's had one drink, and is safe inside a hotel, he's got sauce enough toraise drinks out of anyone. But you know, whenever there's a new chumabout that he can get thruppence out of, it's poor Ma for the scrubbing. And my back's just as bad as bad can be!"

The fire was not very bright. Marcella wished Louis's chops would cookmore quickly. She wanted to get upstairs. 

"It's dreadful being married to a man like that, " said Marcella. 

"It is, " said Mrs. King, planting her iron viciously on Mr. King's shirtthat she was ironing. "I used to try to stop him once. Only you getdisheartened in time, don't you, kid? The times I've started a new homeand had it sold up under me! Six homes I've had and this is the seventh. And the times I've trusted him, only to get laughed at for being a soft. Now all I do is to feel damn glad to get him off my hands for the day. We've made that a hard and fast rule. I'll do for him, and give him ameal of a Sunday when the hotels are closed and see to his washing, andlet him sleep in my bed when he's drunk enough not to get vulgar. Inreturn he does the scrubbing and the grates, and I find him inliveners--"

"Oh, my goodness--do you love him?" asked Marcella, staring at her. 

It was Mrs. King's turn to stare. 

Then she laughed loudly, a little hysterically, until tears came intoher eyes as she stood with her iron poised. 

"Love him? By cripes, no! I'd as soon think of loving one of them bugsthe Dagoes leave in your bed when they have a room for the night. "

"Why did you marry him, then?"

Mrs. King put down her iron and stared out through the door into thesun-baked courtyard where washing flapped and bleached and hensscratched in the dust. It seemed as though she had never thought aboutit before. 

"I suppose I married him for the same reason as you married your chap, kid. I suppose I was took with him, once. "

Marcella gathered her plates and teapot on the tray and stood at thedoor for an instant, visioning last night's glamour ending in loathing, or in dull acceptance of misery and disappointment. 

"I do feel sorry, Mrs. King, " she said, her eyes damp. 

"I'm sorrier for you, kid, " said Mrs. King, attacking the shirt again. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen. "

"And I'm nearly forty-nine. I've got through thirty years of my misery, and you've all yours to come. I've learnt not to care. I go and have abit of a splash at the Races when I'm pretty flush with money, and Ihave a glass or two of port with the boys sometimes, and get a laugh outof it. You've got to learn these things yet, poor little devil. Butdon't you make the mistake I made and be too soft with him. "

Marcella shook her head. 

"And--I say, kid. I go down on my bended knees every day and thank GodI've got no kids of his--"

"I think it's a pity. You must be so cold and lonely, " she said, seeinga resemblance between Mrs. King and Aunt Janet. 

She had made the bed before she went down to cook the breakfast. Louiswas reading the paper and smoking, looking very well. She hated to seehim in bed now. 

He ate his breakfast in silence, with the paper propped in front of him. She pushed the window wide and, perched on the window-sill with a cup oftea outside and a piece of toast in her hand, she decided on what shewas going to say to him. 

"Louis, " she said at last, "I am a wretchedly dissatisfied sort ofperson, dear. "

He looked at her enquiringly and smiled. 

"Louis, can you get up to-day and come out with me?"

He hesitated for a moment. Then he sighed. 

"My dear--I don't think it's safe, " he said in a low voice. 

"Really?"

"Yes, really. "

"Well, then, it isn't. But I hate to see you lying here like this. Iwant us to go and explore. In that big garden by the waterside it'sgorgeous. And--there's your work. "

He flushed a little, struggling with himself. At last he said:

"After all, it's our honeymoon. We can afford to slack a little. "

She laughed outright at that. He could not see anything to laugh at. 

"It isn't enough for me--slacking. I hate it. I want to do things justall the time. I want to dig up fields and move hills about, and thingslike that. Louis, don't you think we might go up country and besquatters like uncle?"

"I wouldn't mind being a squatter like your uncle, " he said, comfortably"with fifty quid notes to splash all over the shanty! But you're notgetting tired of me, are you, darling--after last night?" he addedgently. She flushed, and fidgeted perilously on the window-sill. 

"No, Louis. But--after last night--I don't like to see you lying herelike this, " she began. 

"I know it's boring for you, my pet. Marcella, come and sit on the edgeof the bed. We can talk better if you're near me. "

"No, I'll stay here, " she said decidedly. "And it's not boring for me. It's--" She was going to say "degrading" but stopped in time. 

"You know, I think I'd be all right, " he went on, "if I got up and wentout now. But I can't be sure. I don't want to hurt you again, darling. "

"I know, my dear. But I can't help thinking this is a negative thing. Ifyou had something to do--something that would interest you so much youcouldn't even think about whisky. "

"I've got that something in you, when you're as sweet as you were lastnight, " he said softly. She felt sickened for a minute. The Spear in herhand wavered; it seemed to be turning to a chain again. A chain for her, a Spear for him--she said quietly:

"I like taking care of you, Louis. I'm not thinking of myself at all. Only I can't help wishing you'd got pneumonia, or a broken leg orsomething, so that you could stay in bed sort of--honourably. "

"It's worth while, if I get better, isn't it, my pet?" he said, slowly. 

"_Anything's_ worth while--if you get better, " she said. 

And so the days wore on until they had been married six weeks. In allthat time Louis never saw whisky. This, he confessed to her, was amiracle; except for when he was with the Maories in the ProhibitionCountry, and when he had been in hospital for various long stretches, hehad never known three days to go by without his being drunk. So she feltthat they had advanced steadily. Moods of depression came and went, charmed away by her. They spent a good deal of time on the roof. Theyhad not many books to pass the slow hours, though Dr. Angus sent twoevery week. Louis began to lecture her on medicine; he really knewextraordinarily well what he had learnt: he was an excellent teacher offacts, but he had not one iota of deductive thought in his teaching and, like Andrew Lashcairn, was remarkably impatient if she did notunderstand or, understanding, ventured to express an opinion of her ownabout anything. They had many glamorous nights on the roof, nights thatrecalled the enchantment of those hours under the Aurora, nights ofsevere mental reservation on Marcella's part, all unsuspected by Louis. He confessed to her that his ideas were getting modified; a greatconfession for so crusted a conservative as he. 

One night they were kept awake by a tropical downpour which lashedagainst the windows and poured through the ceiling. Three times they hadto get up and move the bed round to escape the stream of water. Marcellaseemed to be spending all the night mopping up water. 

"If Mrs. King sees all this mess I expect she'll say we mustn't go up onthe roof again, " said Louis. "I suppose we cracked the rusty old iron bywalking about on it. "

"I love the roof, " said Marcella, patiently mopping. It was threeo'clock: the shrill hum of mosquitoes made them afraid to put out thelight, since they had no mosquito nets. After a while they stood by thewindow watching the water running along the street as high as the kerbstones. 

"I love the roof, too. A few months ago I'd have fainted at the thoughtof doing anything so unconventional as sleeping on a roof. You arechanging me, Marcella. I'm getting your ideas of not caring what peoplethink, of being my own censor. And--do you know something else, Marcella?" he added, looking at her with adoration. Her eyes askedquestions. 

"I believe I've got it beat at last. "

"The whisky?"

"Yes. I don't want the bally stuff now. I want you instead. I hate youaway from me for an instant. If you went away now, dearie, I'd be ravingwith d. T. Next day!"

"Oh Louis!"

"I would! I worship you, Marcella. You're life itself to me. I can't geton two minutes without you. "

"But just supposing I did die--seriously, Louis! People get knocked downin streets and all that. Why shouldn't it be me?"

"I shouldn't attempt to live. I know exactly what I'd do. I've got itall worked out! I shall just get blind, roaring drunk and then throwmyself in the harbour. My life is useless without you. "

To his amazement she wrung her hands hopelessly, and looked at him withtragic eyes. 

"Can't you see, you utter idiot, that that's just all wrong? It's no usedoing things for someone else! You've got to do them for yourself!What's the good of it? Do you think I want to make you a flabby thinghanging on to my apron strings all the time? You've got drunk on whiskyin the past. Louis, I'm simply not going to have you getting drunk onme! What on earth's the use of conquering drink hunger and gettingwoman-hunger? It's only another--what you call neurosis, and what I callkink! If that's all the use my love and the whole wicked struggle isgoing to be, I might as well give up at once?"

He caught her wet face between his hands. In the light of the candle helooked at her earnestly. 

"If, at the end of all this, I've to go on being a prop to you, we neednot go on trying any more. Props are rotten and cowardly, whether theyare props of love or not. I want to see you grow so that, if I go out oflife, you'll stand up straight with your head in the sun and the wind. Not propped, my dear! Father was all wrong, I think now. When he'dkilled the whisky he leaned on a great big man God outside him, a shieldand defence. Can't you see that we've to stand up alone without God oranything except ourselves? Can't you see that unless our strength is inourselves we'll never stand? That's what I'm trying to do--and I knowhow hard it is. "

"You? You're not a drunkard, Marcella, " he said. 

She smiled a little as she looked at him. 

"You know, Louis, you're an awful duffer!" she said, and turned away. But he lifted her over the wet floor into bed and, as he blew out thecandle, told the mosquitoes to go to hell, and kissed her face and herhands, he thought he had effectually stilled her queer ethicaldoubtings. And she felt very much alone and unguided, and not at allable to stand up straight without a prop as she had preached to him. 

For the next few days Louis was depressed and restless. She did notunderstand him. She was not yet aware that his hunger came on inperiodic attacks and thought that she must have hurt him in some way tomake him so wretched. She tried to be especially gentle to him, but hewas rather difficult to please. He developed a habit of womanish, almostshrewish, nagging that astounded her; he grumbled at his food, hegrumbled at the discomforts of living in one room; he made her feelcheap when she kissed him by turning away and saying, "There, that'senough, now!"; he found fault with her clothes and, one morning as shewas dressing, said he was tired of seeing her cleaning the room; sheseemed to think that that was all he needed--a nurse and a servant, since she never troubled to make herself attractive to him. Severaltimes, coming from doing her cooking in the basement, she found Mr. Kingslinking along the top landing, but did not associate him with Louis. Several times she thought she smelt whisky, but told herself angrilythat she was dreaming. Then, one day, coming in from the Post Office, she found Louis gone. One thing she noticed as she came along thelanding was an empty bottle in the dark corner behind the door. As soonas she opened the door she saw three whisky bottles, empty, on themantelpiece. On a piece of paper he had written:

"Get all the satisfaction you can out of these, old girl. I'm off. "

She felt cold with horror, but there was nothing she could do. Mrs. Kingsaid that she had seen him go out at two o'clock. And that was all shecould learn. For the rest of the afternoon and evening she was almostfrantic with fear. But the money was not touched. She could not imaginewhat had happened until Mrs. King told her that Mr. King had confessedto getting letters containing money from the Post Office for Louis, andbuying him whisky. Marcella ran out of the house, almost crazed withfright, to look for him. When she had only gone a few hundred yards sheran back, afraid he might come in and need her. It was not until aftermidnight that a violent knocking on the front door roused Mrs. King andsent Marcella down the stairs in a panic. 

It was Louis. His eyes were wild, his clothes muddy. He lurched pastMrs. King and, making a great effort, managed to get upstairs. 

In the room, instinct made Marcella shut and lock the door. He hadthrown himself on the bed, his muddy boots on the coverlet. He lay therebreathing heavily for awhile until he was violently sick. 

"Oh, Louis--my poor little boy!" she cried, forgetting that he was drunkin her fear that he was ill. 

"You think I'm drunk, ole girl--not drunk 'tall, ole girl. "

"Well, get undressed and get into bed, " she said, trying to help. Hestruck her hand away from his collar fiercely and, holding her armstwisted them until she had to beg him to let her go. 

"Aft' my papers, " he cried fiercely. Then he seemed to recognize her andbegan to rave about his duty to England, and how England's enemies hadgiven him poison. 

"I'm poisoned, ole girl. I knew what it would be. But when they sent forme I had to go. "

"Who sent for you?"

"They sent a note by King. It came in by the English mail. Th-th-theyhave t-t-to b-be s-so c-c-careful, " he said, and that was all he wouldtell her. Soon he was fast asleep, breathing heavily, and she waswrestling with a sick disgust at his presence, a fright that he reallyhad been in danger from enemies and the conviction that he was drunk andnot poisoned. She lay on the floor again this time because she could notbring herself to touch him or go near him. His hands and face were dirtyand he had definitely refused to wash them or let her wash them. But inthe middle of the night he woke up and began to shout for her. 

"I wan' my wife. Where's my wife?" he raved and groping till he foundthe candlestick knocked on the floor with it. She sprung up hastily. 

"Louis--hush, dear. You're waking up all the poor boys who have to goto work at six o'clock, " she whispered. 

"I wan' my wife, " he cried, groping for her with his muddy hands. Shestood trembling by the bed. 

"Louis, I can't--it isn't a bit of use asking me. I can't be in bedbeside you like this. "

"Glad 'nough to las' night!" he said, laughing into her face. She feltthe hot blood pumping to her skin until it seemed to her that even herhair must be blushing. Then she went very cold as she walked blindlytowards the door, only conscious that she must get anywhere away fromhim. 

"I wan' my wife. She is my wife, isn't she? Dammit! Wha's a man's wifefor? Marsh--Marshlaise! Damn Germ's playing Marshlaise! They're aft'me--I knew they'd be aft' me! Marsh-shella? Where's my Marsh-ella?"

He pounded on the floor again, and she turned back, wrung by the terrorin his voice. She lighted two candles and he saw that she was by hisside. 

"I thought you'd left me, " he said, beginning to cry and streaking thetears about his face with his dirty hands. She was shivering as she bentover him, her tears mingling with his. 

"I'm here with you, dear, " she told him. 

"Are you my wife? Wan' wom'n--beau-ful whi' shoulders! N'est ce pas?Parlez-vous Franshay, mam-selle? Ah oui, oui. "

"Louis, you mustn't, _mustn't_ talk that beastly French, please, " shesobbed. He thumped on the floor, staring round wildly with glazed eyes. There was a tap at the door. Marcella, glad of any diversion, went andopened it. 

"I say, kid, keep your boss quiet if you can, " whispered Mrs. King. "Myyoung chaps down below can't get their proper sleep for that row, andthey've got a hard day's work before them if he hasn't. "

"Mrs. King, whatever am I to do with him?" she cried frantically. "Idon't believe he knows it's me. And he's so horribly dirty. "

"Oh, go an' sit on his knee a bit, kid, and make up to him. That's thebest way to make them go quiet. He's at the vulgar stage to-night, yourboss is. But do keep him quiet. Not that I'm not sorry for you, kid, "she added, as she turned away. "They're beasts, men are. Mine's asleepas it happens. "

He was still raving, saying disgusting things that, unfortunately, werein English this time. Looking at him in the candlelight she feltterrified of him and utterly unable to treat him as a sick man and not awicked one. As she stood there stiff, unable through sheer disgust toget any nearer to him, he clutched at her nightgown and drew her nearer. She felt frantic; her nails cut into her hands as she gripped themtogether as if for the comforting feel of a hand in hers. 

"Why should I have this disgust happen to me? It's too dirty to askwomen to get men to sleep like this. "

Then, amidst all the searing things he was saying, came the memories ofthose cries in the night at the farm and she wondered breathlessly ifthis sort of thing could have happened to her mother. And, at thatmoment she knew that it had not. Her father might, quite possibly, havealmost killed her mother by his violent rages. But he could never havebeen merely disgusting. She looked at him again and felt murderous; apassion to put him out of life, to stamp upon him and finish him floodedup and burst and died all in an instant. She realized in that quietinstant that this passionate disgust was utterly selfish; if he had beenloathsome with any other disease than this she would have nursed andsoothed him tenderly; if he had been clean and charming, as on the nightof the aurora. 

"Oh, what a hypocrite you are, Marcella Lashcairn!" she said. "With allyour high-falutin' ideas of balance and coolness! You've beenluxuriating in the thought of martyrdom all the time you've beenfighting the enchantment of this wretched love-making! You've not beenfighting it a bit, really! It's only now, when it's disgusting andbeastly and--not a bit enchanting, that you're fighting it! What a liaryou've been!"

"I wan' my wife, " he muttered, quietened a little by Mrs. King's voice. "'Sall very well, ole girl. "

"Be quiet, Louis, or I'll shake your head off!" she said, quietly. Hestared at her, and cowered down in the bed. She watched him for amoment. Then she spoke softly. 

"Now you're going to sleep--you're going to put your head down onMarcella's shoulder and go to sleep. You're quite safe with Marcella. "

He shivered a little, and then lay still. She pinched out the candlewith fingers that did not feel the flame. 

For a whole fortnight he drank steadily, using remarkable cleverness ingetting money. He joined forces with Mr. King: for the first week theyobtained money from some unknown source and only came home at night whenthey were put out of the hotels at closing time, and even then theybrought whisky or gin--which was much cheaper--home with them. Marcellahad not known there were distinctions in alcohol; she found during thatfortnight that whisky made him mad and then terrified, gin made himhorribly disgusting and beer made him simply silly and very sick. Thesecond week Louis tricked and lied to Marcella, using any excuse to gether out of the room. At the end of three days he had sold everything hepossessed except his least reputable suit, which he had to keep to wear. The last day of the fortnight he came home without the waistcoat:whether he had sold that, or given it away in maudlin generosity, orlost it in some fantastic fashion she could never gather. He had nottaken any of her money. On Mrs. King's advice she had gone up on theroof one day, crept along three other roofs and hidden it in a gully. 

"You've got to be up to all the dodges, " said Mrs. King. 

"I loathe dodges, " said Marcella. 

She got down to the depths in this fortnight. Louis scarcely slept atall, nor did she. Soothing him at night sickened her beyond endurance;she read the New Testament much during the day while he was away, andthe story of the Grail. One day St. Paul said something to her thatbrought her up sharp. 

"Though I give my body to be burned and have not love, it profiteth menothing; love suffereth long, and is kind: love--beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. "

"I don't believe I love him. I don't believe I ever loved him. Thatmadness wasn't love, or it would have endured all things, " she said. Then Parsifal told her that without love pity might still endure allthings. By the time she had been married two months her pity for himwas an overwhelming ache. He pretended penitence to win it: he had noneed to pretend. . . . 

At last he had no money. Everything portable he had sold, including someof her clothes. His drink hunger was tearing him. She was going aboutthe room with big, mournful eyes and white face, making a meal for him. He had scarcely eaten for the whole fortnight; she did not understandthat he was too poisoned to eat; she tried to persuade him to take fooduntil he was irritated beyond endurance and threw it on the floor. Asshe passed him, quiet footed, he noticed her purse in the pocket of thebig cooking apron Mrs. King had lent her. 

"Dearie, " he said presently, "leave that silly mess and come here tome. "

She came immediately, and sat on the edge of the bed, her shouldersdrooping. 

"Your little Louis's so sorry, " he whispered. 

"Are you really sorry, Louis? Not like you were last time?" she asked, suddenly hoping all things again on the slightest provocation. 

"My darling, I'm heartbroken to think of the way I've treated you, " hesaid. "I think I'd better throw myself in the harbour. "

He took her hand in his and held it shakily. Her loose sleeve slippedup; on the white arm he saw blue marks of fingers; this jerked him alittle. He had not known he had got to that yet. Suddenly he kissed themand began to cry. 

"When did I do that?"

"What?" she said guilelessly. 

"Your arm--"

"Oh, that!" she said, flushing. "That's nothing. I don't know how I didit. Mrs. King's mangle, I think it was. It's ugly. I don't like you tosee ugly things. " She drew the sleeve down tight. 

"My poor little brave darling, " he whispered, drawing her closer, tryingto make her hide her face on his shoulder as he measured the distancebetween his hand that was round her waist and the apron pocket. He sawthat it was hopeless. 

"Marcella--when your father was ill, did he pray?"

"Yes. All the time. "

"I wish I could, " he murmured. 

"Why not, if you want to? Wanting to pray is a prayer, really. "

"I don't feel fit to, Marcella. Do you think you could pray for me, girlie?" he said, looking past her at the wall. 

"I--I don't think I could--out loud. I'd feel as if I wereeavesdropping. But I can in my mind, if you like. "

"Let's kneel down, then, like we did in the funny little tin tabernaclewhen we were married, " he said, and with an unsteady spring he was outof bed and kneeling by her side. For five minutes they were very quiet, she with her face buried in the counterpane as she prayed vaguely toherself and God and her father to help him. So intent was she that shedid not feel his hand in her pocket. She thought his look of relief whenthey stood up and he kissed her meant that once more he had beaten hisenemy. 

"Girlie--go down and fill the bath for me! Right full to the brim withcold water. Like ducking in Jordan! I feel good now. I'm going to beclothed and in my right mind, now, " he said earnestly. When she cameback, her shoulders squared again, he had vanished. She did not miss herpurse until she went to the door to buy milk. Luckily there was not verymuch in it. Not till she heard the tale from Louis's lips did shebelieve he had stolen it, and when she missed a few not very valuablebut very precious articles of jewellery that had belonged to her mothershe thought that his tale of enemies--Germans and Chinese--who weredogging him, searching for valuable Government papers, must be true, andthat they had taken her few trinkets. 

That night brought the climax; he had reached the limit of endurance andwas brought home by two sailors who had found him on the Man-of-WarSteps. A wild southerly buster was blowing, bringing rain with it infloods. He was drenched and so were the sailors. 

"He isn't half shikkered, " said one of the boys admiringly. "Trying tojump in the harbour, saying the Germans was after him! If we'd not beengoing back to the _Astarte_ just then he'd have been in, sure enough. "

"I'll get him upstairs for you, miss, " said one of the sailors. "He'sgoing to have the rats. We'd really ought to have give him to thepolice. "

"I'm glad you didn't. If you can help me get him to his room--"

"Right-o, miss. Is he married?"

"Yes. I'm his wife, " she said quietly. The sailors seemed to discuss thematter together. Then one of them volunteered to stay the night, as heguessed Louis would be dangerous. 

"I'll get pulled for it to-morrow, " said the boy, "but it don't seemright to leave a girl with him. "

"You _are_ nice, both of you, " she said gratefully, "but don't worry. I'm quite used to him. He'll go to sleep. "

Her instinct was to get rid of spectators, to have him to herself lockedaway from unsympathetic eyes. So the sailors went at last. When she gotback from seeing them out Louis was flattened against the wall, staringwith horrified eyes at the door, shaking violently. He had lost controlof all his muscles; his face was grinning dreadfully. She gave a littlecry of fright at his dreadful face. He mistook the cause of it and itcommunicated itself to him adding to his already overwhelming horror. 

"They're after me, " he mumbled; she could scarcely tell what he saidbecause his mouth could only form the words loosely. "On the roof!Germs--Chinks! Listen!" Suddenly he spoke with extraordinary clearness, telling her that he had had word that day that the Germans and Chinesehad formed an alliance and were already over-running Europe. 

"Big air fleet over Melb-Melba! Alb't Hall in ruins!" he chattered. "Chinese torture. They know I'm biggest en'my in 'Stralia, ole girl. Theygot me--to-day they caught me. I always knew it--I knew they'd have me!But I beat them, just as I beat the Pater! They know I'm the man they'reafter! They know I'm the son of the Duke of ----" He mumbled a nameMarcella could not catch. "Tha's why Pater--s'posed father--pers'cutedme all 'long! He was in their pay. Can't you see it? But I got away. Only they'll have me, they'll have me. They're on the roof now!Marsh-Marshe-lla, can you guard chimney if they come down? Ole girl, guard it with your body! Coming down chimney--Christmas Eve--"

He began to cry and laugh hysterically. 

"When I was li'l kid'--Chris-mas stockings; I nev' thought Chinks'dcome down chim' with hot irons--scalpels--" And then he described inabominable detail the tortures of the Inquisition all mixed up withChinese tortures and atrocities: his reading seemed to have taken amorbid turn for years; the unspeakable horrors he described madeMarcella the same quaking jelly of fear as he was, for the moment. Thewild howling of the southerly buster in the chimney spoke to her Kelticimagination of enemy voices; the creakings of the rain-swollen roof, thepattering of the hail above on the iron was like quiet-footed torturersadvancing to their work. Her reason had gone for a moment, overwhelmedby horrors. She did not stop to ask herself logical questions. Louis'svoice went on, all on one note, piling horror on horror, disgust ondisgust. 

"They've killed poor ole King. Dutch Frank's in their pay--sleeping inthe nex' room to us all these weeks. They hold your feet to the firetill they swell and burst. They'll do that to you, old thing, 'causeyou're with me. Ole girl--I say, ole girl! You won't yell out, will you?Ole girl--show them how an Eng--Eng--can die!"

She watched him, fascinated, her back against the door. With a look ofinfinite cunning he began to search his pockets and produced a bundle ofpapers, ordinary note-paper, pale grey with an embossed address andtelephone number at the top. He handed them to her solemnly. 

"If they get me, ta' these! Lea' me! Le' me die f'r ole flag! Braved athous' years batt' and the breeze! Ta' these to the Gov'-Genral! He mus'sen' these to King George! May save Buck'm Pal's! If all else falls, mus' save Buck'm Pal's, Marshella! King George unstans code--all incode--"

She took them dazedly in her hands. She saw that on the whitewashed wallagainst which he had almost stuck himself was a great patch of wet fromhis drowned clothes. He was standing with a pool of water dripping fromhim; his blazing eyes were darting this way and that in terror, hismouth was working loosely. Occasionally he lost power of speech entirelyand regained it with didactic distinctness for a few moments. He madeineffectual grabs at Marcella, but his shaking hands failed to reachher. His inflamed brain searched back to every horrible physical thinghe had read, or seen, every operation he had watched; his morbidcondition made them things of obscenity, atrocity. He repeated them allto her with such circumstantial and guileless exactitude that her brainreeled, and still she stood by the door, keeping out she knew not what. Watching her face growing whiter, more pinched, he remembered thingsdone to women by madmen--and said them aloud. 

She glanced at the bundle of papers in her hand, wondering where shecould hide them from his enemies. Opening them out so that she couldfold them better she read the top page. It was written in thin, Italianhandwriting, the typical caligraphy of the upper-class woman of middleage. 

"My own Darling Boy, " she read. 

"I enclose the usual pound from the Pater. Also five shillings each fromMary and myself to get you some cigarettes and chocolates. I hope youcan get that nice milk chocolate you like so much in Australia. My dear, I hope and pray every day that you will remember that promise you gaveme at Tilbury. When I see other mothers with big sons I feel I can'tbear your being right at the other side of the world. Mrs. Cornell camein with Rupert to-day, and for the first time in my life I felt I hatedthem both. The doctor and Mr. Blackie have been in playing billiardswith the Pater. I strongly suspect the Pater let the old chap win. Anyway, he was very excited about it when he went home. "

She turned over to the last page, and read, "given Toby his biscuit andtold him Master will soon be home. He will, won't he, dear boy?

"Your loving old MUM. "

She frowned. Louis had slid down to the floor and was curled up againstthe wall, making himself as small as possible, muttering, andoccasionally grasping out at something that eluded him. 

The next letter was very much the same as the first--little lovingmessages, circumstantial accounts of trivial family interests. Cook hadbeen ill again and the soup was burnt one night because the temporarycook sent by Miss Watkin's Agency was certainly not up to her job. Maryhad been to see "The Chocolate Soldier" again, and was very bored. Oneof the Wayre girls--the fair one--had dyed her hair for a church concertand couldn't wash it off again. 

And he said these letters were a code!

Marcella had a quick struggle with two sides of her nature. The Kelt inher hugged the thought that these were secret service papers to beguarded with her life for his sake, his country's sake. There wasnothing extraordinary to her in the thought that, in the reign of GeorgeV, torturing enemies were abroad with knife and bastinado and poisoncup. She saw herself standing over his prostrate body, with countlessslain enemies before her, and a dripping spear in her hand. She got aglimpse of King George, with ringlets, velvet suit and Vandyke lacecollar gravely smiling as he received the papers from her hands. She wasstill in the romantic stage of kingship! And then the stolidlycommon-sense Puritan ancestress in her made her laugh. It was hard forher to disbelieve a romantic and perilous tale. But these letters! Theywere simply the pathetic love-letters of a mother to her boy, bringingan atmosphere of a commonplace, peaceful English home into all thismadness. With that the truth dawned on her. There were eight of them, each mentioning money! Louis had admitted not writing to his father toput a stop to his remittance. She had forgotten to insist that it wasdone. Here was the explanation of his present orgy!

He was kneeling on the floor now, trying to grip his bitten, bleedingfingers into the wall and crawl upwards. He thought he was in a well, drowning. As she bent over him the well vanished, and she became hisenemy. He made a desperate lunge at her and tried to grab his papersfrom her. But his body was unco-ordinated; murder was in his brain, butit could not be transferred to his shaking hands with which he menacedher. 

She was very much stronger than he, and all the stronger now that heracquired fear of unknown enemies had been laughed away. The thing sherealized most was that he must go to bed, that his wet clothes must comeoff for fear they gave him pneumonia; that, even if they were not wet, they must still come off and be locked up to keep him once again aprisoner. Only, it seemed, in imprisonment, lay peace. And peace wascertainly not salvation!

As she realized that, all the strength was taken from her, but only fora moment. She felt that there was something in living from day to dayand trusting that somehow good would come to him; she thought for a madmoment of being drastic, and breaking his leg to make him an honourableprisoner, but realized with self-contempt that she was too soft to dothat to him. Instead, she fought him to get his clothes off, and byshaking him till all his breath went, perhaps saved his reason bycrystallizing his intangible fears of enemies into physical fear of her, whom he could see and guard against. But he dared not sleep. As soon ashe had ceased to be afraid of her rather hard, very strong hands hebecame afraid again of the Germans and Chinks; and, seeing him there, soweak now, so sick, so shaky she could not shake fear into him any more. 

As the night wore on his delusions changed. He was still beingpersecuted, but now she was the persecutor. Once he cried out that hehad been drinking sulphuric acid, and his throat and mouth werecompletely burnt away, leaving a gaping wound. She made tea for him, guessing that this was merely a picturesque way of telling her he wasthirsty. But he thought she was poisoning him, and dared not drink thetea. She had only married him for his money and his position, for hisenemies had told her he was a duke's son. She was a second Mrs. Maybrick--but this conveyed nothing to newspaperless Marcella. She hadbeen unfaithful to him many times, he told her: Mr. King, Dutch Frank, Ole Fred and the Chinese greengrocer from whom she bought granadillasevery day, were the objects of her transferred affections. 

Unused to the ravings of delirium she was first wildly indignant andthen coldly despairing; at first she thought he was cruel; then sherealized, with a softening to pity, that he was only mad. He won backthe pity by telling her that his mouth and throat were now in anadvanced state of decomposition, having been dead many months; maggotswere crawling over them, choking him. The overwhelming beastliness ofthis suggestion was almost more than she could bear until she realizedthat it must be even more overwhelming for him. By chance she hit uponthe sort of treatment a doctor would most likely have given a mansuffering from alcoholic poisoning. She spoke to him quietly, as ifasking his advice, though she could scarcely control her voice. 

"The best thing is to poison the maggots, don't you think, Louis?"

He looked at her craftily, his mind switching on to a less horrifyingthought. 

"Ha! I knew you had poison. Where is it?"

"I gave you all the poison in that tea, dear. What is there we can useto poison maggots? Surely they taught you that at the hospital?"

"Oh yes, yes--mix up salt and water and watch them wriggle! A quart ofwater and two tons of salt. Be quick! I'll poison the devils, " he cried, and she watched in astonishment as he drank the salt water greedily. Ofcourse he was sick, and very much better because much less poisoned. 

His delusions became less terrifying; the maggots changed to a beebuzzing inside his ear, deafening him. She killed the bee by blowingcigarette smoke inside his ear and telling him it was dead. When he grewmuch quieter and more reasonable he asked her the time in so ordinary avoice that she thought he must be quite well. The next minute he beggedher earnestly not to come near him again because her infidelities hadmade him loathe the sight of her. 

Right back of her mind was the shaking conviction that she could notstand alone; she was longing, demanding almost, all that night, that Godshould come down from on high with chariots and thunderbolts to saveher; she wanted Dr. Angus to tell her what to do, to persuade her thatLouis was a sick man and not a bad man; next minute she wanted herfather to come and thrash him to death for his wickedness. But all thetime, illogically, she pitied him while she pitied herself. By accidenthe killed the self pity by transmuting it to a softer, more beautifulthing. 

"Did I tell you the Chinks had got that little Jimmy who was on the_Oriana_?" he asked casually at tea-time next day. 

"Who? What do you mean?" she said, starting. 

"I saw him and Peters sleeping out in the Domain that wet night. I wasgoing to sleep there too, because I was afraid to come home to you. Theytold me they were starving. The kiddie had got his pyjamas in a bundle. All their other baggage had gone somewhere--probably seized for rentsomewhere. Serves the old fool right, spending all his tin on thatlittle widow!"

"But where's Jimmy?" she cried, starting up to fetch him. 

"I don't know. I gave him a shilling to get a feed, and the old chapcame and had a few drinks with me. I forget what happened then. I expectthe Salvation Army 'll get the kid--if they can get him from theChinks. "

That night she was tortured by Jimmy. Then she was tortured by all thechildren in all the worlds, especially those children who had no mother, and more especially those children whose fathers were chained as Mr. Peters was. She could not leave Louis while she went to search forJimmy, whom she would have kidnapped without a second thought if shecould. Next day Louis, though sane, was very ill with gastritis, andthough several of Mrs. King's lodgers went from Domain to hotel, fromhotel to the police, and from the police to the Salvation Army, theycould not trace Jimmy. She never saw him again; he lived in her mind, aconstant torment, the epitome of victimization, gallantly loyal andvaliant even in homelessness and starvation. 

CHAPTER XVIII

While Louis was so weak and ill Marcella came to several conclusions. The first was that they must leave Sydney at once; the second was thatLouis must be made to work if he would not be persuaded to workwillingly. In work, it seemed to her now, lay his salvation much morethan in imprisonment, even though she should have him imprisoned in anursing home, under treatment. And in getting away from Sydney lay herown salvation. It was high summer; the heat to her, after the coolexhilaration of the Highlands, was terrific; very often the thermometershe borrowed from Dutch Frank's bedroom registered a hundred and twentydegrees in their room, and the close intimacy of life in one room wasbecoming appalling to her. While he was in bed she was happy in a purelynegative way; very soon happiness came to mean to her the state ofquiescence when he was not drunk. They had cleared up many things, andthough she was glad to have got to the bedrock of truth about him atlast she was sick with disillusionment, and a self-disgust at havingbeen so credulous, so easily deceived. In the state of chronicdepression reactive to his orgy he let out all the truth about himselfin a passion of self-indulgent penitence. His tales of secret servicewere, he told her, not technically lies. They were the delusions of hisderanged mind. He had read a spy book in England just before meetingher, when he was recovering from a similar orgy; it had made a dint onhis brain similar to the impression left by the French girl earlier. Inthe same way he explained his morbid tales of Chinese tortures--once, ina fit of melancholy, he had attempted suicide, and after his recoveryhad gone to the seaside with his mother to recuperate; in theboarding-house had been a collection of books on atrocities. It seemedthat everything he read or saw when in a state of physical relaxationaffected him psychologically. Marcella did not realize this, however, until long afterwards. 

The tales he had told her about his parentage he was inclined to treatwith amusement. 

"Don't you know, darling, that that's the first thing a man says whenhe's crazed with any sort of delirium? Either his mother's honour orsome other woman's goes by the board. I just had a variant on thattheme--that's all. "

She was silent for a while, crushed. 

"And then the things you said to me, Louis. About me and--that awful Mr. King and old Hop Lee who brings the fruit. They are simply unforgivable. Louis, I'll do all I can to help you, my dear, but I'm finished withyou. You sneered at me because you knew I liked to kiss you. Nothing onearth can ever make me do it again. "

"Marcella, " he said solemnly, "the other night I had d. T. --just a mildattack. Ask any doctor and he'll tell you about it. Those things I saidto you _I_ didn't say, really. They were just lunacy. There was anIndian student at the hospital who used to assure us solemnly thatdelirious or drugged or drunk people were possessed by the spirits ofdead folks; drunkards by drunkards' spirits who wanted drink so badlythey got into living bodies to satisfy their craving that even deathcouldn't kill. I used to laugh at him as a mad psychic. But I'm hangedif it doesn't look as if there's something in it. You know _I_ couldn'ttalk to you like that, little girl, don't you? You forget that this isillness, dearie. "

"I'm afraid I do, Louis. Anyway, whether it's you or--or--an obsessingspirit, or anything else, I can't help it. I can't have you talk likethat any more. "

"No--I quite see that, " he said thoughtfully. "I can explain it, youknow. "

"I'm tired of explaining, " she said wearily, sitting on the table withher legs swinging. Her hair was plaited back and tied with a big bow, asshe usually wore it in the house; his heart contracted with pity as hesaw what a girl she looked. 

"I don't think people ever realize how deeply this question of physicalfidelity has sunk into us--as a race, I mean. If you knew it, Marcella, it's absolutely the first thing of which people accuse those they lovewhen they get deranged in any way. A dear old man I knew--he was quiteeighty--a professor of psychology--when he was dying had the mostterrible grief because he seriously thought he'd got unlimited numbersof girls into trouble. I suppose"--he went on slowly, wrestling with histhoughts as he put them into words--"I suppose it's because we resentinfidelity so bitterly or else--why is it it touches us on the raw somuch? Why is it you were so sick with me for saying that insane thingabout King and Hop Lee?"

"I don't know, Louis, " she said hopelessly. "It simply made me feelsick. "

"But--it _did_ touch you on the raw, you know, or you wouldn't have feltsick. It wouldn't make you feel sick if I accused you of murder orburglary--I believe it's simply because we might, all of us, veryconceivably break the seventh commandment; in fact, I don't believeanybody goes through life, however sheltered and inhibited they may be, without wanting to break it at least once! And that's why we're so madwhen anyone says we have. "

She thought this out for a while. 

"Well, I think that's perfectly disgusting, and that's all I can sayabout it, " she said finally. 

Later he explained in a very clear, concise way, the reason for hisoutburst. Partly it was periodic; partly it was the result of outsidecircumstances. He had lied to her to "keep his end up, " he said; he hadclung to his father's money because he could not bear that she should bepenniless; then a letter from his mother, brought at his request byKing, had upset him. It told how Violet had returned his engagementring; she had forgotten to do it until her husband, noticing it in herjewel-case, had asked its history and insisted on its return. His motherhad said she would keep it safe for him until he came back; his fatherhad said it must be sold to pay some of the debts Louis had left. Therehad apparently been a family quarrel: the mother, wanting sympathy, hadwritten to Louis about it. And he had felt angry with Violet, angry withViolet's husband, angry with his father. "That explains why, when I wentoff my head, I said I wasn't the Pater's son, and why I crystallized myannoyance with Violet into hatred of you. "

There was a long silence. Marcella was learning things rapidly. 

"Then, when everything outside goes well, we shall be happy, but if thetiniest thing upsets or annoys you I shall have to suffer?" she saidcalmly. 

"Oh, my pet--" he began brokenly, and burst into tears. 

She felt that his crying was pitiful, but very futile. Later, veryshakily, he wrote a letter to his father at her dictation, and sheposted it, thus cutting them off from England. He got better slowly, able, as his brain cleared, to treat himself as a doctor might havedone. As soon as he seemed able to talk about the future she raised thesubject. 

"Louis, " she said one evening, "I've learnt a lot of things lately. I'velearnt that I must never believe a word you say, for one thing. And I'mgoing to act on that. But what's worrying me most is that we havepractically no money left. "

"Oh, my God!" he cried tragically. 

"You see, " she went on calmly, "I believed in your work, so I was notparticularly careful with the money. That's one thing. Another is thatwe're both going to work or you'll be worse and I'll murder you soon. Number three is that we're going to get out of this city where you won'tbe in constant temptation. Perhaps when you've got some nerve back againwe'll live among people again. You can't stay in bed for the rest ofyour life. You'd be bored to drink in no time--"

"I couldn't be bored where you are, girlie, " he whispered tenderly. "Howcould I be?"

"I don't know, but you are. And so am I, " she said grimly. He stared ather and was silent. 

"What are we going to do till we get away, then?" he asked. "We've stillgot the Pater's money--"

"Yes, that will come for weeks yet. I've thought all about that. If Iwere heroic I suppose I'd not touch it. But I don't see how we can avoidit. "

"But it isn't enough to get out of Sydney with, " he said petulantly. 

"Yes it is. I'm going to find work for us, " she informed him. 

"What sort of work?"

"Anything--farm work is all I know. But probably I could cook. Mrs. Kinghas told me a good many things to make. "

"But, Marcella--" began Louis, almost tearfully. 

She turned to him quickly. 

"Louis, you're to leave this to me. On the _Oriana_ you said you would. I'm your doctor and I'm prescribing treatment. I may be wrong, but giveme a trial, anyway. I don't want to boss you. I want you to be free. Butyou can't till you've learnt how to walk yourself. "

And she would say no more, but going to several agencies in Pitt Streetput down their names. She told them she came from a farm in Scotland, and they seemed very pleased to see her. But when she added that she wasmarried to an Englishman who had a public-school education they becamesceptical. 

"What can he do?" they asked. She hesitated. 

"Rouseabout?" asked the clerk. When they explained that this meant beingJack-of-all-trades on an up-country station, Marcella, in a spirit ofsheer mischief, said that would suit Louis well. She liked the busysound of the word, too. But though she called at the agencies day afterday, no one seemed to want her. At last a clerk, an elderly, pleasantwoman explained. 

"They're afraid to engage newly married couples on up-country stationswhere there are not too many hands for fear they go having children--yousee, that puts a woman out of action for a while and throws all the workout of gear. If you were forty-five or thereabouts, now. "

This seemed an astonishing state of things to Marcella. 

The days passed. Louis got up at Christmas time in the blazing heat ofmidsummer, looking a shadow of himself. He began to take a greedyinterest in doing things; he made a cupboard for the crockery lent themby Mrs. King; he made it very well, very carefully, hampered by lack oftools. He read hungrily all the books Dr. Angus sent to Marcella, especially lectures and scientific books. He seemed to disagree onprinciple with whatever she said, and they had many pleasantly heatedarguments. His mother sent him papers--the "Referee, " "Punch, " the"Mirror. " He cut out many of the "Punch" pictures and tacked them upbeside the Landseer print, side by side with Will Dyson's cartoons fromthe "Bulletin" that Marcella liked. When there was nothing to read or dohe told Marcella yarns of his past, until she grew to know his peoplevery well. Whenever he felt tempted to lie to her he pulled himself uppathetically, and she saw that he was really trying to keep his tongueunder control. When everything else palled they played Noughts andCrosses, or Parson's Cat, or Consequences. Mrs. King had asked themrepeatedly to play cards with her "young chaps" in the kitchen, butLouis was too frightened to face them. He was too shy to go downstairsto carry up water or coal for Marcella, and she had to do it herself; inthe undermined state of his nerves it was torture to him to face people, and he became petulant if asked to do what he called "menial tasks. "Marcella understood him: Mrs. King had no hesitation in saying he wasabominably lazy. 

Money became more and more scarce, but this worried her not at all. Shewas coming to associate the possession of money with Louis'srestlessness, for always on English mail days he was restless and badtempered until she had paid away practically all their money, when hebecame calm again. She began to think that if she could devise a way ofliving by barter, without money at all, they might conceivably eliminatethese fits of restlessness and petulance. And all the time, as thereseemed no chance of getting work, she was racking her brains for someway of getting out of the city before his next intermittent outburstcame along. 

English mail day usually happened on Monday; on the Saturday before thelast remittance would arrive Marcella discovered that she had no moneyat all. She told Louis with a little, perplexed laugh. 

"Lord, and I've no cigarettes, " he cried in dismay. 

"Well, it's only one day, " she began. He got nearly frantic. 

"You know perfectly well I can't do without cigarettes, " he cried. "If Ido I'll get all raked up. You know what it means if I get all rakedup--"

"Oh, don't always be threatening me with that, " she cried hotly. "Youknow I'm doing my best, Louis. But I tell you I wouldn't be a slave toanything like cigarettes. I do believe St. Paul when he says, 'If thyright hand offend thee cut it off. ' _I_ would--if my right hand dared toboss me. "

"Probably you would, " he sneered. "We all know how damned superior youalways are, and as for an emasculated old ass like St. Paul--blasted, white-livered passive resister--"

She stared at him and laughed. Her laugh maddened him. 

"I wonder why it is, " she said quietly, "that if anyone conquers hisparticular vice, people sneer at him and call him names? You seem tothink that curing a cancer in one's mind is rather an effeminate thingto do, Louis--rather a priggish thing. I suppose if you get cured ofdrinking you'll say you never did it for fear of being called a prig?"

"Oh, for God's sake stop theorizing and face facts!" he cried. "Justlike a woman, to run away from things. Where am I to get cigarettes fromfor to-morrow? Marcella, I can't be without them! What on earth you dowith the money I can't imagine! Girlie--do get them for me, " and heburst into tears. She stared at him in astonishment. The next moment herarms were round his neck, his head on her shoulder. 

"You poor little boy, " she whispered. "Don't worry. I'll get them foryou. "

"I'm sorry I'm such a kid, dearie. But you know my nerves are in ragsyet. And I can't be without cigarettes. I tell you I can't be withoutcigarettes! Borrow some money from Mrs. King--"

"Don't you worry. I'll manage it, " she said soothingly. "We've got breadand jam and tea. We'll pretend it's a picnic and we've forgotten therest of the things. "

"Naturally, you'd take good care to get in a good stock of the thingsyou like, " he began. "Jam! Oh Lord, I do wish I hadn't a tongue. I sayunkind things and wish I hadn't the next minute. "

"It rather gives away what you think, though, " she said quietly, as shewent out of the room. 

She passed three times through the kitchen before she could summonsufficient courage to borrow sixpence from Mrs. King to buy cigarettes. But after a while she came back with twenty cigarettes and gave them toLouis. 

He stared at them. 

"Only twenty!" he said gloomily. "These will never see me through allthe week end. "

"They're better than nothing, anyway, " she said, not noticing that hehad not thanked her. 

"I've only ten more--that's thirty--till Monday at noon. I'll never seeit through, girl--never in life. How much did you get from Mrs. King?"he asked wildly. 

"I only wanted sixpence for those, " she said. 

"You've the brains of a gnat, " he cried. 

They spent a miserable evening. The cigarette question was preying onhis mind, and she made it no better by talking about people on desertislands, and people at the South Pole who were forced to do withoutthings. She was worried about him; she felt that if he had something bigin his life these little, mean obsessions would be sublimated by it. 

And the something big came, silently and unexpected. 

CHAPTER XIX

She wanted to go and spend the day under the great trees on LadyMacquarie's Chair. The cool lapping of the blue water was inviting andthe shade of the trees promised drowsy restfulness. It seemed to herthat, if they were not near a table or chairs, he would not notice thelack of a meal--anyone can sit under trees by the sea wall and eatbread and jam sandwiches, and forget they are doing it because they haveto. Louis objected. To him food eaten out of doors was reminiscent ofpeople from the slums having tea on Bank Holiday on Hampstead Heath orGreenwich Park. To Marcella it recalled days on Ben Grief with Wullie. But they stayed indoors with blinds drawn to keep out the stifling airsof the street, and sheets dipped in carbolic solution hung over doorsand windows to keep away the half dozen unidentified insect pests thatworried them. 

She wrote long letters home during the morning. Louis smoked andfidgetted and read the Sunday papers. She found it hard to write letterswhen he was walking about, sometimes watching the point of her pen, lifting a cup and putting it down again, reading a few paragraphs of thepaper and dropping it listlessly, opening the cupboard door motivelesslyand closing it again, lifting down books, peering behind them andletting them slip from his hands to the floor with a bang. 

She glanced up once or twice impatiently. Once, looking at herapologetically he said:

"I keep worrying about those bally cigarettes, old thing. " She saw thathis finger-nails, which three weeks' sanity had mended, were bitten andgnawed to bleeding again. "I c-can't h-help it, girlie. "

She felt raked up and nervous, too. Since they had been married she hadfound such delight in preparing Louis's meals that she was miserable innot doing it to-day. She felt that she was to blame, that she had beenremiss somewhere, though she could not see where. But she answered himcrossly and impatiently, and he began to fidget about the room again. 

"I've been reading 'Parsifal' again and again, doctor, " she wrote. "Doread it, and tell me what you think of my theory. I see humanity asAmfortas, the wounded king, who, if he hadn't let himself so wantonlyget wounded, would still have been the keeper of God's Presence onearth. I see the Spear as humanity's weakness, which, by being turned tostrength, becomes a spear of Deliverance. Ingenious, isn't it? You'llsay 'More dreams, Marcella?' But they're not dreams, doctor, any more. I'm a man of action now, and I like it. "

"I say, old girl, " broke in Louis's voice. "It's nearly one o'clock andI've only three left. I've smoked them faster than usual simply becauseI've been worrying so. What the devil am I to do when these arethrough?"

"Play ring o' roses on the roof and forget it, " she said, with a laugh. "Ration those--one each hour when the church clock strikes. Then we'llgo to bed and go to sleep and make to-morrow come quicker. "

"You know I never sleep if I haven't a smoke, " he said impatiently "Iwish it wasn't Sunday. I'd go out and get drunk. "

She made tea, which he swallowed in huge gulps. He refused food, but sheate large, thick slices of bread and jam with relish. The heat of theday came down like an impalpable curtain, making her tired and gasping. Twice she stood under the cold douche in the bathroom, but the exertionof dressing made her blaze again. In the afternoon they both tried toread, but he was too restless to be held by a book and she found"L'Assommoir" which Dr. Angus had sent out among a collection in answerto her request for "every book about drink, " depressing. It told hernothing; all these books seemed to her to hold a policy of despair thatindicated lunacy or suicide as Louis's only possible end. E. F. Benson's"House of Defence" was the most hopeful book she read. In the tormentedmorphia-maniac she saw Louis vividly. But she knew that he was tooinnately untrustful, unloving, to be saved by an act of faith. She hadput that book down an hour ago, and turned again to the real pessimismof Zola, longing for the cool of the evening to come. 

"Marcella, " said Louis at last. "There's only one now. "

She put the book down impatiently and, going across to him, sat on thecool, draughty floor, taking one of his limp, damp hands in hers. 

"You know, little boy, if you really were a little boy, I could smackyou and put you to bed for being such a worry. Didn't your mother everstop you worrying for things when you were a kiddy? If I ever wantedthings father made me go without them on principle. "

"Yet he killed himself with drink. "

"Yes. I guess he didn't mean me to kill myself with any desire at all!Fancy being tyrannized over by a bit of paper and tobacco! Can't you geta picture of it? A nice, big man like you and a cigarette standing therewith a grin on its face, like a savage god, making you bow down andworship it! Horrible! Didn't the Lord know all about you when he madethat commandment about graven images!"

"Oh, you're inhuman--and you're a prig! You're a block of marble. Youthink because you've never wanted anything in your life no one elsehas. "

"I like marble, " she said with a laugh. "Something solid and substantialabout it. You can always be sure about it. "

She went back to her book, but she was not reading. Presently she sawhim raking about among a sheaf of waratahs with which she had hidden theugly old grate. He looked up exultantly. 

"Six cigarette ends! That's enough to make three if I roll them thin. Lord be thanked I've some cigarette papers. "

There was something so pathetic about this that she forgot to feelcontemptuous about it. Before another hour had gone he had smoked thethree resurrected cigarettes as well as the last remaining new one. Shemade more tea. It was five o'clock, the hour when all the sun's heat inAustralia seems to gather itself together and pour downwards, drawing upthe earth heat to meet it. Louis looked fagged and worn. She re-dippedsheets in cold water and hung them up to cool the room a little; herhair was damp, the atmosphere of the room quite motionless. 

"Do you think I could smoke tea?" said he, plaintively. "I believepeople do sometimes. "

He took the tea from the caddy, rubbed a little in his palm and made acigarette with it. It drew with difficulty; after the first bitter whiffhe threw it away impatiently and sat on the edge of the bed, his faceburied in his hands. 

She dashed out of the room and went down to the dining-room. Four of the"young chaps" were playing their interminable game of cards at thetable. A three months' old niece of Mrs. King, whose mother was sittingwith her sister in the bedroom talking, lay in a dressbasket on thetable being guarded by the men. 

She blinked knowingly at Marcella, who bent over her. Two men lay asleepon chairs, one on the couch. They were all in various stages of undress, and had towels round their necks with which they mopped their dampforeheads. They looked up and greeted her as she came in. 

"Have a game, ma?" asked Dutch Frank. 

"No, thank you. I've come to beg, borrow or steal. Can someone lend orgive me a few cigarettes? My poor man has run short. It's too hot to goout. At least, I'm going to stay in. "

They all had any amount of cigarettes; the piles of ends in the hearthmade her think contemptuously of Louis scrabbling in the dust for them. Next minute she was sorry for her unkindness. The boys each pressed apacket of ten upon her; when she tried to choose between them theyinsisted that they would be jealous unless she took them all. Louis'sface, when he saw forty cigarettes in her hand, disgusted her. It waslike the pigs in the sty at feeding time--squealing--jostling. 

In his relief, he became quite charming. He began to joke, and "be good"just like a child who had worried all day for a treat and been grantedit by a weak mother who had reached the limit of endurance. He joked andtold her stories and was more pleasant than she had ever seen him. 

"You are a darling, you know, and you do spoil me, girlie, " he said, kissing her hand. "You forgive me for being a baby, don't you?"

She could not say she didn't, as she smoothed the damp hair from hisforehead. 

In her mood caused by his brightening spirits she felt she could not goon reading "L'Assommoir. " She glanced at the Sunday papers and put themdown. Louis looked at her and laughed. 

"Now you've got the fidgets, " he said. "Let's do something. "

"I've nothing to read but that Zola thing, and a book on Symbolism thatDr. Angus sent. And I don't want to read a bit. Louis, we'll have to dosomething, you and I. We're rusting. We'll have to get away. "

"In this heat?"

"In anything. I'm like old Ulysses. I cannot rest from travel. What isit--'How dull it is to pause, to make an end, the rust unburnished--'I've forgotten most of it. But there's one bit that appeals to me agreat deal--'Life piled on life were all too little--' I want to domillions of things in my life, don't you?"

He lifted his eyebrows at her, and smiled placidly over a cloud ofsmoke. 

"Let's go along to those agencies to-morrow and say we'll be rouseaboutswithout any wages, just for food. I'd love to be a rouseabout. It soundsso beautifully active. 'Rouseabout'! I think John the Baptist was arouseabout, don't you? The rouseabout of the Lord! Oh Louis, let's bethat, shall we?"

"You'd never stand it. "

"Well, anyway, after this week we've got to do something. "

He immediately became petulant and worried again, so she told himblithely that she would arrange things. She grew to do this more andmore as she knew him better. The cigarette famine that had made such amisery of the day was only typical of many things; anything that causedhim the least anxiety lost him both nerve and temper, and he was only inthe way. So in self-defence she began to protect him from everything, simply making plans and trying to get him to fall in with them with theleast possible friction. And this was not very easy: he disagreed withher arrangements on principle, though he always fell in with them later. This, he considered, was his way of showing his man's authority. 

As it grew cooler they went up on the roof. The iron was hot, the stonecoping still warm, but there was a faint breeze blowing in from the sea, and the blue air was less heavy. 

"What can we do?" he said, helplessly, looking down on the few wearypeople crawling through the streets. 

"Nothing, " she said, leaning back against the chimney-stack. 

"I'll tell you what. Let's go on with those lectures I was giving youbefore--before I went rocky! Or rather, look here, I'll tell you what!The old Dean said I was one of the best men in England in midder. "

"What's that?" she said, resignedly. She did not want to listen justthen. She wanted to be quiet and think out the very obtrusive financialand moral problem of getting away. She felt like Lot when he knew of thedestruction to come upon the cities of the Plain. But she felt onecouldn't walk out of things as Lot had walked. Only--she had to do herworrying with placid face, giving lip-service to his entertainment; itwould never do for him to know the convolutions that had led her to anyconclusion; he was an innate pessimist, she an optimist. So she thoughtwith half her mind and listened with the other half. 

"Midwifery! We call it midder, you know, " he said. "I was always awfullyinterested in women--as cases. "

He took out an envelope to make notes, and a pencil. She felt a littlecompunction as she saw his look of keen interest and realized that thestudy of medicine was probably the only thing on earth that could takehim out of himself. 

"We've to begin at the beginning, " he said intently. "It's amazing howfew lay people know even the elements of embryology. "

She heard his voice, and all the time she was wondering if she couldwrite and tell her uncle the truth, asking him to let her and Louis comeand work for him without any pay till they had paid back the fiftypounds she had borrowed. He had said it was far from civilization. Thatwas what she needed!

"See?" came Louis's voice, keen and interested, and the words "cells"and "mulberry-form" floated into her consciousness. 

"Yes, I think I will--it's the only way, " she said, answering aloud thesilent question. 

"I don't believe you've heard a word, you young sinner! You confoundedsecond-sighted Kelts--one never knows where you are! But next week I'llgive you a written examination. It's not a bit of use swotting a thinghalf heartedly. "

She dragged herself to attention, reproaching herself for damping hisinterest. Things he was saying dropped into her consciousness like heavydrops of rain falling from the eaves in a light summer shower. Suddenlyshe gripped his wrist tensely and he looked up in surprise. Her face wasflushed, her eyes shining and sending out little flashes. He had neverseen her like this before. His pencil and paper dropped. The paperfluttered over the wall, the pencil dropped after it. 

"There, that's my only pencil, " he said. "You have got the jerks, oldlady. What's wrong?"

"Why, Louis, we must be going to have a baby! I've been wondering--" Shebroke off suddenly, flushing, and would say no more. 

His mouth came open as he stared at her, and looked so funny that shelaughed. 

"Aren't you pleased? Oh Louis, isn't it splendid--isn't it a _shining_sort of thing to have happen to you!"

She felt it impossible to sit still; something bubbled up within herlike fire; it was a touch of the old exhilaration she had felt on coldmornings in the sea at Lashnagar. She wanted to take his hands and goflying away with him, jumping from star to star in the thrilling bluesky. As it was she stood on one foot, as if poised for flight with asort of spring in her movements that his softer muscles had neverexperienced. He caught at her hand, and felt it taut, and queerly, individually alive. 

"Oh, do say something nice!" she cried. "Louis, I've a good mind to pushyou off the roof--like the queen bee. "

They had been reading about the queen bee's amiable dealings with herlovers a few days ago. 

"Well, I'm damned!" he cried. He got an impression of her as a captiveballoon that had dragged loose its grapnel, and was being tugged at bycurrents far above the earth, where the air was heavy and motionless. Hegripped her hand still tighter. 

"Look here, young person, you sit down here and tell me all you mean, "he said. She stared at him. He suddenly looked much more responsible. Itwas the doctor in him suddenly awakened to new life. He had not feltthe birth struggles of the lover or the father yet. 

"But you're not ill and tired like women are. I can't believe it, " heobjected, frowning with a sort of diagnostic eye upon her. 

"Why should I be?" she said, laughing and rumpling his hair which wasvery straight and neat and made him look too elderly for her wakenedmood of ecstasy. "It's too splendid! It's a funny thing, I've neverthought of having babies before. I've always been a Knight, you know. And knights don't have babies. Oh Louis, wouldn't they look funny, riding out to battle with babies on a pillion behind them? FancyParsifal with a baby! Or St. George! Yet why shouldn't they have them?And why shouldn't they go to battle? It would be good training for them, wouldn't it? They're so soft. "

It was impossible for him to stop her. For the first time in her lifeher tongue was loosened; she talked floods of nonsense, happy, enchantednonsense. But Louis would not lose his diagnostic eye. 

"But didn't you know before?" he persisted. 

"No. Do you think I'd have been such a selfish hog as to keep it tomyself?"

"But you've read biology--you ought to have known how things happen. "

"Oh, bother biology! Who ever thought of biology meaning themselves? Ididn't, anyway. I never think things in books refer to me. Fancy askeleton meaning oneself! Mustn't a skeleton feel immodest? Louis, whenI'm dead, do find some way of disintegrating me, will you? I couldn'tbear to look as immodest as a skeleton does. "

After awhile she became quiet, but still bubbling over withirrepressible happiness. Louis was unusually gentle as they sat talkingin whispers as though afraid the stars would hear their secret as theycame out one by one and looked at them. 

"I can't believe it, yet, " he said at last. 

"Don't worry, then. You will soon enough. Louis--how long is it?" shesaid, puckering her forehead. He made calculations. 

"More than six months, " he said. 

"Oh, what a long time! I don't believe I'll ever be able to wait so longas that. It's like being told the king is coming--and having to wait sixmonths. It _is_ a long time to wait till he's ready, isn't it?"

Suddenly he caught at her hand and kissed it. Presently he wentdownstairs, leaving her there. To her amazement he appeared later withthe mattress and pillows. He had always left her to carry them before. She gathered that it was her role to be waited on, and resented it. 

"We'll sleep up here to-night, girlie, " he said. "I know you like it. "

"It almost seems a waste of time to sleep, doesn't it?" she said, hereyes filled with dreams. "And yet all the while, whether we're awake orasleep, talking or working, he's getting nearer and nearer--without ourdoing anything towards it!" Her eyes, as she spoke, were out seeking thefar invisible bar of the Pacific. 

"It doesn't fit in with you, Marcella, " he said, and her eyes focussedon the glowing end of his cigarette. "I can't imagine you ill andweak--or--or--motherly. Well, yes, perhaps motherly, because that's howyou are to me sometimes. But you seem too young, somehow. "

"Whom the gods love die young, " she quoted softly. "Because they keepyoung. I'll be ever so young when I'm a nice old lady with white hair. Ishall have it cut short then, like a choir boy's in saint pictures. Andas for being ill and weak, I never shall. I simply won't have it. "

"My dear, oh my dear, you'll have to. And I'll have to take care of you. All women need taking care of. "

She gave a little short, quiet laugh. 

"You'll not make me take off my armour, Louis, " she said. He lookedpuzzled, but said nothing. She lay back on the pillow, looking up at theSouthern Cross. The wind lifted her hair gently. Ghosts came over thesea, very kindly ghosts that smiled at her and passed on. 

His hand reached out to hers in the darkness. 

"I say, " he whispered, into her hair, "I was an ass over those damnsmokes. I'll--I'll buck up over that sort of thing in future, Marcella--can't have two babies in the family. "

Her eyes filled with tears. 

"My _dear_, " she whispered, and held tight to his hand. 

CHAPTER XX

He went to sleep that night with the muscles of his mind tightened. Hewas going to fight for his wife and child! She, judged by all he hadknown of women in his select suburb among his family's friends, and inhis externing in the Borough was now a poor weak thing, to be cossettedand cared for, worked for and protected. He felt he could movemountains to-night--for the first time in his life he had someone weakto care for. No more charity from his father! No more slacking, no moregiving way! He had an aim in life now. And, moreover, he had thethrilling excitement of a "case. " That he could not forget, though itwas certainly subsidiary to the feelings of pride in himself that herimaginary weakness had brought into being. 

And the "poor weak woman" lay at his side, staring at the stars witheyes that held bigger worlds than they. After the heat of the day to liehere in the coolness, with the night breeze fanning her hair, ticklingher bare feet and arms, was very delightful. Several times she pressedher hands tight down on the mattress and once she pinched herself. Sheseemed, in her exhilaration, to be losing weight; she would not havebeen surprised, if she had found herself floating away to have a real, close-hand look at the Southern Cross. She had no idea what was going onin Louis's mind. No kindly angel whispered to her that she should go in, now, for "swounds and vapours, " and thus bolster up the protectivenessthat had come to birth within him that night. She knew nothing of"swounds and vapours. " The rather hard women on Lashnagar were never illand weak until they were ready to drop into death. Aunt Janet had neverbeen weak save in the matter of the acid drops. She certainly feltthrilled rather than weak. She had something of contempt for theweakness of women. She was very fond of Mrs. King, but her constantcomplaints about Mr. King's badness and her aching back did not seem toMarcella to be quite playing the game. Mrs. King had solemnly advisedher, several times, to make Louis think she was not well. When she hadseen her carrying pails of coal quite easily up the stairs she had said, with a shudder:

"Oh, kid--you make my back ache to see you! Why don't you let him dothose jobs? You ought to lay down on the bed and tell him you feelqueer. Then he'll be all over you, trying to do all he can for you. "

"I don't want him to, thanks, " said Marcella concisely. "Why should hedo it any more than me?"

Mrs. King thought she was mad. 

But now she felt that they must get away from Mrs. King, from everyone. She began to shape her letter to her uncle in her mind, and as she didso, realized that she and Louis would be alone together no longer. Theywould join the communal life at Wooratonga. If he failed again--and shefelt that, perhaps, he might fail--there would be critics. It came toher that it was quite impossible to go and live with her uncle and thethree daughters who were "rather hard. " She was not ashamed of Louisnow; for that she was thankful, but she dreaded that less kindly eyesthan hers should see him when he was weak. 

She touched him on the cheek with her lips. He wakened at once. 

"What is it, my pet?" he asked anxiously, striking a match and holdingit close to her face. 

"Louis, I can't let our baby come to live in Sydney, " she said. 

"Well, he isn't coming to Sydney to-night, " he laughed. 

"No. But I want it settled. Louis, I was thinking it would be a goodplan to ask uncle to let us go and work for him. But now I feel I can'tgo among his people--"

"You're afraid of what I'll get up to?"

"Not a bit, now. Only they'd never understand you as I do. And--we'refearfully happy when we don't have whisky worrying us. Don't you thinkwe could go and live together in the Bush?"

He sat up, lit a cigarette and passed it to her. Then he lit one forhimself. 

"Can't you face the fact that you're going to be ill, Marcella?" hesaid, irritably. "You'll have to lie down for hours and all sorts ofthings. You're a lick to me--abso-bally-lutely! You ought not to be welllike this! Lord, the things I've been told about women having babies!They simply get down to it--all except the unrefined working women. "

"Then I'm an unrefined working woman, that's all, " she saidcomplacently. "Anyway, Louis, to please you or anyone else I can'tpretend to be ill. Now just forget it till it gets obtrusive. I shall. "

Over the roof-tops, through the moon haze streaming about the chimneyscame a vision of the spaewife riding to Flodden after her man, ridingfrom Flodden with the twin children wrapt in the Southrons' pennants. Marcella smiled a little. Louis frowned and fell in with her way ofthinking. He suddenly felt flabby again. She felt taut as a steelspring. 

The next day she wrote to her uncle for money, telling him the truth. Itwas not pleasant, but it had to be done. As soon as he saw that she wasquite decided on going, and showed no signs whatever of falling in deadfaints about the house, Louis entered into the spirit of the adventure. The lure of wild places got into his feet. As he wrote down a carefullist of the things they were to take in their swags he looked up andactually suggested that she should wire to her uncle for the money sothat they need not waste a day more. As for the prospect of work, thatworried him not at all. 

"You're always sure of a meal, anyway, if you're a sun-downer, " hesaid. "And usually there's a job of sorts that'll keep you in grub. Isay, old girl, we'll have to live on damper and billy-tea. It's thefinest stuff going!"

He argued long with himself about how many blankets to take, how muchtea and flour; he talked about the kind of boots best fitted for walkingon unmade roads: one day when they went out together he discovered apatent "swaggie's friend"--a knife at one end of a composition handleand a fork at the other. 

"It's a good thing to take a fork, " he said reflectively, "you needn'teat with your fingers if you do. Fried sheep eaten with the fingers israther messy at times. "

They arranged for Mrs. King to collect and forward their letters fromhome as soon as they gave her an address; Marcella did not mention thechief reason for getting away from Sydney now. She had an instinctivefeeling that Mrs. King would think she was raving mad to run away intothe Bush with an unborn child. 

"I hope you'll be happy, kid, " she said, as they talked over plans. "ButI doubt it, with him. You want more than I do--"

"I want everything, " said Marcella, decidedly. 

"I don't care so long's my back isn't too bad, and he scrubs down forme, and I can pay my way. I've got this house paying proper now, and theyoung chaps treat me as if I was their mother. "

Marcella felt it was well that she was getting away from this atmosphereof dull acceptance of misery, of the worst in life. Anyway, she toldherself, she would make a quick end to things with fire or knife beforeshe got like that. Expediently keeping a drunken man quiet; expedientlykissing him and fondling him for fear he would get drunk again to-morrowin spite or pique: content with a man who would scrub floors for a"livener"! It was better, far, to be homeless wanderers in the Bushwhere there was no need to be expedient for the sake of others, wherethey would have to stand up on their own intrinsic strength or fall;where they need not be respectable and where she could, if he were weak, alternately shake him up and soothe him without spectators. She wouldnever, never, never allow herself to get into this cringing habit ofbeing thankful for the small mercies of life when the big justices oflife were there, so very big and shining. 

"Of course, " went on Mrs. King in a flat voice, "I've always one mercy Ithank God for on my bended knees every night. That is, not having anydrunkard's children to bring up and be a curse to me when their father'sleft off breaking my heart. "

"Oh--no, no!" cried Marcella, staring at her with horror. 

"Yes, kid, just you keep that in mind! You ta' care, my dear. It's on'ynatural, if you have kids, they'll take after their father. And I'dsooner see them laying dead before me than bring up drunkards to be acurse to some other poor devil. They'll not escape it. It's in theirblood. "

Marcella burst in passionately:

"Why, Mrs. King, that's the rottenest, wickedest heresy that was everinvented to tell anyone! If you believe a cruel thing like that, itmeans that the whole scheme of things is wrong. Why should children takeafter a bad parent more than a good one? Why should they be weak ratherthan strong? If you're logical, what you say means that the world isgetting worse and worse. And everyone knows it's getting better everyminute--"

"I'd like to see it, " said Mrs. King. 

"Besides, " went on Marcella, "besides, if I had a baby I'd build him sostrong, I'd make him so good his father would simply get strong and goodbecause he couldn't fight the strength and goodness all round him! I'dbuild a wall of strength round the child--I'd pull down the pillars ofthe heavens to make him strong--I'd clothe him in fires--There, I dotalk rubbish, don't I?" she added, quietly as she turned away. But Mrs. King's words stuck: she pushed them forcibly away from her mind: theywould not go, and sank deep down; they came back in dreams, tormenting. She dreamed often of a little child starving and cold out in the Domain, while the southerly winds lashed rain at him--dreams of a little boywith Louis's brown eyes--a little boy who gnawed his nails--andstammered--and grew old--and wavered--and shook in drink delirium. 

She refused the dreams house-room in her conscious thoughts. She lookedat the shining billy and big enamelled mugs they had bought that day, atthe bright brown leather straps that smelt so pleasantly new, fastenedround two grey and two brown blankets. Louis came in and made her strapthe two blankets on her back to see if they tired her. In spite of theheat of the day she scarcely felt them. 

"This is what they call Matilda, " he told her, weighing the swag in hishand. 

"I can carry you both if you get tired, " said she, looking from Matildato him. 

She had asked her uncle for ten pounds. He characteristically made nocomments about her omission to mention a husband when she saw him atMelbourne, and remarked that they would be very pleased to see her andher husband any time at Wooratonga. When he proved his unquestioningkindness she wished she had not had to ask him for money. 

That night they packed. There was a new lodger downstairs who provedvery helpful. He had come from the Never-Never Land to knock down acheque in Sydney; in the ordinary course of things he would have beenblind to the world till the cheques were all spent. The night of hisarrival, when he was only softened by a few drinks after six months'abstinence, the Salvation Army had got him. He had saved his soul, hisliver and his money at the same time. And he was bursting withinformation. 

"You take the train to Cook's Wall, chum, " he said, spitting on hishands and trying the strength of the good leather straps. He had tappedthe billy and the mugs with a wise finger, giving them advice aboutsoaking their boots in linseed oil for a few days. 

"Yous ought to buy your tea and baccy and flour in Sydney. It's dear andpoor the further yous get, " he told them. And--

"Cook's Wall is the rail-head, chum, " he said. "It's in the LowerWarrilow. There's a bit o' manganese down there, and they're clearingland. Plenty of work waiting. Lot of new squatters--small squatterswithout two fardens to rub together and make a chink. Them assisted lot. They're always glad of help, clearing scrub. They get a loand off of theGov'ment for tools and seeds and stock, but they've got to clear theland--within three years, I think it is. Hard work, chum. "

Marcella and Louis looked at each other with shining eyes. 

"That's the place for us, old lady!" he said. "I've done clearing in NewZealand, and gorse grubbing. Makes you as black as your hat, and yousleep like a million tops and eat half a sheep at a sitting--"

"You'll get a job there, ma, " he went on, turning the spigot of hisinformation before her now. "They're always glad of cooks for the hutswhere the men live. And they don't pay so bad, either. You get yourrations, of course. It's rotten hard for lads that have been workingfourteen hours in the open air to come in and start cooking. "

Marcella felt thrilled with the excitement of it all, but doubted herpowers of cooking. 

"You needn't worry, old lady, " said Louis. "It's fried sheep forbreakfast, dinner and tea unless a cow breaks its leg and has to beslaughtered. And then it's fried cow. And damper and flapjacks. I can dothat much cooking in a southerly buster with three sticks for firing, standing on my head. "

But she decided to be on the safe side and scoured Sydney for a cookerybook. She found a very fat and flushed and comfortable Mrs. Beeton. Itapparently weighed about two pounds. A week later Marcella decided thatits weight was at least two stone, but the pretty picture of cookedfoods, and the kindly advice it gave about answering doors, foldingtable napkins and serving truffles were all very reassuring. 

They had a tremendous argument about books. Louis flatly refused to takeany. Marcella refused to go without some. Finally she packed the NewTestament, "Parsifal" and the cookery book inside her swag. Later, opening all her books to write her name in them before leaving them onthe shelf downstairs for the use of Mrs. King's "boys, " she noticed thegipsy woman's prophecy in the title page of "Questing Cells" and tookthat along too. 

For the last time, they slept on the roof; as soon as Louis was asleepand Marcella lying quiet beside him, she had a visitation of her dreamsabout drunkards' children. Creeping from under the blankets silently, she walked right along the roof in the moonlight to have the matter outwith herself once and for all. She did not want to take bad dreams awayto a new life with her. 

"I won't believe it. What's more, I _don't_ believe it, " she saiddecidedly. "Louis may be a drunkard. Father was. So were all theLashcairns for ages. But I'm not. And my child is not going to be. Afterall--_is_ he our child--? I mean--Jesus was not Joseph's child--only--"

She stopped, waiting. This was an immense, breathtaking thought. 

"Just his body is made by Louis and me--and all the rest of himcomes--new--quite new. The spirit--the quickening spirit--"

She felt, once more, as if her feet were taking wings with thehopefulness of this thought. 

"Why that's what the Catholics mean by Immaculate Conception! Of courseit is! Why--it's all Immaculate Conception! How on earth could it, logically, be anything else?"

She went back, then, and lay down very still. Louis lay white and quietin the moonlight. 

"You may hurt him, Louis, if I happen to die. Not that I intend to, forone small instant! You may let him be hungry and cold. But you won'thurt him inside. I'll see to it that there's strength in him--thequickening spirit. "

Her last sleep in Sydney was dreamless. 

CHAPTER XXI

Even the two days' journey in the most uncomfortable train on earthcould not damp their ardour. Most of the time Louis was gay andunusually chivalrous; at night, tiredness and heat cracked his nerves alittle, making him cross and cynical until, sitting bolt upright on thewooden seat, she drew his head on her knee and stroked his eyes withsoftened fingers till he fell asleep. At the stations where theyalighted to stretch cramped limbs she stayed beside him all the time. Once, by a specious excuse, he tried to get rid of her, but she sawthrough it and stayed beside him. He resented it bitterly. 

"Damned schoolmistress, " he growled. "Always round me, like a limpet. "In his eyes she read a flash of hate. 

"My dear, do you think I want to be a limpet?" she said, "if I don't youknow we'll never catch the train when it starts again. "

"Never have a free hand, " he muttered. 

She was puzzled. It seemed impossible to keep a constant watch on a manof Louis's temperament. He resented her vigilance though he demanded it. If she seemed to be leading him, he bolted. If she let him have hishead, he still bolted. 

When they were in the train again, drawing away through miles of scrubfurther and further from the cities, she felt very glad that the strainwas going to end soon: she would get a rest and so would he whereprobably he would have to go fifty miles to get a drink. But shetormented herself with the fear that inaccessibility was not going tostrengthen him; rather it would weaken, she was afraid. 

At five o'clock the second day the train, which had dwindled down to onecoach and five trucks, rattled and groaned into Cook's Wall. The stationconsisted of a rough wooden platform raised on wooden supports with aweather-board hut which the stationmaster called porter's room, booking-office, luggage-office and station hotel. Someone hadambitiously painted the name on the station. "COOK'S WAL" and "STATIONHOT" appeared in green letters on the face of the structure. "L" and"EL" appeared round the corner in red. 

The surroundings of the station looked quite hopeless; a few sun-bakedsheep-pens and races stretched behind the Station Hotel, shimmering andwavering in the heat haze; half a mile away was a collection ofhome-made huts consisting of boxes and kerosene tins piled on top ofeach other. A primitive winding-gear and a heap of slag marked theposition of a small manganese mine which had been the cause forprolonging the single line railway so far into the Bush. To the west andsouth and north stretched scrub and bush, right away to forest andpurple hills on the far horizon. Eastward the glittering rails shoneback to the city, sending out blinding little flashes of light as thesun caught them. 

The guard and driver got leisurely out of the train and stood on theplatform; the stationmaster-cum-porter-cum-hotel-keeper, in a pair ofdungaree trousers and a dusty vest of flesh-coloured cellular materialwhich gave him the effect of nakedness, stared at them as thoughpassengers were the last phenomenon he had expected to see. 

"Cripes! What yous want?" he said. 

"Are we far from anywhere?" asked Marcella, smiling at him. He spatassiduously through a knothole in the boarding and looked from her toLouis. 

"Depends on what you call far, " he said reflectively. "There's Gaynor'sabout fifteen miles along, an' Loose End nigh on thirty. Where yousmakin' for, then?"

"I should say Loose End would suit us, by the sound of it, " said Louiswith a laugh. "But it isn't much use starting out to-night. "

The stationmaster looked proprietorially towards the station and thehotel site. There seemed room for tickets, and for the man who soldthem--if he were not a very large man. There was not much hope forvisitors. 

"I'm running up a bosker hotel soon's I can get a bit ofweather-boarding and a few nails along, " he said hopefully. 

"That doesn't solve th-th-the immediate problem, " said Louis. 

"Let's sleep with half of us in the hotel and half on the platform, "said Marcella, delighted with the authentic lack of civilization. 

"Be et up with h'ants, " the driver informed them. "Look here, chum, ifI was you I'd sleep in the train. She don't set off till between sevenand eight to-morrow. "

They jumped at the idea, and the stationmaster, suddenly helpful, offered them the loan of his hut, his spirit lamp, his kerosene tins andhis creek which was half a mile away among a few trees, low-growing, stunted blue gums. 

"Have to have a wash, " the stationmaster told himself unhappily, andsuggested the same course to the driver and guard as there was a lady todinner. Then he piloted Marcella and Louis to his hut. 

It struck a homely note in several ways. The name of Rockefeller came tothem in the flattened out kerosene tins which, nailed to supports, formed the roof; boxes stencilled with the names of well-knownproprietary English goods formed the walls. Inside was a bed in shape ofa frayed hammock; upturned boxes formed the chairs and there was anincongruous leather-topped, mahogany-legged writing-table. A kerosenetin was the toilet apparatus: another, cut in two, was used for boilingwater. Given a supply of kerosene tins in the Bush, one can make a villaand furnish it, down to cooking utensils and baby's bath. 

"Next time's yous happen along, I'll have a bonser hotel, " he said, andleading Marcella outside showed her, under the shade of a tree, a_cache_ of dozens of eggs laid by the hens that ran wild, and buried inthe earth; half a sheep wrapped in canvas, surrounded by great clouds offlies gave evidence that it had been long dead. 

"Help yourself, missus. We'll all kip together. You'll find a bag o'flour in the hammock, " said the stationmaster, and wandered off to geton with his hotel and his station. 

Marcella looked at Louis and laughed. 

"What luck! Here's a chance to experiment! If we get to the stationwhere they want a cook, to-morrow, I'll be able to say I gave everysatisfaction in my last place. "

"Always supposing we're aren't all dead before then, " said Louis. 

The first job was to boil water and wash the plates on which she amusedherself by tracing the remains of quite half a dozen different meals. She felt sickened by the sight of the dead sheep; Louis seemed unmovedas he ran an anatomical eye over it and hacked off slices with a bluntknife. He became very wise on the subject of flapjacks and felt thatMarcella was not quite playing up to him when she preferred to makeomelets. The meal was quite a success in spite of the fact that, when itwas ready Louis had difficulty in beating up the host and the otherguests, and there was nowhere to keep warm the mutton which congealedand stuck hard on the plates. But no one troubled about such a detail. They ate with enjoyment and drank vast quantities of tea with much sugarand no milk. 

They had an unbearably stuffy night in the breathless railway carriage;once Marcella went out on the platform and sat down for awhile listeningto the echo-like barking of dingoes out on the ranges. In less than fiveminutes she was back again, her feet and hands prickling and sore withthe bites of ants and sandflies. She was not at all sorry when dawn cameat half-past three. She was disappointed in the creek; it had soundedluxuriously moist from the note of pride in the stationmaster's voicewhen he mentioned it. It turned out to be a suncracked water-coursewith a little muddy water lying in hollows, and one or two deeper holesfrom which the manganese miners got their water. She had been hoping fora swim: she had to be content with dipping a handkerchief in one of thehollows and wiping her face with it, since all the rest was needed fordrinking. 

"Next time yous come along we'll have had a drop o' rain, an' then youcan drownd yourselfs if you want to, " said the stationmaster. 

They started out at four o'clock with the information that Gaynor'sStation was a collection of weather-board huts, a homestead put togetherby five lads from England who were trying to make a fortune each. Theyhad not yet made a living between them. Loose End was owned by anelderly squatter with many children. Five big gums, which could be seenfor miles, stood sentinel over the homestead on a rising knoll ofground. 

"But if yous ain't lucky, don't hit up Loose End. Old Twist has lots o'luck, but it's mostly bad luck. A kid every year, an' eether a bush fireor a flood or something to make up for it. His eldest is going on forten, I think--an' how's he to pay for labour to clear his land?"

Neither of them knew, but they decided to make for Loose End and seewhat was going on under the five gums. 

That day was the strangest experience to them both. Louis had trampedbefore in the cooler New Zealand summer; Marcella had walked miles onLashnagar. But this walking through the dry, sun-scorched scrub, onwhich their feet slipped and slid was an experience quite unique. Theheat rose from the ground to meet that blazing down from the sky ofPrussian blue. At eight o'clock they were both tired, but Marcella, whoplodded on, calm and unworried, was not nearly so tired as Louis whomade himself hot and dissipated much energy in wondering when they wouldget there--wherever "there" might be. He had started the day whistlingand gay; by ten o'clock he was in the depths of despair and tookMarcella's attempts to chaff him as insults and injuries. As soon asthey reached a patch of stunted bushes she decreed a halt and a rest. They filled the billy from their water-bottles and, making a fire withthe scorched scrub, had it boiling in a few moments. Louis, though hewas revived to interest by the pannikin of tea and a cigarette andbiscuits, sank back into deep depression after a few minutes, sayingthat their coming into the Bush had been the act of lunatics, that theywould die of starvation and thirst--until she made him take out his mapand find out where they were. 

Together they pored over it. After much wrangling they located Loose Endbeside a small lake and decided that they would reach there to-morrowwith considerable effort. 

"Anyway, we'll have to, because of our water, " said Louis. "Otherwisewe'll die. " But Marcella found that, by going a few miles west, theywould catch up the creek that drained into the little lake. 

"It'll only be a dried water-course, " said Louis miserably. 

"No it won't. It's sure to be a foaming torrent if I say it shall. Didn't you know I was a witch?" she told him, and she was certainly moreright than he, for that night they camped under great eucalyptus treesbeside a water-course which ran deep and still at their feet. The firstthing they did was to gather wood and make a great fire. After the day'sanxiety about water it was intoxicating to know that unlimitedquantities were to be dipped up and made into tea. While the waterboiled they splashed about in the water, shaking sand out of the foldsof their underclothes and their hair. 

They had brought eggs and flour and salt. Louis, looking pleased withhimself, produced a tin of Eno's Fruit Salt. 

"Always take this stuff into the Bush, " he explained. "If you can onlyget muddy water, this makes it more possible. And it's dashed good stufffor making damper less damping. "

He put in too much and the damper was so light that it crumbled and gotmixed up in the wood ashes. But they were both too hungry to noticewhether they were eating damper or wood ash, and much too blissful tocare. 

They spread the blankets against the roots of a great tree, over a bedof heathery scrub, very soft and springy; they had no axe or any meansof chopping wood, but there was a thick carpet of dead stuff under thetrees. Noticing dead branches hanging by thin strips of bark Marcellamade a lasso with the swag straps and pulled them down. As far as warmthwent, there was no need for fire at all as soon as the meal was cooked:but out there in the vast purple-blackness of the night with pin-pointsof starlight in the illimitable loneliness the rose and gold of thespurting flames was comforting and comradely. They piled the dead woodupon it before they lay down; as one resinous branch after anothercaught fire the trees danced round in giant shadows, as though they weredoing a death-dance for their limbs on the funeral pyre. The silence wasa complete blank except when a flapping of wings beat the air where somebird changed its night perch, or a parrot squawked hoarsely for amoment, causing a fluttering of smaller wings that soon settled tosilence again. 

Louis rolled over; like Marcella he had been lying on his back, staringthrough the trees at the stars. His hand sought hers and held it, quivering a little. 

"You know, it's going to be a hell of a fight, Marcella, " he said. 

"Oh my dear, do you think so?" she asked, surprised that he wasconfirming her opinion. 

"Yes. In the city, you see, I only have to fight myself. I know, there, that I can always get the stuff--even if I've no money I can beg orpinch it--All I've to fight there is the accessibility of it. Here I'veto fight the inaccessibility. . . . "

"I don't quite understand that, Louis. "

"I don't suppose you do. You see, dearie, out here it's quite on thecards that I shall go completely off my rocker. " He spoke quietly, rather wistfully and sadly. 

"Louis!" she cried, sitting up and looking down at him. 

"I know I can't get whisky, you see. It's probably a hundred miles away. And I've no money. You must keep it all. This craving comes on andsimply eats me up, dear. It's like a cancer, gnawing through bone andflesh and muscle. In the city when the gnawing gets too awful there'salways an anesthetic in the nearest pub. In a way, to conquer it in thecity is more noble. I said 'noble' in inverted commas, dear. I don'tthink it is particularly noble. But it's going to be the devil of afight. "

She did not know what to say or think. It seemed, at any rate, betterthat he should be removed from whisky, however hard it was going to befor him. 

"I've thought a lot about it, " he went on, speaking more impersonallythan she had thought he could. "It's going to be so awful for you. I'llbe a fiend to you, I expect, when the hunger comes on. I suppose this isone of the advantages of an inebriates' home. They'd shove me in astraight jacket or give me drugs when I got like that. Out here, yousee, there's only you. I can't control myself. I may hurt you. "

"You won't. If you do, I'll fight you, so you needn't worry on myaccount. I think it's all a silly convention that says a man in a tempermustn't thump a woman! If you want to thump me, do! But you'll probablyget a much worse thumping than you give. "

He tried to be cheered by her, but could not. After awhile, she said:

"Besides, if you do get well here--and you're going to. I don't doubtthat for a moment--think how splendid it will be to know you've done itwithout the sort of restrictions, and treatments you'd get in a Home. Doing it just by your own strength is great, Louis. "

He saw that, and was happier, but he could not break out of his morbidintrospection. Even after they had said good night and she was in thehinterland of sleep, he wakened her by sitting up and lighting acigarette. 

"Can't you sleep?" she murmured drowsily. 

"I'm thinking about you, " he said gloomily. "Marcella, I was a cad tobring you out here into the backblocks, just because I wanted to escapetemptation. You need civilization just now--you need all the comforts ofcivilization--care and--Oh the million things a woman needs. "

"Oh, Louis, do be quiet!" she said, "all I need at this moment is a goodsleep. "

He lay down again for ten minutes. Once more he started up, dragging theblanket right away from her. 

"How can you expect me to sleep? Marcella, what right had I to make youhave a child? We've no money. "

"They don't cost anything, " she said wide-awake now. 

He made a gesture of impatience. 

"We've no home--you've no attention. "

She sighed. 

"Listen to me, Louis, and then, my dear, for ever hold your peace. Ifthe Lord, or whoever it is that's responsible for babies, had meant themto make women invalids, they'd never have been invented at all. Becausethere's no real room in the world for invalids. They'd have been grownon bushes, or produced by budding, wouldn't they? So just you forget it!The baby is my affair. It's nothing to do with you, and I positivelyrefuse to be fussed over. I call it indecent to talk about ill-health. It's the one thing in life I'd put covers on and hide up. You must justthink you've been to a factory and ordered a baby, and they said, 'Yes, sir--ready in six months from now, sir. ' And then you walk away and callagain in six months!"

"Oh Lord!" he groaned, "why _did_ I marry a kid?"

"You can talk about him as much as you like, " she went on calmly, "thefinished article. But I simply won't have you fussing about the detailsof his manufacture, and all his trimmings. And that's final. "

"But he's my child, " protested Louis. 

"Not yet! In six months' time, perhaps. But you've enough worries, realworries, without making them up. There, dear heart, I don't mean to becross with you. But you're such an idiot, and I'm so sleepy. "

They said good night once more, and she was falling asleep when hepulled her hair gently. He was frowning, with deep lines on hisforehead. 

"But look here, old lady. If we're going right away from everywherewithout any home, where's the child going to be born?"

"On the battlefield, " she murmured sleepily. 

He groaned, and once more his impatient twistings snatched the blanketaway. 

"Oh damn the Keltic imagination! Why can't you get a grip on things andbe practical?"

Once more she was wide-awake, laughing with intense enjoyment. 

"I can't see what there is to laugh at, " he protested. "Marcella, has itoccurred to you what sort of heritage this kiddy of ours has?"

Purposely misunderstanding him she flung out both arms wide, to embracethe whole of Australia, bush and forest, mountain, river and desert fromsea to sea. 

"You know what I mean, " he said desperately. "Me, his father, adrunkard, with drink in his family, and you the descendant of dozens ofdrunkards. And what's more, though you are not a drunkard, you're as madas a hatter. What the devil is the poor little beggar going to do?"

She was suddenly awake and very serious. 

"Listen, Louis, " she said, holding his hands very tight. "I got thatjerk-back most dreadfully in Sydney. Mrs. King was saying that thecrowning mercy of her life was the fact that she hadn't any children. But it's a mad, bad, heretical sort of fear, the sort of heresy againstnature that people ought to be burnt at the stake for believing! Thischild is no more your child and mine than Jesus was the child of Josephthe carpenter, or--or Romulus and Remus were the children of thewolf-mother. We've given him his flesh. We're his foster-parents, if youlike. But God and Humanity are his father and mother. I found all thisout one night on the roof in Sydney. He's a little bit of the spirit ofGod incarnate for awhile. "

"Keltic imagination, " he said tentatively. 

"Very well, then. If you don't like it my way, I'll put it in thescientific way. You twitted me once for forgetting that biology appliedto us two. Doesn't it apply here? Biology shows that nature's pushingout, paring down weaknesses and things that get in the way. If adrunkard--who is a weakness, a scar on the face of nature--was going tohave drunkard babies, nature would make something happen to drunkards sothat they can't have children at all. . . . "

"She does--in the last stages, " murmured Louis. 

"That's a good thing, perhaps. But I don't believe in inheriting thingslike drinking. I don't believe my people inherited it at all. Theyinherited a sort of temperament, perhaps--and it was the sort oftemperament that was accessible to drink-hunger. People talk aboutdrinking, or other weaknesses being in their families. Drinking seems tobe in most families nowadays, simply because people are slack and lazyand drinking is the easiest and least expensive weakness to pander to. But I certainly believe most hereditary weakness comes from legend orfrom imitation. It's idiotic nonsense. When you're a kiddie you hear allsorts of family talk about family characteristics; it becomes a sort oflegend and you live up to it unconsciously. You see your parents doingthings, and because you're with your parents a great deal just at thetime when you're soft, like a jelly just poured into a mould, you getlike your parents. And then it's too late--too late to alter, I mean, unless you take a fork and beat the jelly up again, or warm it on thefire and make it melt. I've read a lot about this, and I believe it's atthe bottom of half the morbid stuff people write and talk abouthereditary drunkards and criminals. . . . "

"But statistics, " began Louis. 

"The worst of statistics is that people only quote the statistics thatwill prove their argument. They don't quote those for the other side. Ifdrunkards' children become drunkards it's probably because their livesare so desperately miserable that they take the most obvious way ofdrowning the misery. Anyway, Louis--"

"Lord, you are getting dictatorial, Marcella, " he said. 

"Yes. I know. I mean to be, on this subject. I'll tell you this much, mydear. If you tell this child of ours that you're a drunkard, I'll shakethe life out of you and then run away with him where he'll never see youagain. And if he sees you drunk--! But he won't. Anyway, you won't beany more. And now, seriously, after all that speech, let's go to sleep. "

It was his turn to lie awake for hours this time, thinking and listeningto her quiet breathing. 

CHAPTER XXII

They started awake at dawn to the discordant laughter of a jackass inthe gum tree above their heads. After a moment's struggle to locateherself Marcella sprang up and, running over the little plot of grassthat fringed the creek, had another joyous swim. The morning was verystill--uncannily still, and already hot. When they started out alongthe bank of the creek about six o'clock they felt the oppression almostunendurable, but in the motionless air the five trees that marked LooseEnd were very distinct, though rather like toy trees in a child's modelgarden. 

The depression of the night had gone; neither of them mentioned it; theytalked of trivialities until they halted for lunch and drank a billyfull of lukewarm tea. 

Louis had built a tent by spreading two of the blankets over bushes tokeep off the sun-glare. But there was not much rest in the gasping heatand at last Marcella stood up, stretching her arms which the pack on herback was making stiff. 

"I wonder if it would matter if I took all my things off?" she beganreflectively. Then she gasped out: "Why Louis, where are the fivetrees?"

He sprang to his feet, staring about in bewilderment. The sun was abovetheir heads, red and leaden; all round stretched the scorched scrub; thecreek lay to their right but the five trees had vanished, swallowed upin a thick, dun-coloured fog. 

"Lord, we're in for a dust-storm, old lady!"

"Will it hurt us?"

He dilated on the horrors of dust-storms, and how they buried people andchoked the water-holes. It grew dark, not a breath of wind stirred thescrub, not a bird moved or twittered in the few trees fringing thecreek. 

"It may pass us by, " said Louis. "They're often very localized. But ifit gets us, be sure not to speak, or your mouth will be full of dust, and keep your eyes shut tight. "

They plodded on. Once Marcella started violently as a parakeet flew bywith a brilliant flash of pink and green wings and a screaming cry. Theyfound it difficult to breathe. It seemed as though all the air had beensucked up behind the advancing wall of dust and sand. One moment theywere walking in clear, though breathless air; the next the storm wasupon them, stinging and blinding and burning as the particles of dustwere hurled with enormous velocity by the wind. 

Marcella gave a little cry of fear, and in the process got her mouthfilled with dust as Louis had prophesied. Groping out blindly she foundhis hand, and they clung together. She would have given anything to beable to speak, for the horror of the ancient doom of Lashnagar rose upall round her and gripped her. But for more than an hour they battled insilence, unable to go either backwards or forwards. When finally thestorm passed over, leaving them with parched throats and red-rimmed, aching eyes and blistered skin, it was dusk--the swift dusk of thesub-tropics. 

Marcella wanted to stay and wash the dust away in the creek; Louis, remembering the food shortage, insisted on pushing on. But when darknessfell they were going blindly in the direction they guessed to be rightfor they could see nothing of the five trees. Louis got depressed. Marcella felt tired enough to be depressed too, but had to keep hisspirits up. She was just going to suggest that they should give up andrest supperless for the night when they heard a faint "coo-ee, " and evenmore faintly the plodding sound of a horse's steps. Louis excitedly gavean answering shout, and in a few minutes they saw a horse loomingthrough the darkness. 

"What a good job I've found you, " came a boy's voice, and they saw asmall figure standing beside them, reaching about to the horse'sshoulder. 

"Were you looking for us?" said Marcella. "And are we found? We don'tseem to be anywhere. "

"I was looking for the sheep. I came across twenty back there, suffocated with the dust. I don't know what he'll say when he knows! Butit's a good thing I found you, else you'd have gone on all night. "

He turned then, and they followed him. He said nothing more until afterabout two miles of silent tramping they turned the corner of a highfence threaded with wonga-vine, and saw the lights of a homestead. Marcella felt she understood fire-and sun-worshippers. She couldcheerfully have worshipped the twinkling light. 

A dog began to bark excitedly; half a dozen children, with one unsexedgarment shaped like a bathing-dress each, turned out to stare at them. A man of fifty or thereabouts, with a thin, rather tragic face camealong the low verandah built all along the front of the Homestead, andlooked at them enquiringly. 

"Were you in that storm, chum?" he asked. Louis nodded. 

"Come right in! What, got a girl with you, too? Enough to finish youoff! Mother!" he added, raising his voice, "Here's a young woman come tosee us. "

A little meek woman in a faded blue frock came out on to the verandah. 

"Wherever have you come from?" she asked. They explained, and she seemedto do ten things at once, while they were speaking. Louis wasirresistibly reminded of a music-hall _prestidigitateur_. She was givingdirections for more chops to be put into the frying-pan, clean water tobe fetched from the creek and put in a kerosene tin in "Jerry's room, " acloth laid over the bare boards of the already prepared table, and a tinof jam found from the store. Marcella felt at home at once. It was thesimple, transparent welcome of Lashnagar again. 

The architecture of Loose End was entirely the invention of John Twist. It consisted of a chain of eight rooms. As the family grew, another roomwas leaned against the last one. One of the boys at Gaynor's had beenheard to express the opinion that Loose End would, some day, reach rightacross the Continent. . . . The middle and largest room had two doors atopposite sides. It was the living-room. The others, which were eitherstores, bedrooms, or fowl-pens, had a window in one wall--glassless, formed of trellis--and a door in the other. A boarded platform ran rightround the house to a depth of nine feet and the roof of the rooms, projecting over the platform, kept out rain and heat. There was muchcorrugated zinc and rough wood, many kerosene tins and boxes in themake-up of Loose End, but all the rooms were miraculously watertight. The room into which Marcella was shown was a sleeping-room and nothingmore. There were three hammocks slung from wall to wall and one camp-bedstill folded up. But while she was apparently talking to Marcella, Mrs. Twist whisked open a tin trunk, put a white linen cloth on the littletable in the corner and, running out of the room, came back with asmall, cracked mirror she had borrowed from her own room. 

When she came into the living-room, after strenuous work in removing thedust of travel, Marcella found that Louis had been taken possession ofby some of the children, and been to the creek for a bathe. One ofthem--apparently a girl, since she was called Betty--had filled a jamtin with water and put in a bunch of bush roses; the big kerosene lamphanging from the ceiling shone upon seven cropped heads, seven brownfaces and fourteen bare, brown legs swinging from the bench on which thechildren sat. Fourteen bright eyes shining in faces polished with soapdivided passionate interest between Marcella and the epoch-making pot ofjam on the table. Mr. Twist told the guests to sit down; he made the teawhile Mrs. Twist dished up an enormous tin full of chops and fried eggs, placing a china washing-basin full of potatoes beside them. 

"We need such a lot, " she said with a laugh. "I did have an enamelledsoup tureen I used for the potatoes, but the enamel chipped off a bitand I thought it might hurt the children if they swallowed it. So now weput the potatoes in the washing-basin and wash up in the tureen. "

While the meal was in progress they all talked at once. The childrenafter their first shyness had worn off were entranced when they learntthat their guests had, only a few months ago, been in a real ship on thereal sea. Marcella, in turn, was fascinated in watching the manoeuvrewith which Jerry concealed the fact that there were not enough knivesand forks to go round. He, being ten, was old and tactful; he cut up hismeat and ate a few swift mouthfuls frowning into quietness the nudgingand protesting brother at his side who wanted his innings with theknife. 

"We seem to be a bit short of usables, " said Mrs. Twist, complacentlydrinking tea out of a jampot. "It's all along of that bush-fire lastyear, when we lost everything. "

"We ought to have got out our pannikins, " said Marcella, "but we were sotired and hungry I couldn't think of anything but how nice it was to gethere. "

"You can't think how glad I am to see you, " said Mrs. Twist. "I haven'tseen a woman since little Millie was born two years ago. "

There seemed a million things to talk about. When the last scrap of jamwas satisfactorily disposed of, the seven children scattered in sevendirections. Mrs. Twist and Marcella washed the dishes; Mr. Twist andLouis smoked on the verandah. A great collie walked sedately into theroom and looked at the cleared table reproachfully. Betty appeared withan air of magic and found him a plateful of food. The children seemed tobe attached to their mother by invisible wires. At one minute theirvoices could be heard, shrieking and calling to each other. The next, when she went along the verandah with Mrs. Twist, most of them were intheir hammocks, falling asleep. 

"I wish they were a bit older, " sighed the mother, at the door of theirroom. Two merry voices giggled in the darkness. 

"That makes you older, too, " said Marcella softly. 

"They're so many to feed, and there's only Jerry can do much to helpfather yet. We've thirty acres of gorse to clear--and it seemsimpossible to get at it. It ought to have been done two years ago, butthe Government have given us grace when we explained about thebush-fire. We lost a thousand sheep then, you know. And the Homesteadwas mostly burnt down. "

They went along towards the men. 

"It's a hard life, " said Mrs. Twist uncomplainingly. "But the childrenare well and happy. "

That night they talked, sitting out on the verandah, the black wall ofthe darkness in front of them, the fire-glow behind. A hot, steamingrain had begun to fall, following on the wind of the dust-storm. Itdripped softly and gently, bringing no coolness with it. Mr. Twisttalked of the slices of bad luck that had bowed his shoulders, lined hisface, and all but broken his spirit. The two women talked softly. Jerry, who, being almost a man, had been allowed to stay up, brought out hisold gramophone. Many notes were merely croaks; but "Oh, Dry those Tears"and "Rock of Ages" were quite recognizable. He was very proud of the"Merry Widow" waltz that had been sent to him from his uncle in England, and kept repeating it until he was ordered off to bed. Presently, in thedarkness, Marcella found herself telling Mrs. Twist about the comingchild. 

"Where are you making for, kid?" asked Mrs. Twist, who seemed sorry forher. 

"Anywhere. We were told there was a lot of clearing going on up here, soI thought we might both get a job. I didn't want my baby born in thecity. "

They talked no more that night, for Mr. Twist said it was bedtime. Theyslept dreamlessly in their hammocks until five o'clock, when they werewakened by Scot the collie who, planting his forepaws on eachwindow-sill barked furiously until he was answered by a shout fromwithin. 

The sky was grey and sullen, the hot rain was still falling; grassseemed to have sprung up from the sun-baked soil in the night and theslant-set leaves of the five gums smiled as they slid big drops on totheir roots. The leaves of the wonga-vine that sheltered the ratherscanty beds of the food-garden looked riotously alive and green;nasturtiums and sunflowers sent out by the uncle in England glowed likelittle gold lamps seen through a fog. 

Breakfast was a repetition of fried mutton and flapjacks and tea. Assoon as the children had cleared it away the smallest ones settled downto write on slates long lines of pothooks and hangers. Two of the boysspelt words laboriously from ancient "readers, " and Jerry set out tolook for the lost sheep again. Marcella was packing her swag a littlesadly. She wished they could stay at Loose End. Obviously it looked asthough Loose End could not support its own family without the burden ofanother. But Mr. Twist thought differently. 

"What do you say to stopping here, ma?" he said, looking at Marcellathrough the trellis. "I've been talking to your boss and he's willing ifyou say the word. "

Marcella straightened herself up and looked at him. 

"I'd like nothing better, " she told him simply. 

"Right-o, then. That's settled, " he said, and they discussed details. Rather shamefacedly he offered them five pounds a month and rations. Hesaid they were worth more, but he could not afford it. If they liked tothrow in their lot with his and try to make Loose End's run of bad luckchange, he would share the good when it came. They accepted his offerwithout discussion. Then he asked if they would live at the Homestead orin a shepherd's hut about half a mile away, near the lake. 

"It's not a bad little place. I had two shepherds before the sheep gotdrowned. Then it was no use them staying. I don't think there's much inthe way of furniture--"

They looked at each other. In each other's eyes they saw a plea to bealone together in their new world, and said, in a breath, that theywould live in the hut. 

"Oh kid, I'm so glad, " said Mrs. Twist when the men went off to see whatdamage the dust-storm had done. Marcella was extraordinarily happy asshe was taught what to do in the Homestead. 

CHAPTER XXIII

The hut was on the edge of a great patch of gorse that Mr. Twist saidstretched for twenty acres or more, right to the limit of his holding. It was giant gorse, quite unlike the mild edition of it found inEngland. In many places it towered above the hut and the stems werealmost as thick as tree-trunks, while the spines played havoc withclothes and skin. It was burnt dry now, by the sun. In the coolerweather, Mr. Twist said, the whole place was a golden blaze of bloom. 

The cottage consisted of three rooms, built on the same plan as theHomestead. The middle room was a sort of kitchen. There was a big tableand a bench of planed wood. 

"There isn't a grate, " said Mr. Twist, "they got their rations up at thehouse, you see. " The absence of a fire-place did not trouble Marcella. She had often cooked on Wullie's open fire at Lashnagar, and Louisquickly explained that he would make a bush oven outside. Neither of therooms leaning against the kitchen had any furniture, but Mrs. Twistseemed to have laid in a whole ship's stores of navy hammocks, which shesaid they could have until Louis had carpentered bed for them. Therewere hundreds of very fat, furry spiders who crawled about solemnly andfell with heavy bodies down swift silken threads as Marcella opened thedoor of the bedroom. 

For the next few days they certainly did not earn their wages. They werelike two children with a new doll's house, and at the end of the weekthe hut was unrecognizable. Louis, unskilfully busy with saw, hammer andnails put up a shelf for the box of books they were going to get fromMrs. King's as soon as someone went into Cook's Well to take a letter. Marcella wished a little that she had some money to buy things for herhouse, but it was the sort of wish she found it easy to conquer andwhen, in a spirit of mischief she took the tar brush with which Louishad been caulking the sides of the hut, and tarred CASTLE LASHCAIRN onthe corrugated roof, she _saw_ Castle Lashcairn rising there. 

"After all, imaginary castles are the best, " she told Louis after twodays spent in clearing away dust and spiders, and limewashing theinterior. "It only needs imaginary cleaning. "

He was surveying his new white shelf on which the matronly Mrs. Beetonseemed to incline towards the sober black New Testament and give a coldshoulder to the lean-looking "Questing Cells" and the slim "Parsifal. "He had made and patented a very wonderful reflector for their littlelamp by cutting and bending a kerosene tin in such a way that itmirrored six times the light inside. Sitting out on the verandah hethought out the details of an arm-chair to be made out of a barrel Mr. Twist had given him. They sat on the edge of the verandah, their legsswinging. He was smoking--very distastefully--a pipe because there wasplenty of strong shag at the Homestead but no cigarettes. Marcella hadbeen watching him; it had amazed her to see how much more calmly he hadtaken the cigarette famine than she had guessed possible. 

"If I can go on like this, dearie, " he said at last, "there'll be nomore bogeys. I've been busy--and very happy this last week. If I'm keptbusy--"

"You'll be kept busy, " she said, smiling. "When we've cleared the twentyacres of gorse it's all to be ploughed and planted. And when that's doneand there isn't a single other thing to do, we'll start to tunnel a holethrough the middle of the earth to Lashnagar, like they did in JulesVerne's book. "

"I'm keeping my body occupied, " he went on slowly. "The point is, willthat satisfy my brain, and all of me?"

She looked down the little slope on the top of which Castle Lashcairnstood. The five gum trees stretched up to the cloudless night sky; a fewhundred yards away the lake glimmered, star-reflecting and still. To theleft the lamp of the Homestead glowed, and "Oh Dry Those Tears" startedto groan out. Marcella waited for the line that almost sounded like acollection of bass "brrrrrs" and then she spoke. 

"If you can forget yourself, my dear--get swallowed up, " she saidgently, and a silence fell between them. 

The days drew into weeks. Castle Lashcairn grew more and more beautiful;the books arrived from Sydney and kept sentry on the white shelf. Several of her unnecessary frocks Marcella made into cushions stuffedwith dried lucerne which made a most interesting crackling noise whenone leaned against them. Louis spent most of his Sundays in making a cotfor his son but his fatal lack of thoroughness was a drawback, for itseemed to come to pieces as quickly as he got it together. Marcellalooked after the fowls and the cows; she did most of the cooking at theHomestead; she got the children beyond the hanger and pothook stage ofwriting and filled their minds, hitherto worried by family cares, withlegend and fairy-tale. She wrote often to Dr. Angus, and he sent herbooks and garden seeds. All the time she and Louis never found a momentin which to be idle; about eleven o'clock every day she took his lunchacross the clearing to him; she collaborated a good deal with Mrs. Beeton in making various ambitious dishes for him, but as they werealmost entirely made of mutton, "standard" flour and eggs, there was notmuch variety. When the fried sheep had lived too long before beingkilled, or been kept too long after death, they spent considerable timelooking at the pretty pictures in the cookery book: Marcella told ofWullie's feasts in the beach-hut. Louis remembered restaurantcelebrations. But they were always too hungry to care much what theyate; the most leathery damper, the most difficult mutton was pleasanteaten out of doors in the faint smoke of the gorse fires. 

During the afternoons she helped with the gorse grubbing. Before thegreat bushes could be approached they had to be fired, and she loved towatch the golden blaze flare swiftly to the sky, leaving a pall of greysmoke through which the carbonized gorse branches shone gold for amoment in a fairy tracery before crumbling to white ash on the ground. Then they had to take pickaxes and mattocks, chisels and spades to chopdown the parent stem and uproot the smallest leader from the roots. Gorse is very tenacious of life. A root of only a few inches will springup to a great tree in an incredibly short time, especially on virginsoil fertilized by many burnings. 

They had faces perpetually blackened by smoke. Marcella worked with anoilskin bathing-cap sent by Mrs. King, over her hair; she wore an oldblue overall on which the spines of the gorse had worked havoc. Andstill she would not be ill to fall in with Louis's preconceived notions;living an absolutely normal, rather tough life, hardened by herfather's Spartanism, she found that a natural process made very littledifference to her. To Louis's real distress she swam in the lake everymorning; what he could not understand was that she had scarcely, evenyet, awakened to consciousness of her body. Once or twice in her queerecstasies, once or twice in Sydney the sleep within her had stirred andstretched and opened her eyes; from the force of the stirring andstretching she had gathered an impression of something immensely strong. But it had not yet risen and walked about her life yet. 

One day she went across the clearing to Louis, through the smoke wreathsthat were being gently swayed to and fro by a soft wind. In a blue shirtopen at the neck, shewing a triangle of brown chest, he looked verydifferent from the effeminate Louis of the _Oriana_. Just as she reachedhim, looking at him instead of the rough ground, all rutted with uptornroots, she slipped and almost fell. In an instant his arm, taut andstrong, was round her. She laughed and drew away from him. 

"I was looking at you coming along here, Marcella, " he said. "Do youknow what you remind me of?"

"Dinner?" she said, sitting down to unpack the basket of food. 

"No--a Maori woman. "

"Louis! A savage?"

"They aren't savages. But after all, savage doesn't mean anything butwild, untamed. You're that, you know, old lady. Untamed even bymotherhood. And I'd have thought that would have tamed even Petruchio'shandful. But this Maori woman I was thinking about was in the KingCountry in New Zealand--You know, I'd read 'The Blue Lagoon' and thoughtit a bit overdrawn. "

"What is it?" she interrupted, pointing to the food imperiously. 

"It's about a girl and a boy living on a desert island, and she has ababy without turning a hair. Remembering my nerve-racking experience ofmaternity in the Borough I thought Stacpoole was rather talking withouthis book. But when I saw this Maori I felt like sending him my humbleapologies by wireless. The tribe was trekking. I was with them formonths, you know, in the Prohibition Country. My diagnostic eye hadforeseen a birthday and, as a matter of fact, I was getting rather funkyand wishing I had Hermann's 'Midwifery' to swot up. I saw myself thehero of the occasion, don't you know, dashing in to save her life, milesfrom civilization. One morning we were camping by a hot spring for thewomen to do some cooking and washing. My patient disappeared with an oldthing we called Aunt Maggie. Presently we trekked again, and I wasfeeling horribly uneasy about her, when I nearly dropped. There she was, sailing along in the midst of the other women, with the kid in her arms, looking as cool as a cucumber! Lord, I did feel small!"

He laughed reminiscently, and lighted his pipe. 

"It seems right to me, " she said, looking away through the driftingsmoke. "Why should the coming of life mean pain for someone?"

"Don't know, old lady. But it does. I say, how do you think I'm gettingon?"

They looked across the clearing and felt rather proud. 

"I love it, " he said simply, "taking nature in hand a bit--she's awicked old harridan, isn't she? A naughty old lady gone wrong! Look atthat gorse! We'll have spuds here in no time, and then, in a few years, wheat. I feel I'm making a dint on the face of the earth at last. In ahundred year's time, when I'm forgotten, the effect of these few months'work will be felt. I say, am I talking hot air?"

"Not a bit. But let's do a bit more--Jerry calls it scene-shifting. "

She tossed the last piece of cake to an inquisitive kookaburra who hadbeen watching the meal optimistically, with bright eyes and noddinghead. It was a triumph, this cake--in several ways. The stationmaster atCook's Wall had built his "bosker hotel" at last, and had made it astore at which one could buy fruit, jam, sugar and various luxuries. Louis had been in twice to the store lately, and had actually rememberedthe seed-cake on the _Oriana_ when he saw caraway seeds in the store. Hevolunteered the information that there was whisky for sale at the store, but did not mention whether he had wanted to buy it or not. 

He got up, taking the mattock. Marcella began to fight a great stemrunning along the ground. 

"Devilish stuff, " he said, turning back to look at her. "See that littlepatch over there?"

She nodded, following his eyes. A brisk little gorse bush was burstingfrom the ground. A few feet away another was keeping it company. 

"Devilish stuff!" he repeated. "Just like a cancer--in pathology. Youchop the damned thing out, root and branch, and there it pops out again, miles away from where it started. Look at that piece there. "

He attacked the little plant with rather unnecessary severity and dug upa thin, tough, cord-like root which he threw on the fire savagely. 

"Louis, do you remember that schoolmaster on the _Oriana_?" she askedsuddenly, staring thoughtfully at the long, thin leaders. 

"Oh, that ass who sat in my chair? Yes. Why?"

"He told me a fearful thing about cancer. "

"He would--blighted idiot. What was it?"

She hesitated a minute. 

"He said he'd read in some book--he was always reading queer books--thatcancer was an elemental that had taken possession of one's body. Ahorribly preying, parasitic life--feeding on one's body--Ugh, it made mefeel sick! And it's so cruel, really, to say things like that. He seemedto suggest that elementals were something unclean that could not comeexcept to unclean people. And--mother died of cancer. And mother wasvery beautiful. "

"Well, you can tell the footling ass from me that he's a thumping liar. Elemental grandmother! Let me tell you this much--cancers come from onething only, and that's irritation--injury, often. Corsets, sometimes--ora blow--If I were to thump you--"

He laughed, and turned away. 

"Yes, I know, " she said quietly. She was thinking of that stormy scenebetween her father and the two doctors when the faint smell ofchloroform crept round her at the farm while she waited outside on thelanding. 

CHAPTER XXIV

For nearly five months peace stole round Castle Lashcairn. Marcella wasalmost incredibly happy and so was Louis. Mrs. Twist and Marcella heldlong consultations about the baby, but Marcella, afraid of worryingLouis, tried to make him forget all about it. Even when, as time wenton, she really began to feel tired and unable to work with him, shefought her tiredness indignantly; she was terrified lest he should get"raked up" and go along to the hotel for solace. So she hid everythingfrom him, arranging all details with Mrs. Twist who promised to "see herthrough it. " There was no nurse within a hundred miles; there was adreadful old woman who had brought several bottles of squareface withher when she attended Mrs. Twist at Millie's birth. They decided todispense with her services. 

Marcella sent money to Mrs. King to buy things for her in Sydney. Theyspent a whole Sunday evening making out the list. Many of the things hehad learnt, from textbooks, to associate with babies, Mrs. Twist thoughtunnecessary, but Marcella, with no basic opinion of her own, let himhave his way, and one day in May he took Gryphon, the Twist pony, tofetch the packages from the station. 

He was to be away one night--starting at four in the morning he wouldrest at the hotel for the night and start back next morning. That nightMarcella lay long awake, thinking about him. She was vaguely anxious;when she fell asleep she dreamed that he came home to Castle Lashcairndrunk. He was talking French--his eyes were wild, his mouth loose andslobbering, his tongue bitter. 

She started up in fright and rolled out of the hammock. 

"No--no. It couldn't happen again. It couldn't. We could never live now, if we were to get miserable like that after we've been so happy. He'sso--so clean, now. He can't get dirty again. "

She could not sleep after that, and walked down to the lake in themoonlight. She was really feeling ill. Louis's lectures and diagrams anddescriptions of "midder" cases at the hospital sickened and frightenedher. Mrs. Twist, with the average woman's unscientific and morbidinterest in such illness, sickened her still more. 

The moonlight was very bright; the weather was warm, for May. Louis hadbegged her not to swim now. She had given in to him rather than worryhim, but a sudden impulse to do what she thought pleasant withouttroubling him came to her, and she slipped out of her nightgown quickly. The lake lay at her feet, a shimmering pool of silver, almost withoutripples. It lapped very gently against her feet, bringing back thesoftly lapping waters of Lashnagar on spring mornings. It was adorably, tinglingly cold; she forgot the dream in the exhilaration and gave alittle cry of rapture as she waded further out. Then, without warning, aghost was in the water beside her. She stared, and knew that it was herown reflection. With a little cry she hurried back to land, her heartthumping wildly as she pulled on her nightgown over her wet body withtrembling hands. 

"How horrible I look!" she whispered. "He mustn't know I look as awfulas that!"

The next day she waited for him, anxious to unpack the thrilling parcelfrom Sydney, but he did not come, and all the night she sat waiting, afraid that he had met with some accident. If someone had come, then, and told her he was drunk she would not have believed it. It seemed toher just as unreal a thing as last night's dream. 

But at four o'clock in the morning as she sat on the verandah, halfnodding with red-rimmed, heavy eyes, she saw him come stumbling along, holding on to the pony's neck. 

She went out to meet him, knowing just exactly what she was going tomeet. And she felt frozen with horror. The average man coming home drunkis not a tragedy. He is merely amiably ridiculous. To Louis, after allhis fights and all his hopes, tragedy had certainly come, but he was toodrunk to know it yet. He began to bluff and lie just as usual. 

"Ought be 'shamed, sending a chap thirty--thirty--thirty miles f'r lotfem'--fem'--fripp--fripp--fripperies! Sick an' tired, stuck in with awom' day an' night f'r months. 'Nough make any man k-k-kick. "

She did not speak, and he went on in the same old way, French wordspeppering the halting English; she could have shut her eyes and fanciedshe was back in the city again, or on the ship. 

He muttered and shouted alternately all the way to the cottage; therewas a meal waiting but he could not eat; sitting on the edge of theverandah, he ordered her to light him a cigarette. She knew there werenone in the house and felt in his coat pocket, guessing he had boughtsome. She was not really unhappy. She was too sick, too frozen to feelyet at all. 

"Come out my pock', " he growled, hitting her arm away fiercely, histeeth clenched. "Aft' my money, eh? Think you're winning, don't you? Inleague with the Pater against me. Think you'll always have me under yourthumb, nev' giv' free hand. There's not a man on God's earth would standit, damned if there is--tied to wom' apron strings all the time!"

"Very well, get your own cigarette. I'm going to bed. "

"Y-you w-w-would, " he said, and laughed shrilly. "Think you've got me inblasted bush, work like blast' galley slave while you skulk in bed. "

"Oh don't be such an idiot, Louis. You'd better go to bed. I'm tired ofyou, " she said, going past him into the bedroom. 

"Ta' my boots off, " he grunted, trying to reach his feet andoverbalancing. "If you can't make yourself 'tractive to a man, you canbe useful. Nice damned freak you are f'r any man t' come home to! Nev'trouble to dress please me--like Vi'let. "

Marcella began to laugh hysterically. It was uncanny how his opinion ofher appearance coincided with her own. 

"Wom' your condish' no damn goo' t' any man!" he mumbled. She went pasthim, into the room and left him. It was the first time she had made noattempt to soothe and sober him and bring him back. She felt impatientwith him, and horribly lonely and frightened of being with him, horriblylonging to run to someone and be comforted. But she was just as anxiousto hide the trouble from the Twists and knew that she must bear italone. 

She cried for hours, completely disheartened, longing passionately to goto him and ask him to assure her it was only a dream, and he really wascured as she had imagined. But at last she fell asleep, too proud to goand ask him to come to bed again, guessing that he would sleep in theliving-room. 

She wakened early and started up with full recollection of what hadhappened. In the light of morning, after a sleep, she was sick withherself for having forgotten her theory that he was an ill man; she hadlet personal annoyance stop her from trying to help him. Brimming overwith love and pity and self-disgust she ran out to find him, for sheguessed he would be penitent now, and in black despair. 

He was not there. On the verandah was a "squareface" bottle, empty. Wakening from a drugged sleep in the grey morning, his mouth ablaze, hisbrain muddled and full of resentment against her, he had remembered thegin he had brought home with him; there was not much left in the bottle. He drank it, full of resentment against it for making him so unhappy. Heknew that ten pounds--two months' pay--was in the cigarette-box on theshelf. It was Mr. Twist's birthday next Sunday and they had decided togive it back to him to buy tools. Louis remembered it; fighting everyinch of the way across the floor with the strength that the last fewmonths had put into him, he took it out of the box. Then, a thousanddevils at his heels, he dashed off into the Bush on his thirty-mile madtramp. 

It was a week before she saw him again, and all the time she was achingto follow him. But she knew she could not walk so far and, with a sterncussedness typical of her father, she went on with Louis's work, notmentioning to the Twists that he was away, though they all wondered whathad happened to him. She burned the gorse as though it were whisky, almost savagely. She tore at the roots in the ground as though they werethe fierce desires of life to be ruthlessly uprooted, smashed out, burntto ashes. She was scarcely conscious of emotion; the smoke got into hereyes and blinded her; stooping to dig made her feel faint and ill, butin her desperate misery she attacked the work as even Louis in his bestdays had never done. It was not until she had been at it nearly a weekthat Mrs. Twist found her out, and came across the clearing to her, looking indignant. 

"Want to kill yourself, and have the child killed too kid?" she criedbefore she reached her. "What the nation do you think you're doing?"

"I won't be paid for work that isn't done, " said Marcella ungraciously. She was so sore, so aching that she knew to her disgust, that she wouldbe crying weakly on Mrs. Twist's shoulder if she let herself be evencommonly polite. 

"Come on, kid, and have a cup of tea with me, " said Mrs. Twist gently. "I know what it is to feel as if you could chew anyone's head off. Italways takes me like that the last few weeks. Where's your boss?"

"He--Oh, I don't know. I've got to do his work. I daren't let him thinkhe can shirk like this! He'll never get back again if I make him thinkit doesn't matter. Mrs. Twist, I'm tired of it!" she cried with suddenfierce intensity. "Never, never, never for a minute dare I be tired andweak; why I daren't even _think_ tired for a minute. Always I've to bestrong for him! Oh--" she suddenly choked and, flinging her spade aside, sat down clumsily on the ground, her face buried in her hands. "If onlyFather could come alive for a few hours--and thump him!"

Mrs. Twist made no enquiries about Louis; she had guessed a good dealand, by excessive tact, got Marcella to go across to the Homestead withher and rest for the remainder of the afternoon. But she was back at herwork again next morning grimly determined to show Louis that if heshirked his job she would do it for him. 

That night he came home--pale and haggard, unshaven and unwashed. He hadspent the ten pounds until he had just enough left to buy two bottles ofwhisky. With these he had wandered off on the home road, to sink tosleep when he could go no further and waken to another solitary orgy. 

She had been working till after dark, in spite of Mrs. Twist'sremonstrances, to which she answered rudely and impatiently. At last theelder woman thought it less wearing to the girl to leave her alone; sheguessed that she would faint with physical weariness before she had gotover her mental misery. Louis could see the red glow in the sky for thelast two miles of his dazed tramp; it led him homewards, muttering tohimself about a pillar of fire and a pillar of cloud. He looked into thehouse and saw that she was not there. He had not known, till he saw theempty rooms, with her frock hanging over the hammock, her nightgownneatly folded on the shelf, her books and a pannikin half full of coldtea in the kitchen, how much he had counted on seeing her, how he hadhungered for her, deep down, during all the nightmare week. He felt tooashamed to go to the Homestead to look for her; then it occurred to himthat she would be across the clearing. 

And he met her, half-way. She was coming along in the dull glow of thedying fire, the pickaxe over her shoulder. She looked different to him;perhaps his eyes were distorted, perhaps the fire-glow making leapingshadows caused the difference; but she walked heavily, wearily, withoutthe thrilling, young spring of swift movements that made her such anexhilaration to him. He wanted to run across the clearing, lift her inhis arms and charm away the tiredness; swiftly on top of that emotioncame the realization that she was walking wearily partly because she hadbeen doing his work, partly because her spirit was heavy and sick. Hefelt sick with himself for having hurt her; he resented the misery hisconscience was causing him: swiftly he found himself resenting theungainliness of her figure which, in his morbid mood, seemed his faulttoo. He hated the unconscious reproach she gave him as she came along, stumbling a little, carrying the pickaxe. 

He had finished his last spot of whisky at noon and had not slept since;he was worn and tired and frayed, even more than she was. He was acutelyuncomfortable for want of soap and water and food. 

He dashed across the space between them, his eyes blazing madly, and shelooked up, hearing his steps, seeing the blaze of his eyes, thetenseness of his clenched hands. 

"Damn you--damn you!" he cried, "playing the blasted Christian martyr. Walking like that, to make people think I've made you tired!"

She stared at him, and her eyes filled with tears. She had got to thestage of longing to see him so much that she did not care whether hewere drunk or sober. Then the ridiculousness of playing a role in theBush at ten o'clock at night, struck her, and she laughed--a rathercracked laugh. He came close to her, all flaming with hate. He noticedthe blue shadows under her eyes, smelt the fire on her clothes. Sherecoiled from the whisky on his breath, which, from association withher childhood's horrors, always reduced her to a state of unreasoningterror. 

"Oh blast you--too fine to come near me, are you? You were damned gladto pick me up, anyway--and so you ought to be, with your drunken oldscab of a father!"

She, in her turn, blazed and tingled; murder was in the ends of herfingers that quivered towards him. Luckily she had dropped the pickaxe. But her movements were slow, and his quick, and he got behind her in aninstant. Next moment, without realizing what he was doing, he pushed herviolently. She stumbled a few steps and fell heavily against the bluntend of the pickaxe. For an instant he stood looking at her; the nextmoment with a hoarse cry he was kneeling beside her. 

"Oh my darling, " he cried. "I told you I'd kill you in the end! I toldyou the damn stuff was making a madman of me. "

The whisky vanished from him like the flashing of lightning. Lifting herin his arms he carried her homewards and laid her down on the verandah. Frantic with fear he was going to fetch Mrs. Twist when she sat uprather shakily and looked at him. 

"I suppose that's what you've been expecting me to do--faint all overthe place--swounds and vapours, " she said, laughing faintly. "Louis, itwas a horrible feeling. "

"Marcella, " he sobbed, kissing her hands, kneeling beside her desperatein his self-abasement. "I thought I'd killed you. "

"You're not much of a doctor if you don't know I'd take much morekilling than that, " she said. "And I wanted to kill you for a minute, sowe're equal. "

In a torrent all his explanations came pouring out. He had thought thewhisky hunger was killed; he had tried to test his certainty and hadfailed. 

"I got cocky, old girl. I swanked to myself! I thought I'd got it beatand I'd just go and have one whisky at the Station Hotel to satisfy myown conviction. But when I'd had one I couldn't help it. I seemed to beoutside myself, watching myself for the first two or three. I wasinterested. I kept thinking 'I'll tell Marcella she need not befrightened any more. I can drink two or three whiskies and not be abally Blue Ribboner any more. We need not be banished to the Bush forthe rest of our lives to keep me out of danger. ' Then I got muddled andquite lost grip. It had a sort of chemical effect, you know. I hated youfor keeping me from whisky that was making me feel so fine and jollyagain. I felt I'd been a bit of a prig lately. I loved the stationmasterand a few manganese miners who came in. In fact, I just wallowed again. I came home hating you. I didn't come to see you. I came for money. Andthat's all. The whole thing's hopeless. "

"It was my fault this time, Louis. I went to bed and left you. If I'dnot been so proud and so huffy I'd have kept you. "

"Yes, but only for a time, dear. I saw it all in a flash to-night whenyou lay there and I thought you were dead. Marcella, no savage wouldhave done that--hurting you just now. "

"What rubbish! If you hadn't done it to me I would have done it to you, "she said easily. 

"Don't you see how hopeless it is? The very first time I go near whisky, I want it. And this happens. I was a madman to-night. It means thatwe've got to stick here for the rest of our lives. I daren't even go tothe store to fetch things for you when you're ill. I have to hide in ahole like a fox when the dogs are after it. "

"After all, is it so very horrible here, Louis?" she whispered. "I thinkit's been heaven. Our Castle, and the clearing--and next month my seedsthat Dr. Angus sent will be coming up. And the baby, Louis! Just thinkof the millions of things we've got!"

But he knew better than she did the torment of his weakness and refusedto be comforted. He was near suicide that night; he too had been happy, happier than ever in his tormented, unfriended life before. He had theterrible torture of knowing that it was he who had brought the cloudinto their sky; he had the terror before him, with him, of knowing thathe would keep on bringing clouds, all the more black because they bothso loved the sunshine. 

And she, when she undressed, sick and faint but comforted with thethought that once more a fight was over, blew the light out quickly sothat he should not see the ugly purple mark of the pickaxe. 

She usually slept with her nightgown unfastened so that the cool windsshould blow over her through the trellis of the window. To-night shemuffled herself up tightly, and when he came in from a strenuous tenminutes in the lake, feeling once more as though she had sent him to dipin Jordan, she pretended to be asleep. Seeing her so unusually wrappedup, he thought she was cold, and fetched a blanket to cover her. Shedared not yield to her impulse to hold out her arms to him and draw hisaching head on to her breast for fear the bruise should grieve him. 

CHAPTER XXV

Once more came peace, so sunlit and tender that it seemed as though theyhad wandered into a valley of Avilion where even the echoes of stormscould not come, and doves brooded softly. They talked sometimes now ofthe coming of their son; Louis, once he had got over his conventionalhorror of such a proceeding, said that she would be as safe in Mrs. Twist's care, with him hovering in the background, as though she hadgone to the nursing home in Sydney, as he had suggested at first. 

"I shall funk awfully to know you're going through it, old lady, " hetold her. "You know nothing about it yet. I've seen this thing happendozens of times, and it's much worse than you imagine. "

She decided, privately, to spare him the misery of it all by sending himoff into the Bush on an errand for Mr. Twist as soon as she was takenill. But her scheme fell through. All one day of blue and silver inJune, a winter's day with keen exhilaration in the air, she stayed withhim in the clearing, burning the branches as he hewed them down. Shefelt scarcely alive. Her body was a queer, heavy, racked andapprehensive thing down on the ground. She watched it slowly walkingabout, dragging faggots of gorse fastened together by the swag-strapswhich she loosened as she cast the branches cracking and creaking intothe flames. Her mind was restless, a little fey. Louis, seeing somethingof her uncertainty, stopped work early, and they walked home slowly overthe cleared land that was now being ploughed. 

"I feel proud of it, don't you?" she said, looking back. He nodded, watching her anxiously. 

As she was making the tea pain, quite unbearable, seized her. She gotout on the verandah so that he should not see her. After a while itpassed and, looking white, she came back into the room. 

"I was going across to the Homestead to-night. Jerry's got a new recordand wants to try it on us. But I feel tired. Will you ask Mrs. Twist tocome and have a gossip?" she said casually. 

The pain came back, quite astonishing her. She had heard that it washorrible, but had not expected it to be quite so horrible as this. Hermind had only room for one thought--that Louis must not suspect--or, inhis anxiety; he would lose grip on himself and make away for Cook'sWall and oblivion. Going into her bedroom she took pencil and paper andwrote a note to Mrs. Twist, who understood the plot and was ready toinvent some lost sheep for Jerry and Louis to hunt up. 

"Can you come up? I think it's happening to me. Please send Louis away, "she wrote, and folded the note into an envelope which she fastened down. That moment she found herself crying out without her own volition. Sheslammed the door and lay down on the floor inside it, to barricade itagainst Louis. She heard his steps coming along the verandah andclenched her hands fiercely over her mouth. 

"Did you cry out then, dear?" came his voice as he pushed at the door. Feeling an obstruction he pushed all the harder: she could not speak, but he took in at a glance her twisted figure and as he bent over her, shaking with fright, she caught at his hands. 

"I thought I'd do it all by myself, but I can't bear it, " she gasped. 

"Oh my darling, " he cried, lifting her in his arms and holding hertight. "How long has this been going on?"

It was some time before she was able to speak. In the bleak aloneness ofpain she was very glad of his presence. 

"All day--only I didn't want you to know, " she said. He groaned. 

"For fear it'd bowl me over? Oh God--"

"I'd a plot to send you away. But I'll be glad to know you're not veryfar! Will you go for Mrs. Twist, Louis? It will be back in a minute. "

Kissing her, he ran out across the paddock. In that moment he felt hewould cheerfully die for her; it was not her illness that made him sotender, so unusually exalted. He had not it in his nature to regard painas other than interesting. But the rending thought that she had sufferedalone rather than risk his getting drunk--that jerked him. He felt hecould beat any weakness that night, as he recalled her eyes, trying tosmile at him through pain, her hands as they clung to his for help. Helived a thousand lives during the next few hours until, at two o'clock, he heard the heart-stopping cry of a newborn child that brought stuffyLondon nights in the slums back to his mind for an instant until Mrs. Twist said, with an air of personal pride, that it was a boy. 

And then Louis cracked again; kneeling beside Marcella, who was quitecalm and very tired, he sobbed out his love and his penitence and hisstern and frantic resolves for the future, his undying intention to beas good a man as she was until Mrs. Twist, who was not very used toemotional young men, packed him out of the way to take the news to Mr. Twist, who was sitting up waiting for it. 

The two women had never told Mr. Twist of Louis's tragedy. He hadguessed that he had been "on the shikker" that week he stayed away, buthe took that as the ordinary thing done by ordinary men--he himself waspast "having a burst, " he had no heart for it now; but no young man wasany the worse for it if it didn't take hold of him. And so, when Louiswent there with his eyes shining, his hair wild and his hands shaking, he brought out a bottle of brandy. 

"We must drink the young fellow's health, " said Mr. Twist, pouring out amicroscopic dose for himself and passing the bottle to Louis. "I gotthat bottle a bit ago, as soon as mother told me your missus was likethat. You never know when a drop of brandy may save life. "

Louis refused the drink, but Mr. Twist laughed at him--and Louis couldnot bear to be laughed at. He too poured a microscopic dose, and theysolemnly toasted the unnamed son. Louis was fidgety, anxious to getback. 

"Leave them alone--they're better alone for a bit. All sorts of thingsto see to, " said the man who had weathered seven birthdays. "Have a pipewith me. "

They smoked; Mr. Twist talked. Louis answered vaguely, his mind withMarcella; he had suddenly determined that he could not keep his son, aswell as his wife, chained in the Bush with him. Visions of the boygrowing up--going to school--going to the hospital to do what his fatherhad failed to do--floated before him. He was making titanic resolutionsfor the future. His eyes strayed past the brandy bottle. Mr. Twistpushed it generously forward. 

"Have another dose. You need it, lad, " he said. Louis stood up, astonishing Mr. Twist. He was trembling violently, his forehead wet andshining, his eyes wild. 

"Put the damned stuff in the fire!" he cried, and dashed off over thepaddock as though a pack of devils was after him. It was an epoch; itwas the first time he had refused a drink. 

CHAPTER XXVI

Marcella lay afloat on a warm, buoyant sea of enchantment, her eyesclosed; life seemed in suspension; she had never, in her life, knownpain of any severity until a few hours before; it had appalled, astonished her. She felt it unfair that a body which could quiver to theswift tingle of frosty mornings on the hills, the buffetings anddashings of the North Sea waves, the still glamour of an aurora eveningon a house-top, and the inarticulate ecstasy of love, should be soracked. But as she put out her hand across the bed and felt the faintstirrings of the child at her side she forgot those few nightmare hoursas a saint, bowing his head for his golden crown at the hands of hisLord, must forget the flames of the stake, the hot reek from the lion'sslavering jaws. She looked across to Louis, who was sleeping heavily inhis hammock; he had found time to tell her that, for the first time, hehad held temptation literally in his hand and been able to conquer it. And she felt that Castle Lashcairn was not big enough to hold all thekindliness and happiness that seemed to be focussing upon it from allthe round horizon. Faith in the logical inevitability of good hadchanged to certainty: it seemed to her, now, that faith was only an oldcoward afraid to face fact. She was looking at the world from hermountaintop that night; it seemed to her that it could never be the sameagain for anyone in it, since she herself felt so different, so exalted. 

The next two days brought complications. When Louis, coming in at noon, all smelling of sunshine and wind and smoke, kneeled beside the bed fora moment and, peeping underneath the folded sheet at the pink, screwed-up face of his son, happened to touch her breast with his hand, she was bathed in a sea of pain. Later in the day Mrs. Twist said hewould have to go to the township to get a feeding-bottle for the baby;he was inclined to dispute the necessity for it, but he set off at once, for the child, fed with sugar and water in a spoon, kept up adissatisfied wailing. Marcella forgot to be anxious about him, socompletely had she sponged fear from her mind. When, at breakfast-timenext morning, Jerry came in with the bottle, she guessed that Louis waswashing off the dust of his swift travel before he came to see her. Inthe absorption of feeding the child and talking to Mrs. Twist she almostforgot him; it was nightfall next day before she saw him, and then helooked haggard and pinched, and she was almost frantic with fear; whenhe was away from her she never thought he was drunk; always she thoughthe had met with an accident. He told her, between sobs and writhings, that once again he had failed, but he had been too ashamed to come toher until he had slept off some of the traces of his failure. Seeing himbuying a baby's bottle at the store the men of the township had chaffedhim into "wetting the baby's head, " and he had forgotten his recentvictory, his adoring love, his fierce resolves, and the little hungrything waiting to be fed. Once again she felt stunned, incredulous;later, when she was up again and going about the cottage and Homestead, she determinedly forgot. His passionate struggles made it impossible tofeel resentment against him, however much he made her suffer. Always shewas sure this particular time was the last time; always she thoughtLouis, like Andrew, had been going along the Damascus road and had seena great light. 

And so, for two years, they lived on at Castle Lashcairn; for long dayssometimes Louis went off to Cook's Wall, and she despaired. Most of thetime she hoped blindly. Much of the time they were incredibly happy insmall things. Some slight measure of prosperity came to Loose End. Theuncle who used to send the gramophone records retired from business and, buying himself an annuity, divided his money between his few relativesso that he could see what they did with it before he died. Quite arespectable flock of sheep came to take the place of those drowned inthe flood and burnt in the fire; a horse and buggy went to and frobetween Loose End and the station; Scottie the collie got busy and twoshepherds came, building another hut at the other side of the run. Aplague of rabbits showed Mr. Twist the folly of putting off theconstruction of rabbit-proof fencing any longer, now that he couldafford it, and the gorse was once more left uncleared for months in thepressure of new things. Neighbours came, too--the deposit of manganeseat Cook's Wall was found cropping up on the extreme borders of Gaynor'srun, and a tiny mining township called Klondyke settled itself round theexcavations five miles from the Homestead. Marcella made friends witheveryone, to Louis's amazement. To him friendliness was only possiblewhen whisky had taken away his self-consciousness; the parties ofmiscellaneous folks who turned up on Sundays, bringing their own food, as is the way in the Bush where the nearest store is often fifty milesaway, worried him at first. He stammered and was awkward and ungraciouswith them, but Marcella, dimly realizing that it must be bad for him tobe drawn in so much upon their _égoïsme à deux_, tried to make him moresociable. When he forgot himself and was effortlessly hospitable, he wascharming. When he felt shy and frightened, and was fighting one of hisrhythmical fits of desire, he was difficult and rude. 

Aunt Janet wrote every month: her letters varied little; they werecynical though kindly; especially was she cynical about Louis, for, though Marcella told her nothing about him, she guessed much from thegirl's description of their life. She was very cynical about Marcella'sbreathless descriptions of her happiness: she was frankly despondentabout young Andrew, who, as yet, showed no signs of fulfilling hergloomy predictions. 

Dr. Angus wrote every mail. Though a world apart, he and Marcella seemedto get closer together. He was growing younger with age, and she older. He told her he had no friend but her letters, and wrote, sometimesthirty pages of his small, neat handwriting to her--all about hiscases, his thoughts, his reading. And every book he bought he passed onto her. Louis had had to put up three more shelves for them. 

"I've been unduly extravagant, Mrs. Marcella, " he wrote once, at the endof the second year. "I've left the rheumaticky old woman to a sort ofpatent rubbing oil very much in vogue just now, and I've resigned thecoming babies to the midwife at Carlossie, and been to Kraill'sLendicott Trust lectures at Edinburgh. He seems, in my humble and veryuninstructed opinion, to have gone very far since 'Questing Cells. ' Thelectures were on sex psychology. He admits that they are coloured bywhat he learnt at Heidelberg last year. But he goes further than Germanscould possibly go. There's a gentleness, a humanity about him, and aspirituality one doesn't expect from the author of 'Questing Cells' orfrom those Lendicott lectures a few years ago. The thing that struck meabout him is that he's so consummately wise--wise enough, Mrs. Marcella, to grasp at the significance of an amoeba as well as that of the Lord ofHosts! I'm a small man--a little G. P. In an obscure Highland village inrather shabby tweed knickerbockers and Inverness cape (yes, the sameones--still no new clothes! What would be the use in wasting money onadorning an old ruffian like me?) But I went up to him, sort of shakingat the knees, after the second lecture, and discussed a point with him. The point was not what I was wanting to know about. I was wanting, verymuch, to have a 'bit crack' with him, as they call it here. Lassie, heasked me to lunch with him the next day, and he talked to me as if I washis long-lost brother. In fact, he seems to think that everybody is! Hecame off the rostrum completely. Even when he's lecturing he seems to betalking to you personally, with an engaging sort of friendliness. Heputs me a good bit in mind of Professor Craigie when I was a lad. I feltas if I was a baby in arms beside him, but he seemed as pleased to seeme as I was to see him. No, he hasn't got a long white beard, and hedoesn't look a bit like Ruskin or Tennyson or Dickens. Do you rememberwhen you said you thought he had bushy eyebrows and a white beard, yearsago? He's not above forty-five, I should say; but I'm no judge of ageafter folks are forty, I'm so afraid of putting my foot in it. He's muchbigger than me (I'm talking about appearance now). He gives one theimpression of quick blue eyes. I can't remember any more about him; Iremember every word he said, but not how he looked when he said it. Andnow I suppose you want to know all he said; you have an ExaminingBoard's thirst for information, Mrs. Marcella! But I'm sending you theprinted lectures and some news. He told me he's going to Harvard thisyear. In fact, he's there now; and after that he's on his way toAustralia. I gather that you're a wandering Jew's journey from Sydney, but wouldn't it be worth your while to take that man of yours and go tohear him? It isn't often one gets a chance of seeing in the fleshsomeone who has got into your imagination as Kraill got into yours andmine. I'd walk all the way from Carlossie to Edinburgh to hear himagain. It makes me sad, sometimes, to think how little chance wedoctors in practice, with all our responsibilities and opportunities, have of getting this heaping up of wisdom that comes to men like Kraill. Measles and rheumatics, confinements and bronchitis take up all ourtime, and when we get a man like poor Andrew your father, something outof the ordinary, appealing to us for healing, we give him digitalis orEpsom-salts for the elixir of life. We do our best, but it's bad--verybad. When I talked to Kraill that day I kept thinking of your father. Ikept thinking he'd have been alive to-day if he could have caught on toKraill's philosophy. I feel small, Marcella. I honestly hadn't thebrains, the knowledge, to do anything for your father. I talked toKraill about it. He said something very kind and very queer about thesocialization of knowledge. I didn't quite catch on to it at the time, but thinking it out afterwards it seemed to me that he meant knowledgewas not to be a Holy of Holies sort of thing, a jealous mystery, anaristocratic thing, any more; but be spread broadcast, so that everyonecould have wisdom and healing and clear thinking. And after all, isn'thealing, more than anything else, merely clear thinking? I hate thewaste of people, you know. I hate that people should rot and die. I feelpersonally affronted when I think about your father, and some days--Istrongly suspect it's when my liver's out of order--I worry about youryoung son. But by the time he's grown up maybe Kraill's socialization ofknowledge will have begun. "

Marcella was having an argument with Mrs. Beeton that day when Jerrybrought the letter in. Mrs. Beeton seemed to think it was necessary tohave an oven, a pastry board, a roller and various ingredients beforeone could attempt jam tarts. Marcella felt that a mixture of flour, fruit salt, and water baked in the clay oven heaped over with blazingwood ought to beat Mrs. Beeton at her own game. She and young Andrew, both covered in flour because he loved to smack his hands in it andwatch it rise round them in curly white clouds were watching beside thefire for the sticks to burn down. When she read the doctor's letter shesat down immediately to write to him. She knew so well that sense ofinadequacy that trying to help Louis always gave her, and she wanted tocure him of it. The jam tarts got burned; she forgot about them. It wasonly when she remembered that the letter could not go to the post forthree days that she decided to write it again at greater leisure. 

The two years had aged Marcella; the doctor's letters were manna in thedesert to her spirit, his books the only paths out of the hard, toughlife of everyday. Sometimes she felt tempted to take the cheap thrillsof purely physical existence with Louis as she realized more and morethat, though his schooled and trained brain was a better machine thanhers, his soul was a weak plant requiring constant cossetting andfeeding while his body was the unreasoning, struggling home ofappetites. She had the torturing hopefulness that comes from alternatingfailure and success in a dear project; she was getting just a littlecynical about him; her clear brain saw that she was his mother, hisnurse and, perhaps, his mistress. He loved her. She knew that quitewell. But he loved her as so many Christians love Christ--"because Hedied for us. " His love was unadulterated selfishness even though it wasthe terribly pathetic selfishness of a weak thing seeking prop andsalvation. She faced quite starkly the fact that her love was a love ofgiving always, receiving never; also she faced the fact that she mustkill every weakness in herself, for, by letting him see her hardness, she gave him something to imitate. Hunger of soul, the black depressionthat comes to a Kelt like a breath from the grave, weariness of bodymust all be borne gallantly lest he be "raked up. " Once or twice, whenLouis had slipped and failed and was fighting himself back again, shefelt that she was getting bankrupt. One could never treat Louis by ruleof thumb. He might get drunk if she inadvertently spoke coolly to him. Then he would get drunk out of pique. He might get drunk if she had beenespecially loving. _Then_ it would be because he was happy and wanted tocelebrate; if she were ill he would get drunk to drown his anxiety: ifshe got better, he would drink to show his relief; if she died, he woulddrown his grief. Sometimes she felt that it was quite impossible tosafeguard him: she literally had not the knowledge. Such knowledge waslocked away in a few wise brains like Kraill's--and meanwhile peoplewere rotting. Once she wrote a long letter to Carnegie asking him tostop giving money for libraries and spend some on helping to cureneurotics. But she destroyed the letter, and went on hoping. Sometimesshe felt that her body would either get out of hand as Louis's did, orelse crack under the strain put upon it by her temperament, Louis andher work. Sometimes she thought her capacity for happiness would atrophyand drop off if she so defiantly kept it pushed into a dark corner ofher being every time it protested to her that it was being starved. Sometimes she hoped that the time would come quickly when she would havekilled desire for everything as Aunt Janet had done, and would be goingabout the world a thing stuffed with cotton-wool, armoured incotton-wool. And all the time she was fighting the insidious temptationto kill the unconscious aristocracy of her that had, after the first fewweeks in Sydney, set a barrier between her and Louis--a barrier of whichhe was never once conscious. Other people, on a lower range of life, seemed quite happy with a few thunder flashes of passion in a grey sky. Louis did. Except when the end of the month brought pay day, and set himitching to be off to the township, he seemed happy. At these times shedeliberately made love to him to hold him from the whisky, loathing thedeliberateness and expediency of a thing which, it seemed to her, oughtto be a spontaneous swelling of a wave until it burst overwhelmingly. She did not realize until long afterwards what good discipline this was, as her brain and spirit refused to follow her body along a meaner path. Louis never guessed how she thought out calmly whether to be hurt or notby him, and decided that it was better to be a wounded thing hiding herwounds under a coat of mail, rather than a dead thing inmummy-wrappings, in cotton-wool. 

But the doctor's letter generated hope. She respected the doctor'sopinion. For him to be enthusiastic about anyone was very wonderful;there was something wistful and very beautiful in this deferring of anold man to one much younger, something very touching in his frank pridein the big man's friendliness. Always Kraill had been a hero to her, since the days when his cynical early book of lectures had come likerevelation to her, even though she had had to take the help of adictionary on every line. That evening Louis went off to the townshipafter three days' restless nerviness on his part, and three nights'valiant love-making on hers. Taking young Andrew she went down by thelake and leaving him to splash joyously in the ripples at the edge, sheread the last lectures. 

She read for an hour, gorging the book as a child gobbling sweets beforehis nurse's return. She was devouring understanding--it seemed to herthat the lectures were being written expressly for her. It seemed, withone half of Kraill's wisdom she could save Louis. The child got hungryand she fetched milk and biscuit for him. His crawler was soaked by thewater in which he lived half his life. She changed it in a dream andtook him back to the lake again, where the shadows were getting long andcool. It was possible to think with detachment there, in the serenity ofthe evening. 

She saw, as she usually saw things, very clear and stark, that allthrough she had been wrong about Louis. Once only she had come withintouching distance of the right, when on the _Oriana_ she had told himthat his only hope was to throw up the sponge, as peoplesay--acknowledge himself beat to the earth as Saul of Tarsus had done onthe Damascus Road. Andrew Lashcairn had done it that night with thelittle pale cousin; he had made himself "at one with God": fighting andstruggling had ceased; his life, a battle-ground of warring forces, hadbecome, in a mighty flash of understanding, the chamber of a peacetreaty, and God--a big man--God outside himself--had taken hold of himand kept him. To Louis that could never happen; he was too unloving, tooself-centred, too unimaginative ever to see lights from heaven. Indeed, she thought hopefully, Louis might, in the end, go further than Andrew. He might stand up in the strength of a man without the propping of a Godat all. 

"I've weakened him. All along I've weakened him. I've fussed over himlike a hen after her duckling when it takes to the water. I wouldn't lethim swim for fear he'd get drowned. And so--he just flops about andlooks disgusting. I've made him run away from temptation. That wasbecause I couldn't keep on being disappointed in him. Because I couldn'tface the disgust of him coming home dirty and smelly and saying filthythings to me--and sleeping close to him. Andrew, " she called to thebaby, who looked at her solemnly and went on playing with the littlepebbles at his feet. "Listen, darling, what mother's telling you. 'Hethat fights and runs away lives to fight another day. ' I made him runaway from whisky, and all the time it's throwing down challenges to him, putting out its tongue at him, pulling rude faces at him. I've beenprotecting myself from the things drunkards' wives have to put upwith--Oh, but I was trying to protect him, too!"

The last words were wrung from her in self-defence. 

"What I ought to have done was to take the whisky, make him look at itall round and tell it, with his own conviction and not mine, to go tohell. I ought never, never to have protected him, and made him ahothouse plant. "

As she said it she knew, incontrovertibly, that she could never doanything but protect people. It was the way she was made. And she becamevery frightened that, some day, she might make Andrew a hothouse plant, too. 

She looked at the thin, grey-backed book again and more light came toher. She flung herself on the ground, her face on the soft grass. Thebaby, looking at her wonderingly, crawled towards her, and snuggled upto her, his wet little hands on her neck. 

"Oh make me weak!" she cried as though praying to the earth and the airand the water to batter her. "Make me weak--smash me and tear me up, soI'll have to be taken care of. Then I'll let him be strong instead ofme! Oh but it's cruel! Why should one person be weak to make anotherstrong? Why can't we march on in armour, shoulder to shoulder?"

And then came the thought that, perhaps, had not her father and Louisbeen the men they were she would never have learnt to wear her armour. The wisdom of nature that made the protective coverings of birds andbeasts had given her her armour--made her grow her armour out of hersurroundings. This thought made her gasp. She sat still a very long timeletting it sink in. 

"I wonder, " she said slowly, looking out over the lake, a pool of firein the setting sun, "if that's why Jesus died. He didn't want to, Ithink. He loved the quiet things of the world, little children andtalking to friends, and doing things with his hands. I wonder if he hadto die, when his teaching was finished, so that those others he lovedmight not get to depend on him too much? We're so fond of gettingpropped. I don't think people ought to have a Good Shepherd. Unless theyonly want to be silly sheep all their lives. And here I've been GoodShepherding Louis all this time till now he can't get along without mycrook round his arm. "

It was many years since she had consciously prayed, but now she thoughtof her father's prayers, and whispered:

"God--You know all about this muddle of mine. You gave Louis to me sothat, in the end, he might be a path for You to walk along. I've triedto be a path for You towards him, but I thought I'd better help Youalong. I couldn't keep quiet. Oh how silly of me! God, I see now thatI've been all wrong. I've been keeping him out of the world when Iought, all the time, to have been making him brave enough to face theevil in the world. Please God, let me be quiet now--and not keeptripping You up with my own ideas, my own strength when You walk alongmy life. "

Her quick imagination, the imagination of a savage or a child, sawpictures where other people would have seen ethical ideas. She went on, softly:

"Walk over me with burning Feet. Oh don't worry, please, about how muchit hurts, so long as You get to him in the end. Because I love him--andbecause he is the one You gave to me--the man I needed. "

She stood up slowly, and felt that, at last, she had given in. The poorbaby lay blissfullly asleep beside her on the ground. She took him inher arms and carried him home Then she sat down with pen and ink andwrote a letter. She was not sure when it would be posted, but shedecided to get it written, at any rate. She felt fey--she felt that shewas being led, now that she had asked to be kept quiet at last. 

She wrote:

"'CASTLE LASHCAIRN'(It isn't really a castle. It's a hut). 

"DEAR PROFESSOR KRAILL, "Ever since I was fifteen you have been the very heart of my imagination. I used to read your lectures to my father, and because I've never beento school I had to get a dictionary to two words on every line. Youenlightened me, and depressed me, and shocked me and annoyed me all atonce in those days. But in your last Edinburgh lecture it seems to methat the spirit of God has come upon you to lead captivity captive. (Ithink that is such a beautiful sentence I can't help putting it in aletter to you, because I would like to write to you in beautiful words. )I would like to quote some more of the Bible to you, but you can read itfor yourself. The fifth chapter of the second book of Kings--the storyof Naaman the leper. I am the servant maid in that story, and I've justdiscovered that I've been trying to cure my lord's illness with lumps ofcotton-wool. There is someone at home in Scotland who sends me all yourlectures, and when I read the last ones I felt that you were the prophetin Samaria. I hear that you are lecturing in Sydney soon. I would cometo hear you, but I can't leave my little kingdom here. And I don't thinkthey'd approve of my small son at a University lecture. He is only two, and very busy always. I feel that, if I could talk to you, I should seea great light; you seem such a very shining person to me. And I'm aduffer. A well-meaning duffer with a task before her that needs brains. You talk of the socialization of knowledge--will you begin thesocialization on my behalf? I wonder if you would like to see what lifein the Bush is like, you who are a student of life? Then you could showme where Jordan is nowadays. 

"This is very sincere, this request. I shall not be offended if youthink it isn't, but I shall feel that there is no more light in the sky. I'd got resigned to failure when I read your lectures, and they wakenedme to hope again, because they showed me that I've done every possiblething wrong. If you do come, please write a very long time in advancebecause we are thirty miles from the station and only go in for lettersoccasionally. If you can't come, I'll go on worrying with the lecturesuntil I understand without you. 

"Yours sincerely, MARCELLA LASHCAIRN FARNE. "

She fastened the letter up in between two books. It was three monthsbefore she read in a week-old Sydney "Sunday Times" that ProfessorKraill, the eminent biologist, "whose fame in his newer field ofresearch had preceded him to the Antipodes, " was to lecture at SydneyUniversity during the next three months. Marcella did not open theletter; she posted it to Sydney University and left the issue in thehands of the forces that had made her write it. 

Professor Kraill got it when he was being bored to death in Sydney andhe rather discredited the sincerity of it for he was being wearied todeath by lion-hunters. Eminene men from the Old Country either get fêtedor cut in the Colonies. He was fêted because he happened to arrive at atime when "culture" was fashionable, and Shakespeare Societies, IbsenEvenings, History Saturday Afternoons and Science Sundays were the rage. Foreign legations and Government officials gave him dinners as deadly asany in England. He saw that he was to appear in character at thesedinners. He was expected to wear a phylactery on his forehead inscribed"I AM A BIOLOGIST. " He was expected to talk biology to the governmentladies, who hoped he would say things that were "rather daring" butquotable. In fact, they hoped that he himself would be "ratherdaring"--but quotable! They talked about Shackleton's expedition, whichwas the affair of the moment, and thought that they were beingflatteringly and intelligently biological when they asked him how sealslived under ice. There was a dance on the flagship which, thanks to thesnotties, was quite alive. Then came a month's interim in the lectureswhen more festivities were threatened. Professor Kraill read Marcella'sletter and thought she was probably a rather emotional, rather intenseand rather original lion-hunter. But she had the redeeming feature ofliving in the Bush, thirty miles from anywhere. Conceivably, thirtymiles from anywhere, there would be no festivities. He tossed up betweenthe City and the Bush, and the Bush won. Giving out that he felt veryunwell after the round of gaieties, he basely deserted, got into themost uncomfortable train in the world and, two days later, threw himselfon the hospitality of the landlord of the bosker hotel at Cook's Wall, entirely omitting to let Marcella know that he was coming. 

CHAPTER XXVII

At Klondyke and Loose End they were great on celebrations. So verylittle except work happened that birthdays wedding-days, andanniversaries of all sorts wore greeted hilariously, and the variousmembers of the community took it in turn to hold them at their varioushomesteads. A birthday happened to Mrs. Twist--her fortieth. She andMr. Twist were the oldest inhabitants of the district and the birthdaywas a great occasion. Invitations were passed round from hand to mouth;about twenty grownups and twice as many children turned up one Saturdayafternoon just before tea at the Homestead, which, decorated in branchesof wattle and boughs of eucalyptus, looked very festive. The gatheringhad something of the nature of a surprise party in that most of theguests brought something to eat or drink. But most of them, in delicatecompliment to the changed fortunes of Loose End, brought not necessitiesbut luxuries. Jerry's gramophone was still hoarsely valiant; threeItalians from Klondyke, manganese miners, brought mandolines; Jerry hadrecently acquired a mouth-organ with bells. 

Marcella was always rather depressed about celebrations. Always Louissaid, easily, that he would be safe; always he joined forces with thehard-bitten, hard-toiling miners who each brought his bottle of whiskyand drank it without ill-effect. She could do nothing to help him: heresented her anxiety more and more as time went on. 

The Homestead had grown. At the south side a big storeroom had beenbuilt: at one end of it flour-bags were stocked, both empty and full, toserve as seats for the dancers when they were exhausted. The guests satlong over tea, yarning, chaffing, gossiping and talking business; as itgrew dusk the men sat on the verandah, smoking reflectively, talkinglittle. In the living room the women all chattered at once. Louis hadbeen working during the day on the gorse clearing again; until it wasall burnt off it was a constant menace, for wind-blown seeds andunderground leaders seemed to spring up spitefully in the midst ofgrowing lucerne and wheat. Marcella's beloved garden had had a struggleagainst it: so had Mrs. Twist's patch of vegetables, so they were allmaking a gigantic effort to uproot the whole thing and get rid of it. Across the clearing the fire crackled and blazed and died down to aruddy glow; in the storeroom Jerry's gramophone led off with "Oh Drythose Tears, " and the youngsters started to dance. A new record was puton, because "Oh Dry those Tears" was not conducive; the sound ofrhythmically beating feet drew the others towards the ballroom, andMarcella was left on the verandah listening to the barking of somehalf-dozen dogs, brought by the guests and tied up behind the Homestead. She knew that the massed force of cups and tumblers was not quitesufficient and decided to wash them before they would be needed forrelays of coffee. 

She was feeling very wretched; it was the end of the month; in two daysLouis, already nervy and restless, would get the month's money, eitherby persuasion or force, and either vanish for a week or, coming homeevery night from Klondyke, reduce her to a state of inarticulatewretchedness. She was on the point of losing hope entirely. Sometimes itseemed to her that he drank deliberately now that the first flush ofgratitude and love for her, the first zest of having a son, had wornoff. He lied until she was sickened of the sound of his stammeringvoice--for never once did he lie without stammering. If he had notstruggled and been so pitiful she would have given up, then, and beencontent to take three weeks' strained peace to one of blank horror. Buthis despair when he came out of his hell goaded her to keep on hoping. 

She was washing the cups out on the verandah. Those of enamelled tinAndrew was trusted to carry indoors as she wiped them. She heard a horsecoming along in the distance and guessed that it was a delayed revellerfrom Klondyke as she saw a tall man whom she did not recognize make forthe storm centre of things in the ballroom. Clouds of dust and flourwere eddying out of the door in a stream of light from the kerosenelamp. He dismounted and stood in the haze for a moment. Then he lookedround in bewilderment and caught sight of her. The gramophone wasplaying "Rock of Ages. "

"Can you tell me what _is_ going on in there? Is it St. Vitus' Dance?"

Marcella looked at him and gave a little shout of laughter. 

"No, it's Mrs. Twist's birthday. Didn't you know?"

"How could I? Never heard of her. I'm looking for Mrs. Farne. They lentme this animal at Klondyke. It seems days ago. They said she knew theway blindfold. They didn't think to tell me she didn't know it unlessshe was blindfold. "

Marcella laughed again, and knew who he was. 

"If it hadn't been for those fires I should never have got here. But, perhaps you can tell me where Mrs. Farne lives? They all seemed to knowher at Klondyke. "

Marcella pointed towards the glowing gorse. 

"That's where I live. I'm Marcella Farne, " she said. "But why didn't yousay you were coming? Mr. Twist would have fetched you in his buggy. Heloves meeting people at Cook's Wall because he tries to convince themthat it's a real road he's driving them along. And it isn't, you know. "

He sat down on the edge of the verandah, looking distastefully at themare, who shook her head impatiently. Marcella gave her water and lether wander, when she had taken off her saddle and bridle. 

"Suppose you hadn't been able to ride. I didn't think Professors hadtime for that sort of thing. "

"Neither did I till a few hours ago, " he said, with a short laugh, taking out a cigarette-case and offering it to her. She sat down rathertrustfully on a verandah rail Louis had carpentered. Andrew stared atthem both and made off silently towards the noise. "But how did you knowwho I was?"

"I only know one other man in the world, you see, and he's an old doctorin Scotland. "

He was watching her as she spoke. 

"I see, " he said. "And you think you know me?"

"Yes. I know you like I know St. Paul and Siegfried and Parsifal--peopleliving in my mind all the time. I've talked to you for hours, youknow--hours and hours--"

"It was very good of you to ask me to come. But--embarrassing, you know!I simply had to come, out of curiosity. To find someone reading one'slectures right in the heart of the Bush!--"

"I thought you would come, " she said, staring at him gravely, "when Dr. Angus told me what you said about the socialization of knowledge. But Ican hardly believe it's you, even now. Yet somehow you look as if youcould think those last lectures of yours. Before I read those you seemedtremendously clever and--and rousing. To speak biologically--"

"Oh, please!" he said, smiling. "They've been doing that in Sydney--outof encyclopedias--!"

"I was going to say that your thoughts always fertilize my brain. Butyou must be hungry, so I'll not tell you what I want to about thelectures yet. "

She slipped off the verandah rail and went indoors, leaving theProfessor rather amazed. He was not quite sure whether to think she wasa serious and dull young person, absolutely sincere and very much ahero-worshipper, or one of the lionizing type he had met in the city. Hewas deciding that she was too young for the latter role when she calledhim inside the candle-lit room. 

"I hope you drink tea. We drink quarts of it here. "

He nodded reassuringly. 

"There's some beer, too, but the shepherds and old Mike from Klondykewill have to drink that. It was put into a kerosene tin that hadn't beenboiled and it smells terrible. But they won't notice. "

"They'll probably be dead, " he remarked. 

"Mike drinks methylated spirit and the shepherds have a bottle ofsquareface each on Sunday afternoons when Betty and Andrew and I lookafter the sheep. Nothing hurts us. We're hard people out here. "

"What made you write to me like that?" he asked, still puzzled. "I stillhave no idea--"

"I wanted to see you, for one thing. But that's only a small thing. Ican't tell you now. I'm the cook to-day, you see, and they'll be wantingtheir supper in a little while. I must go and find somewhere for you tosleep, too. How long can you stay?"

"I'm not sure, " he said guardedly. "I don't want to embarrass you, however much you embarrass me. "

"I'd like you to stay for months, " she said simply. "I--we're verylonely. "

The gramophone groaning out the "Merry Widow" waltz seemed to contradicther words, with its accompaniment of tramping feet, laughter and talk. "This only happens on birthdays and things. Even then, it's lonely. "

"I don't believe you're any more lonely than I, " he said. 

"I can understand that. I've felt it in your lectures. You're so muchwiser than most people. "

"What rubbish!" he said with a laugh, wondering again if she weresincere. "Much less, very much less wise than most people. "

"If you tell me that I'll be wishing you'd not come. I'm countingeverything on your being wiser than other people--and shining--like yourlectures. But Louis once said that people usually _think_ much betterthan they can do--"

"That was very penetrating of Louis, " he said. Then--"I hope I don'tdisappoint you. I do--most people. Women especially--"

"Do you? Why?" she said with her puzzled frown. 

"I suppose it's because I'm what you called, in your letter, a studentof life. I like to understand things--and people. Particularly do I liketo understand women. But one finds it impossible to take them seriously, as a rule. "

"I don't know many women--" she began. 

"And how many men did you say? Two?" he said, smiling. She shook herhead. 

"I'm afraid I take everyone rather seriously. "

"It's a mistake, " he said. "I used to. But they disappoint one. When Istopped taking people, women especially, seriously, and made love tothem, I found them quite adorable--"

"It seems silly. "

"It's quite a delightful pastime. "

They had gone out on the verandah again now, and she looked across atthe lake that glimmered red in the fire-glow. 

"You didn't seem to think women a pastime in those lectures of yoursthree years ago. You said then that they were man's heel of Achilles. You seemed rather in a panic about them--"

He nodded his head and, meeting her intent eyes, decided that she had tobe taken seriously. He was just going to speak when she went on:

"But you've got past that now--the panic stage, the pastime stage, thecynical stage--"

"I suppose you're thinking of those last Edinburgh lectures? They'rethe furthest I have got yet. I believe they are a very clever piece ofwork, a sort of high-water mark. But there are so many pulls to jerk usback from the high-water mark, don't you think? And as Louis--wasn'tit?--said, we most of us think better than we do--"

They had reached the haze of the ballroom by this time. People sittingon the flour-bags sent up white auras which mingled with the dust andthe smoke of strong pipes to make an effective screen. Kraill lookedastonished. Marcella smiled. 

"They say Englishmen take their pleasures sadly, " he whisperedconfidentially. "I don't think they could say the same for Colonials. "

"They work so hard, and they like to let off steam sometimes, " she said. "By the way, I must simply say you are a friend from England. If I sayyou are someone very wise they'll either be rude to you or frightened ofyou. And all the girls will want to dance with you if I say you're fromLondon. They're mad on dancing, and they'll take it for granted that youare. They'll expect you to teach them all the new things. "

He looked startled as he watched the swaying crowd. It certainly lookeddangerous, if it was not difficult. The gramophone was playing the"March of the Gladiators"; the mandolines were tinkling anything and themouth-organ had given it up entirely, merely punctuating the first beatof every bar with a thin concussion of the bell. Betty had sprinkled thefloor with a slippery preparation she got from the store, called"ice-powder. "

"Be careful when you cross the floor. It's worse than ice, to make iteasy for those who can't dance. You just cling to someone and slip ifyou don't know any steps. Some of them say their slip is a waltz: otherscall it a gavotte, and some say it's the tango. Old Mike's very definitethat it's a jig. The great thing is to make the slip coincide with agroan from the gramophone. Just watch a minute, and you'll see thatthere is quite a lot of method in it. "

She looked round for Louis, who was in a corner with some of the miners. By his flushed face, his high voice and hysterical laugh she guessedthat she must try to keep him from seeing Kraill that night. She nevercould be quite sure what he would do or say. 

Mrs. Twist was pathetically honoured that the "gentleman from England"should have chosen her birthday for his visit, and Marcella left himwith her. 

"It's a pity to be Martha to-night, Professor Kraill, " she said in a lowvoice. "I want to be Mary--"

She was gone before he could answer. 

The noise had made Andrew cross and tired, and she put him to bed in thehammock under the gum trees, and hitched up her own hammock in thebedroom next to Louis's. She knew that he would be drunk to-night;experience had given her a plan of action. She had to pretend to go tobed with him and stay with him until he was asleep. Then she crept outinto the open air beside the boy. 

She tried to transform the storeroom into the semblance of a bedroom, but it did not occur to her to apologize for discrepancies; she wouldnot have done so had the king come to visit her: indeed, she consideredthat he had, for Kraill had always taken his place in her imagination, as she had told him, with heroes of romance. 

When she got back to the Homestead everyone was ready for supper. Theyhad to get away early, for most of them had to walk the five miles toKlondyke. The Professor seemed to be at home with the miners. His air ofintense interest that had so won Dr. Angus' heart had immediatelyflattered and enslaved them all. Before they said good night he hadcommitted himself to visiting them all. Marcella won a good deal ofreflected glory by possessing him as friend. 

"Are you tired of us?" she asked him after a while. 

"I am very glad I won that toss!" he said. 

"Which?"

"I tossed up whether to stay in Sydney or come here"--he stopped sharp, for it seemed to him that she looked hurt. He decided that, withMarcella, it would be better to be honest than pleasant. 

"As a matter of fact, your letter completely puzzled me. I'm a modestsort of person, you know. To be asked to help anyone seemed such awonderful thing to me that I scarcely believed it. If a man had writtenthe letter I should have believed it more. But as I told you, I can'ttake women seriously--"

"Before you've finished with me you will, " she said, and laughed. 

She was just going to suggest to him that he was tired and should go tobed: she was so anxious to get him out of the way before Louis came outof his corner that she could scarcely talk coherently. But just at thatmoment Louis came up to her. He took no notice of Kraill or Mrs. Twist, who was quite used to him by this time. At the back of Louis's mind wasthe obsession that in two days he would draw his pay; half of him was ablazing hunger for whisky after three weeks' abstinence and hard workand peace; the other half of him was fighting the desire desperately; hewanted to win over one of these warring halves to the other; the factthat he had been drinking all the evening had weakened the finer half;his brain worked quickly. If he could find some grievance againstMarcella he would be able to excuse himself to himself for gettingdrunk, for taking the money that he knew she needed. He wantedpeace--unity within. So he raved at her because the tag had come off hisshoelace, and it was her wifely duty to see that a new lace had been putinto the shoe that morning. From that he went on to the usual gibberishof French, the usual accusation against men in the neighbourhood, theusual _mélange_ of Chinese tortures and gruesome operations. FromKraill's horrified face Marcella saw that he understood more than shedid. She had never been sufficiently morbid to ask anyone to translatehis words for her, even after more than three years of them. 

She wondered weakly what would happen. Judging Kraill by her father andDr. Angus she knew that his ordinary code of convention could not lethim disregard Louis as the others did, as being merely a rather weak, silly young man, who "went on the shikker" every month and made manyvarieties of a fool of himself. Everyone gave him the mixture ofdisgusted toleration and amusement given to a spoilt child who kicks hisnurse in the park, and pounds his toys to pieces. Marcella never talkedabout him to anyone; she cut off ungraciously the attempts atsympathetic pumping made by the women at Klondyke. They concluded thatshe did not feel anything since she never cried out. But, looking atKraill's face for one fleeting instant Marcella knew that he understoodhow sore and shamed she was. 

"He's very ill, really, " she said in a low voice. "But no one believesit. They think he's just wicked. I'll tell you all about it to-morrow. Iexpect you know without my telling you. But I didn't want you to see himlike this. I've fixed up a bed for you at home. Will you let Jerry showyou the way?"

He decided instantly that she knew her own business better than he did, and that his desire, both natural and conventional, not to leave a womanto see a drunken man to bed, was not going to help her. 

"Shut your door up tight, please, " she said. "He may not go to sleep fora long time. "

He nodded, looked at her to show her that he had begun to take herseriously, and turned away with Jerry, rather astonished to find himselfdismissed so coolly from the scene. She turned to Louis, forgettingKraill. Jerry, who adored Marcella, became very voluble on the subjectof Louis; Kraill listened mechanically to all he was saying as theycrossed the paddock. 

It was one of Louis's bad nights; he had been drinking both whisky andsquareface. A letter from his mother, saying how she was longing to seeher grandson, had roused him to great deeds. His fall after suchresolutions was always the more bitter; always it needed more than usualjustification; always Marcella was the scapegoat. She had forgottenKraill in the intensity of her misery until, worn out by his ravings, Louis fell asleep. She knew, then, that he was safe for the rest of thenight and she crept out silently into the cool cleanness of the garden, closing the door softly. Only his loud, stertorous breathing came to herwith mutterings and groans. The moon had risen and little mist-wreathswalked in and out among the wonga-vines on the fence: Marcella's goldenflowers with which she had planted the clearing all round thehouse--nasturtiums, sunflowers, marigolds and eczcoltzias--shone silveryand ethereal. The smoke from the dying fires rose in thin white needles, plumed at the top: out in the Bush a dingo barked shrilly and some smallbeast yelped in pain. Andrew stirred and she tucked the clothes roundhim, kissing his brown, round arm and fingers, wishing he were awake sothat he could be crushed in her arms and let her bury her aching head onhis wriggling little body for an instant--he was never still for longer. 

She sat down on the edge of the verandah, her arm round the post; hereyes were aching; she felt too tired and helpless to go on living andyet the relief of having got Louis to sleep was really very great. Shewas trying to decide to write to Dr. Angus, asking him to give her somesort of sleeping draught she could give Louis when he had one of his badtimes; she had forgotten that, in a week's time, all the money would bespent again and they would be happy for another period: but to-night'smisery, more and more each time, was beginning to shut out pictures of apeaceful to-morrow, a vindication of faith. 

A faint sound behind her made her start in horror, afraid lest he hadwakened. But it was Kraill who was standing quite still looking down ather. 

"Does this sort of thing happen very often?" he said with an air ofintimate interest that reassured her. 

"I'd forgotten about you, " she said jerkily. "I'm so sorry--if I'd knownyou were coming I'd have arranged for you to stay at the Homesteadto-night. "

"But does it?"

"He can't help it. "

"It can't go on, you know, " said Kraill, lighting a cigarette andthrowing it down impatiently. 

"I know. That's why I wrote you that letter. He is so unhappy. "

Kraill made an impatient gesture. Marcella stood up slowly. 

"Are you tired? You must be, " she said. 

"No. I want to see this thing settled, " he said. She felt very hopefulto hear him speak so determinedly. 

"It's queer that you think as I do about that, Professor Kraill, " shesaid with a faint smile. "People say other's troubles are not theirbusiness. But I think that's a most wicked heresy. I always interfere ifI see people miserable. I can't bear to be blank and uninterested. "

"Neither can I. I often get disliked for it, however, " he said with aquick, impatient sigh. "And they don't often accept one's interference. "

"I shall, " she said gently. "I shall do whatever you tell me if it willmake Louis well. I think that is really all I care about in the world. Sometimes, even, I think I care more about Louis than Andrew. I've afeeling that he's much more a little boy than Andrew is. You know, allmy life, since I saw my father very unhappy and ill, I've wanted to savepeople--in great droves! And now I'm beginning to think I can't save oneman. "

"And you think I can?"

"I'm quite sure of it. People are not wise like you are just for fun. But will you come along the clearing with me a little way? I'm afraidour voices will waken Louis, and then he won't get any sleep. That is, if you're really not tired. "

They went through the moon-silvered grass down to the lake. She satunder the big eucalyptus which clapped its leathery hands softly. 

"I was sitting here when I read your lectures--the last ones--anddecided to write to you. It is like--like Mount Sinai to me now. Willyou talk to me out of the thunders, Professor Kraill?"

He looked at her for a moment, recalling the rather heart-breakingcalmness and common-sense with which she had soothed Louis a while ago;he remembered her cool, patient logic in the midst of the drunken man'sravings--and he decided in a flash of insight that this ratherrhetorical way of talking to him was very real to her. She saw him withthe dream-endowed eyes of the Kelt and, embarrassing though it might beto him, and unreal though it made him feel, he had to accept the factthat, for her, he was clothed in a sort of shine. He saw, too, that shecould not do without some sort of shine in her life. 

"Tell me all about it, " he said. "You don't mind talking to a strangerabout these things?"

"You have never been a stranger to me, Professor Kraill. And I don'tbelieve there is such a thing as a stranger, really. I like to think ofthe way the knights always went about ready to interfere with a goodstout sword when they saw anyone in trouble. "

And so she talked to him, and as she talked his quick mind gained animpression of her going about sordid ways and small woman tasks inknightly armour. After awhile he said something unexpected. It made herimpatient for it showed that he was thinking of her. She was thinkingonly of Louis. 

"You know, you make the years slip away, " he said. "I have dreamed thatwomen might go shoulder to shoulder with men, standing up straight andstrong. "

"Yes, I know, " she said softly. "I think many a time I've verydeliberately stood up straight when I wanted to lie down and cry my eyesout, just because I got the idea of a woman knight from those lecturesof yours. And your talk about the softness of women rather goaded me. I_wouldn't_ be soft. "

"Soft! You're not soft, " he interrupted. 

"But think how expensive it is!" she said with a voice that shook alittle. "It took a lifetime of discipline and two weak men to make mehard. I know now, very well, that Louis has been softened, weakened byme. To save him I think I must crumple up. "

She caught her breath sharply. 

"And I don't see how I can, " she added. 

"One might pretend, " he said slowly, looking reflectively at her face. 

"I couldn't. I can't pretend anything. That's the worst of me. And itseems so wrong to me that, to make one human being strong, another mustbe weak. And it seems to me that the weak thing kills the strong in theend. Like ivy, you know, choking out the life of an oak. "

"I don't think he is likely to kill you. "

"I very much wish he would, except that I dare not leave him. I haveweighed it all up very carefully, and I feel it would be better to diethan live this way. Sometimes I feel I shall get unclean--right inside. I can't explain it. There are things in Louis I can't bear--littlemeannesses, and selfishnesses. He locks things up--even here, where noone ever comes. That's a horrible spirit of selfishness, isn't it?"

She told him calmly, uncomplainingly, impersonally as one talks to adoctor, of his locking up his cigarettes, his tobacco, his writingpaper; of how he carried the only pencil about in his pocket and hidaway the papers from his mother, the books from Dr. Angus until he hadread them. One day last week they had been short of milk, and Marcellahad been anxious about the boy's food. The breakfast was on the table;she had to run to her bedroom for a bib for Andrew. When she got backLouis had already poured all the milk into his tea, saying that he haddone it by accident. Another time she had thrown away the boy's tabletof soap by accident, and could not find it anywhere. Louis had his owntablet, locked away; there was no other nearer than Klondyke except thehome-made stuff composed of mutton fat and lye, very cruel to tenderskin. And he had made a scene when she asked him for his soap for Andrewand, when she, too, made a scene threw it away into the scrub where shecould not find it. Little things--little straws that showed the way ofthe hurricane. 

"You see, " she said calmly. "It wouldn't do for me to die, and leaveAndrew to that sort of love, would it? I knew a little boy once who hadto look after his father, " and she told him of Jimmy Peters on the ship. "I think if it came to dying, the only thing would be to take Andrewalong too. "

"Don't you think you're being rather conceited?" he said suddenly. "Hasit occurred to you that you're taking too much on yourself? You admitthat you're keeping your husband a parasite. Are you going to do thesame to your child? Are you the ultimate kindliness of the world? Youtell me of your own stern childhood. Has it hurt you? You must belogical, you know!" he added, smiling at her. 

"I think I want Andrew to be happy rather than heroic. Heroism is such acold fierce thing. I'm only just realizing what a coward I've been, andhow utterly unheroic my hope in Louis has been. But it's so natural, isn't it? I didn't dare face the rest of life without the belief thatsome day we should be happy. Every time he gets drunk I've told myself, very decidedly, that this was the last time. And I know I've been lyingto myself because I daren't face the truth. "

Kraill smoked thoughtfully for a few minutes. 

"I suppose it never occurred to you that, without the drink to consider, you would not be happy with him?" he said at last. 

"Oh yes. We are quite happy in between, " she said with a sigh. 

"On the edge of things? Always with reservations?" he said quickly. 

"Only on the edge of things, " she said slowly. "How well you know!"

"I know all about it. I have never been past the edge of things myself. But always I think I shall be some day. I suppose I am quite twice yourage, and still I am romantic, still I think there's a miracle waitingfor me round the corner of life. "

"I used to think that until just a little while ago. I used to thinkthere would be a day when I should shine. Now I daren't think of itbecause I know I never shall. After all, stars and suns and things mustbe lonely, don't you think?"

"I don't know. "

The moon sank, the dawn wind ruffled the grass and whispered in the topsof the rustling trees, making soft, eerie sounds. 

She stood up suddenly. Unconsciously she held out her hand to help himup. Then she laughed bitterly, and twisted her hands in each otherbehind her. 

"I'm sorry. I forgot you didn't need helping up, " she said. He looked ather curiously. 

"This is an appalling way to treat a guest, " she said as they walkedslowly towards home. "To sit out with him in the middle of the night andkeep him awake. You make me selfish. I've never talked about Louis toanyone before. You make me dependent, Professor Kraill. "

"And that, you say, is what you need. "

Louis was calling out thickly, wildly, as they came within distance. Shestarted and began to hurry. "I wouldn't go in there!" said Kraillsharply. 

"It doesn't worry me now. If I don't go in, he's too frightened tosleep, and then he'll wake Andrew. And if he doesn't sleep he's very illnext day. Sleep gets rid of the effects of whisky, you know. Oh justlisten to him! Why can't I do something? You will help me--you must!"she cried, clutching at his hands for a minute. To his intense distresshe saw her eyes full of tears, and saw her cover them with her hands asshe ran into Louis's room. He stood on the verandah watching her shutthe door. Through the trellis window came sounds of a soft voice and awild one mingling. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

Louis, when he had got over his amazement at hearing that Kraill was hisguest, tried frantically to pull himself together. He was indignant withMarcella for asking Kraill to stay in a hut, but he realized that it wasonly another evidence of what he called the "Lashcairn conceit" andthat, if Marcella had thought it desirable to ask the Governor-Generalto tea, she would have done so unhesitatingly. When he met Kraill he wasvery nervous and shaky, unable to think coherently because of the fightthat was going on within him. When she came back from her work at theHomestead, where the relics of the party had to be cleared away, the twomen had vanished. They walked round the rabbit-proof fences and cameback in time to welcome a "surprise party" from Klondyke drawn by themagnetism of the "gentleman from England" who had won them the nightbefore. Marcella thought several times of Dr. Angus and wished that hecould have been there to see Kraill "getting off the rostrum" as he haddone in Edinburgh. But she got no chance to talk to him all that day;there was too much miscellaneous chatter. 

"He's great, isn't he?" said Louis at bedtime. Marcella was startled. She had never heard him praise anyone but a few doctors at the hospitalbefore. 

"I wish I could be like that--not frightened of people, " he said. "I'veworn my nerves to shreds, now. You don't understand nerves. You don'tpossess any. "

He turned over in his hammock ready to go to sleep. She came across tohim and bent over him. 

"Louis, what's going to happen to-morrow?" she asked presently. 

"Gorse-grubbing. We've to get it all cleared now without delay. "

"You know what I mean, dear. Can't you--won't you try not to go toKlondyke at all? Louis, it would be so splendid if we could save all themoney for a few months and go home to England so that your mother cansee Andrew. Wouldn't it?"

He sighed. 

"Shall I ask Mr. Twist to keep the money, and not give us any for sixmonths? That would be a good plan. We are always so happy except on paydays, and you are so wretched after you've been to Klondyke. "

He agreed absolutely, with such alacrity that she was a little doubtfulof him. Next morning when she went over to the Homestead at eighto'clock she learned that he had come to Mr. Twist with a tale aboutwanting the money for a visit to the store, and had gone off at sixo'clock. It was three days before he came back, dirty and haggard anddespairing almost to the verge of suicide. 

During those three days Marcella deliberately left her work; she went tothe Homestead in the mornings, and fired some gorse in the afternoons;dense clouds of smoke rose into the windless air. For the rest she madeKraill talk, listening to him with an air of sitting at his feet. Shefelt more despairing than ever. Kraill seemed to share her pity forLouis and she, feeling in a way that Jove had spoken from the thundersand the earth had not trembled, was dulled and dead. She knew that hewould go back to Sydney soon; she wondered how she would bear her achingloneliness, her bankruptcy of spirit when he was gone. 

The night Louis came back was even more dreadful than ever. His talkwith Kraill had made him bitterly jealous. It hurt him like a wound tosee an Englishman there, and an Englishman who could come and go aboutthe world as he liked, unchained. Like Kraill he had tossed up for hischance that morning he went to Klondyke--whether to finish the wholemiserable business in the lake and leave Marcella and the boy to gotheir way to England in peace, or whether to get drunk as usual. Andtails had won. Cussedly he paid the cost. 

And that night, sore and aching at heart, longing beneath the whiskymadness to sob out all his penitence and misery into her ear, with herhair over his face, her arms around him, he raved at her all the foulthings he could think, in sheer self-excuse. She had been to bed forhours. It was about two o'clock when he came home and, afraid that heshould waken Kraill, she led him away from the house until he wasquietened by her sudden turning on him and shaking him until he couldnot find his breath for awhile. That always sobered him; her kisses andcaresses and forgiveness soothed him to sleep afterwards. 

The next morning Kraill said that he must go to Sydney. He bade hergood-bye and went without a word of kindliness, of hope. Louis took himto Cook's Wall. When he came back he said nothing in answer to allMarcella's enquiries about what they had said on the long drive. Louiswent back to the gorse-grubbing and worked feverishly for almost amonth, as he always did after being drunk. And it seemed as thoughKraill had never been except that in all the little things that used tobe a joy she now could find no joy at all. The shine had gone from hergolden flowers, the softness from the wind rustling in the scrub, whichnow was an irritating crepitus; there was no music in Andrew's laugh, noecstasy in the words he was learning every day, words that, at first, she had written proudly on a sheet of paper to send to his grandmother. The gentleness seemed to have gone even from Mrs. Twist's kindly face, and the negative peace of three moneyless weeks to come brought nohealing. She felt that she would welcome strife. 

One day she found it impossible to work; she felt fey, restless. Shewrote a letter to Dr. Angus but tore it up, dissatisfied. Taking downthe little grey book of the Edinburgh lectures, which she had not hadthe heart to touch, she read the last one again. Into it she readKraill's voice, pictured his gesture, saw how his quick eyes would lookfriendly, interested, arresting as he talked. On the last page was aparagraph that someone had marked in pencil. In the margin was "J. R. K. "written faintly. She read the paragraph hungrily. Evidently he had meantit as a message for her. 

_"One of the greatest of human triumphs is to read the need inanother's eyes and be able to fulfil it. The difficulty lies incomprehending the need. Most of us have rich storehouses, but to theman who needs of us a crutch we give dancing shoes: to him who needs aspur we offer wrappings of cotton-wool. . . . We ask tolerance and sympathyfor our failings, patience for our inadequacies . . . We give and get onlydisappointment. . . . Partly this is because our needs are the things wehide most jealously from each other, partly because we only see needssubjectively . . . This is the explanation of most of the sex muddles thattangle life. "_

As she read Kraill's message she thought again of her prayer forweakness down by the lake. As she stood there, with all the lights ofher life burning dim, all the virtue gone out of her, it was forced uponher that her prayer was being answered. She was getting weak! Neverbefore had she felt despairing about Louis; never before had she felt sodull, so unable to help him, so unable to care that he should be helped. 

As this thought came and held her, making her feel that somethingstronger than herself had taken possession of her and was merely usingher as it would, she felt quietened. She had prayed for the blazing Feetof God to walk along her life to Louis. Perhaps this dulness, thisweariness was their first pressure. 

She turned to go out of the room and saw Kraill standing in thesunlight. He looked tired. 

"You've come back, then?" she said, and laughed suddenly at the futilityof her words. "It's a very long way for you to come. "

"I went away for a whole month to think about it, " he said in a lowvoice. "And all I can think is that I must take you away. You'll have toleave him. "

She shook her head hopelessly. 

"I've thought that too, very often, when I felt I couldn't bear it. Butalways I _have_ borne it. And he would die without me. "

"The best thing is for him to die, " he cried harshly. "In a decentcommunity he would be put in a lethal chamber. But I'm not thinking ofhim. I'm thinking of you. And I'm thinking of myself. "

He threw his hat on the ground, and turned away from her. 

"You've got into my imagination, " he began almost indignantly. 

"You've been in mine years and years, " she said. 

He came back then, and she was frightened of him. 

"Let's get out of this, " he said impatiently. "I can't talk to you herein his house. Let us get off into the Bush somewhere. Where's the boy?"

"He's playing with Betty. "

"You'd better fetch him along, " he said unevenly. 

She shook her head. 

"Louis would be worried if he came in and found me out at tea-time, " shesaid. "It made him very unhappy to see you, you know. He can't bear tothink that you are free while he is a slave. "

She walked before him to look at the distant smoke of the fires. Theclearing was almost finished. 

"Damn Louis!" he cried. "He is a slave because he lets himself be! Andyou're a slave because he's one. I shall not let you stay here, chained. Armour suits you better. "

"Whatever do you mean?" she gasped. 

He strode along without her, knowing that she would follow; it was sogood to follow instead of leading always. 

"You know quite well what I mean, " he said at last when they were out ofsight of the house and only faint pungency of burning wood reached them, with the crackle of wind in the scrub. "I've made a woman like you, inmy dreams. I never thought to see her in the flesh--yet--. One who couldmarch along by me shining--not wanting to be carried over roughplaces--getting in a man's way, stooping his back--"

She tried to speak, but his eyes silenced her. She stared at him, fascinated. 

"Oh I'm so sick of pretty, pathetic, seductive little women. Always Ihave to make love to them. It's the only meeting-ground between a manand most women. You--I couldn't make love to you! You're not seductive, in the least. You're hard and quick and taut. There's a courage aboutyou--"

"Please, Professor Kraill, " she began, but he silenced her by animpatient gesture. 

"Listen to me, Marcella. You listened to me before, like a little meekgirl on a school-bench. I'm sick, sick, sick of women! Soft corners andseduction!--Narcotics--when what a man needs is a tonic. Miserable, soft, uncourageous things. I want the courage of you. "

"Can't you see that you're all wrong about me?" she said at last. "I'mnot hard, really--only a bit crusted, I think. See what I've done toLouis!"

"Louis!" he cried contemptuously. "You're not going to be wasted on thathalf thing any longer. I'm not saying it isn't fine to save a man'slife. It is. It's very fine and splendid. But you've to be honest withyourself, Marcella, and think if it's worth while. He's not worth it. Ifyou save him from drinking there's very little to him, you know. "

"Don't tell me that, because what you say I believe, " she cried in astricken voice. "It's all my life you're turning to ashes. "

"I shall give you beauty for ashes, Marcella. You and I together, we cango marching on in seven-league boots! There's a kingliness about you. Listen to the things I say to you unconsciously! I can't say the pretty, graceful, soft things we say to women! There's a kingliness, Marcella--not only about you, but about me too. We're not the commonruck. You're not happy, are you?"

"Sometimes, " she said softly. 

"No, you're not--not honourably! Kings can't be happy with commoners!They don't speak the same language. If you're happy it's because you letyourself consciously come down. And--wallow. As I have--"

Her face flamed to think how he had seen through her. He saw it, andcried triumphantly:

"I knew it! In the higher parts of you you're always adventuring, alwayslonely, always hungry. As I am. You never find a harbour, a friend, afeast. Do you? No, I don't need you to tell me. I know all about it. Ihave known it for more years than you have lived yet. "

"But really, I am happy sometimes, " she protested. He caught her handsand held them so that she had to look at him. 

"With Louis? Is your brain happy with Louis? Do you ever come withintouching distance of each other? Is your spirit happy with Louis? Isn'tit always hungry, holding out begging hands? Are your brain and yourspirit not always calling you back and scorning you when you let yourbody wallow--slacken and take cheap thrills?"

"Oh, it's wicked that you should know these things about me, " she cried. 

"No. It isn't wicked at all. I know the same about myself. I've takencheap things. Biology got me on the wrong tack at first; with abiological mind I saw everything _via_ the body. Biology's a dragon onehas to slay; that's why, in my work, I've taken to psychology instead. Love-making! I told you, right at the first, I always made love towomen--. I always have done it, and always should have gone on doing itif I had never met you. "

"But why--if you despise it?"

"I wasn't doing it as an end. It was a means. All the adorable, tender prettiness of love-making leads to physical love inevitably, and I always thought and hoped and believed that after it I'd arriveat some Ultima Thule of understanding, of comradeship, of equality. Never! Ugh, they were soft! Soft flesh, soft spirit, tricky brain!Sometimes I have a nightmare of trying to get to heaven up mountains ofwoman-flesh--soft, scented stuff, sucking one in like quicksands. You'rethe only woman I've ever thought much about and not made love to! To youI couldn't make love--"

"Whatever is this, then?" she asked faintly. 

"This is one king coming to another, asking his alliance, hiscomradeship! You there, with that man--that jelly thing! You sicken, nauseate me. It's like seeing a queen go on the streets! Marcella, youcan't do these things, you know. You're letting down your spiritualcaste. You and I--we've been along lower paths. There wasn't really anydisgust in it then, because we were adventuring, finding each other. Butif we go on the lower paths now we're doing a thing that's damnable. Allmy life I've waited for the wonder that should come round the corner. Sohave you. And here it is, for both of us--"

"How many love affairs did you tell me you had had?" she broke in, in aqueerly casual voice. 

"You're not going to be conventionally horrified, are you?"

"No. But I think you're muddled. I think this is satiety, you know. "

"It's you who are muddled, Marcella. This is satisfaction, not satiety. I know I've got all I need in you. Body, mind and spirit. Most of all, spirit--and courage. "

She dropped on to the crackling ground. He looked down at her. 

"I don't believe you know anything at all about control, ProfessorKraill, " she said very quietly, so quietly that he dropped down besideher to listen as she kept her face averted. "Do you remember, once, yousaid 'Women have no inhibitions'?"

"I was young. And even now, it's true--" he cried. 

"I'm a woman. But I've never deliberately wallowed--as you seem to havedone. Once or twice, perhaps--I was sort of weak, or perhaps hopeful. Ithought it might be very beautiful--"

"You were seeking, as I was, " he said, suddenly gentle. 

"And--it meant softness, being bowled over, loss of control and finallycynicism, " she said. 

"No, no. Not finally cynicism, Marcella. Cynicism half-way along, if youlike. But finally--anchoring. "

She looked at him, very slowly, all over: her hands were quite still onher blue print frock that smelt of fire: many and many a night and dayof hard schooling and cold patience had gone to make them lie there sountremulous now. She reflected on that for a moment; she reflected that, in years to come, by enduring hardness, people would be able to schooltheir hearts from beating the swift blood to a whirlpool, their lipsfrom hungering for a kiss. She thought next of Aunt Janet, desiccated, uncaring, and knew that Aunt Janet's way of life was wrong because itshirked rather than faced things. Her long gaze had reached hisbeautiful eyes and stayed there; she seemed to see down into a thousandyears, a thousand lives. She knew quite well that here was the place ofdreams come true; here was the deliverer with whom she had thought toride to battle, and he too had dreamed. He saw her armour. He did notsee the chinks in it. And he never should. And--he had said women had noinhibitions!

"It's hard, " she said, her eyes still resting on his, "to keep yourthoughts brave as well as your actions, isn't it?"

"What do you mean, Marcella?"

She was sitting motionless and white; he thought he had never seen alive thing so still, so impassive. As she watched his lips, and heardhis voice speak her name, blazing floods of weakness were pouring overher. 

"There are things one mustn't do, " she said slowly. "But they would bemost beautiful to think about, right deep down and quiet inside--likeMary had to hide and ponder in her heart the things the angel told her. One mustn't. I mustn't even think about you--that way--"

"What? What do you mean?"

"Thoughts drag people down, down, don't they? Except for a minute ortwo I've thought clean and selfless about Louis. Always about you I'vethought very shiningly. If I let go a minute the shine of you will beout of my eyes. Do you see? Then I'll be like--like any of the otherwomen! All soft corners and seduction. Just while you've been talking tome I've understood that I _want_ to be like that; that's why I've beenso dead this last month since you went away. It seems a pity, doesn'tit?"

He found that it was his turn to sit speechless, watching her. 

"There, now I've told you, " she said, and lifted her hands and let themdrop again hopelessly. "And now I'm going back to Louis. You want mycourage. . . . Oh God, you've got it!"

He still stared at her. Quick, understanding as he was, he had not quiteunderstood yet. He only saw that she was still whiter, that the stillhands were clenched. 

"If we get any closer you'll see the chinks in my armour. I suppose I'llsee little dark patches in your shine. . . . If you didn't think so well ofme, I suppose I should just let Louis drop out--if I didn't think sowell of you I'd give you the kisses and narcotics and seduction you'retired of. "

"Marcella, I don't care--if I thought--" he began, almost savagely. 

"Oh, thoughts, thoughts! They're cruel! Here we both are, thinking somuch better than we can do. No--no! We _can_ do it! Only--we can't do ithappily. Some day, I think, shining thinking and shining doing will behand in hand--"

She stood up slowly then, and turned away. He saw her going right out ofhis life. And it seemed to him just as it had seemed to her, that all hehad ever done or had done to him had led up to that moment. 

"Marcella, " he cried, and seized her hands again. "I can't let you go. Whatever you have, whatever you are, I want you. "

"I!" she cried. "I! Always I! What do you and I and any of us matter, really? What does it matter if we do get smashed up like this if only wemanage to keep our thoughts of each other clean and free from slinkingthings--fears, and greeds?"

"I can't _help_ thinking about you!" he cried. 

"I know. I can't, either. That's why we've to be so careful _what_ wethink. And it's going to be a hard, austere sort of thing for us both. Once I saw you a beautiful thing with swift wings all torn off in asticky mess. Now I see you very shining--"

She looked at him with blinded eyes. 

"Always I'm going to make myself see you like that now. Never, neverwill I let a greedy or unclean thought of mine dull you. And--please--you'll try to--to--do the same for me, won't you?"

He could not speak yet. He realized how terribly right she was. 

"It's harder for us both, that you've been here and this has happened, "she said. "Harder! But better! Neither of us, for each other's sake, canhave any more cheap thrills, slothful moments, thoughts without courage. Oh good-bye. "

She turned towards him and saw that he was lying on the grass. Hisshoulders were shaking. She knew that he was crying. That seemedterrible to her. She had to run, then, very quickly away from him or shewould have stayed--and been soft. As she ran she, too, was crying. 

CHAPTER XXIX

Louis was on the verandah as she came round the fence. She saw his eyesblazing madly, his face distorted, his hands clenched. He came to meether, raging. 

"Where've you been?" he choked out. 

She waved her hand over towards where Kraill was. She could not speak. 

"Whose is this hat? It's that damned professor's!"

"Yes. "

"Where is he? Why are you crying? He's come here after you!" he raved. 

"He's gone, " she said faintly. "Gone--for always. Exceptin my thoughts--inhibited thoughts--thoughts washed andboiled--thoughts--Oh--sterilized. "

"What in hell are you talking about?" he cried, taking her by theshoulders and shaking her fiercely. "Why are you crying, I say?"

"Because he's gone, " she said, and cried all the more. 

"My God! The impudence of it--telling me, " he shouted, and seemed to bestrangling with rage. 

"The--the--honesty of it, Louis. Oh and--the--the awfulness of it! I'mcrying because I can't bear it!"

"You--you--" he gasped, and paused for a word. 

"Louis, " she said, raising wet, miserable eyes to his. "I've sent himaway, but I daren't, daren't trust myself not to run after him. Oh andit would so spoil things for him and all of us if I did! Listen, Louis, can't you grab me and not let me go after him? I can't hold myself back, and I _did_ promise him I wouldn't let my thoughts get greedy! He said Iwas in armour--Louis, my dear, I've tried to help you so often when youwere being torn in two. Can't you--my dear--it's your turn now. "

"You damned adulterer!" he gasped, finding the word at last. 

She sobbed, and in her sobs he saw fear, guilt. He flung her to theground, repeating the word. 

"Oh you silly, silly fool, " she cried. "He's better than that--if I'mnot. "

"Then what in hell are you crying about?"

"Because I'm not--not a damned adulterer!" the words were torn from her. "But I can't clean my thoughts of wanting to be. My dear--after solong--I've helped you and been patient. Can't you do something--now, tomake me able to bear it?"

"Now _you_ know what it is to--" he began with an ugly laugh. Then rageseized him. "I'll break his damned neck, " he cried. 

"That's no use! What will that do to me? You can't kill the love that'stearing me up, by smashing his body to bits! You see, Louis, I've gothim, for ever and ever. The shining, knightly side of me has. But it'sthe greedy side of me--the side that makes you grab out forwhisky--that's sticking teeth into me now. And you know how it hurts. "

"God! I'll break his damned neck, " he cried again, and raged off intothe Bush. 

She crept into the house. A wild thought came to her that, if there wereany killing it would be Kraill who would do it. And he and she would runaway for awhile, right into the Bush, before people came to hang them. She stopped breathing at the gloriousness, the primitivefull-bloodedness of it, and then writhed in horror at the greed of suchthoughts, and prayed passionately that a sentry might be put at the doorof her mind. 

And she knew, very well, that presently Louis would be back--that hewould say once again all the foul things he had said before, now withsome glimmering of truth in them: that he would get money from somewhereand be drunk to-night, for now, at least, he had excuse. Then he wouldgrin foolishly, and cry weakly, and rage and be futilely violent, andshe would have to take this quivering thing that housed her armouredsoul and make it do his service; she would have to undress him and washhim so that Andrew, trotting in in the morning, should not see hisfather in bed dirty; she would have to kiss away his ravings, soothe hisfears. Presently she shook her head many times. She knew that she couldnever do that any more. 

An hour, two hours passed. She sat quite still. Then a shadow crossedthe window and steps came on to the verandah. She did not move. Louisstood by the door. Kraill was beside him. Louis looked quite sane, andvery unusually young and boyish. There was a queerly different lookabout him. She stared at him for a moment; almost it seemed as thoughshe could see a shine about him for an instant. Then she looked atKraill, and he at her. She did not move, but her soul was on its kneesworshipping his beautiful, still eyes that were tragic no longer, butvery wise and sad. He read all that she did not say. 

Louis coughed. 

"Marcella--I'm sorry, old girl. Kraill has talked to me about it. He'sbeen--or rather--we've been bucking each other up. "

He coughed awkwardly. 

"Bucking each other up--no end, old lady, " he added, and ran his handthrough his hair, making it wild, and rough. 

She smiled faintly with her lips. For another moment she could notsnatch her eyes away from Kraill's. 

Then she said faintly:

"It's all very well, Louis. You're always being sorry! Aren't you?"

"This is the last time, Marcella, that there'll be any need to be verysorry, " he said solemnly. "I was going to clear out for good, but Kraillmade me come back. "

"That's all very well, too. Professor Kraill is going away. He doesn'thave to put up with you. He doesn't have to sleep with you. You will bedrunk to-night, and every night when there's any money. And next dayyou'll be whining about it. I've lost hope now. I'm tired, tired ofto-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow. "

Kraill's eyes were on her. The echo of a cock that crowed outside a doorin Jerusalem nineteen hundred years ago came to her and her eyes filledwith tears. 

"Oh I'm so sorry! You asked me for my courage, " she said to Kraill. 

"There's no need for it now--on Louis's account, Marcella. You believewhat I say to you, don't you?"

He smiled at her; he looked very friendly, very kindly. 

"You know I believe you!" she cried. 

"Then I tell you that Louis is quite better now. He is going to takecare of you and Andrew. I can't prove it to you, yet. But you will seeit as time goes on. "

"I don't want him any more, " she cried, "I want you--Oh no--no--!"

His eyes held hers again, tragic and terrible. Then again he smiled, and she felt that she had failed him. 

"No, of course not, Marcella, " he said gently. "These slinking greedsof ours--"

He turned to Louis. 

"We'd better be getting along to the station, don't you think?" He stoodlooking at Marcella, who seemed stunned. 

"Don't you think you could make us some tea before we go?" he saidcasually. She stared at him dully. 

"Tea?" she said dazedly, and began to laugh shrilly. "Tea? Oh, men arefunny! You're both so funny! _'The greatest of human triumphs is to readthe need in another's eyes and be able to fulfil it. '_ Tea! Oh Louis, isn't it funny--making tea--now. "

She laughed and laughed, and then Kraill and Louis began to dance aboutbefore her eyes most erratically, until a black curtain all shot withfires came down and hid them, and waves of cold, green water went overher. She felt someone lift her out of the water and then she went tosleep. 

CHAPTER XXX

In the months that followed Marcella often tried to find out what hadcaused the Miracle--for Miracle it seemed to her. The desire for whiskythat had obsessed him for ten years seemed to have died: he franklyadmitted that it gave him no trouble now at all. When she seemedinclined to praise him for his bravery he laughed at her; there was nobravery in doing a thing that was perfectly easy and natural to him. Helooked different: he was just as different as Saul of Tarsus after hesaw the blinding light on the Damascus road. His nerves never crackednow; the little meannesses of which both she and the boy had beenvictims had disappeared; he gave her a kind of wistful, protecting lovethat proved to her, more even than his frequent safe visits to thetownship, that something radical had happened that day in theBush--something so radical that, if it were taken from him, he would notbe there at all. She felt that he was safe now; she felt that the boywas safe; she felt that in everyone on earth who was sick and sad andunhappy was the capacity for safety. But she did not know how they mightcome by it. 

But she knew, incontrovertibly, that she could never love Louis againwith any degree of happiness or self-satisfaction. That much Kraill hadshown her. She and Louis had no part in each other's spiritual nightsand days; the typhoon of physical passion that had swept her up for afew minutes she saw now as a very cheap substitute for the apotheosisKraill had indicated. It was Louis's weakness that had been theirstrongest bond in the past: now that that was gone there was little leftin him for her. But peace after pain was very beautiful. 

It was not until after six months of sanity that he told her all aboutthe miracle. One evening, after the child had gone to bed, they weresitting on the verandah. Louis had been talking of going home to startafresh in England. 

"The voyage would do you good, Marcella. My diagnostic eye has been onyou lately, " he said as he lighted a cigarette and passed it to her. "You're looking fagged, and it's unnatural to see you looking fagged. You're getting thin. I don't want to see you suddenly evaporate, oldgirl. "

She shook her head and stared unseeingly over the soft green ofspringing life that, before they came, had been devastating gorse. 

"Yes, clearly a trip to England is indicated, " he said. "You're alonetoo much. Marcella, I believe you're thinking every minute aboutKraill. "

"I--can't help it, " she said in a low voice. "They're--good thoughts, now. "

He looked at her, and something about the droop of her shoulderscontracted his throat, made a pain at his heart. 

"It's hard--" he began. 

"It's a hunger, Louis. You understand it, don't you? But I can't buy itin a bottle!"

"Marcella!" he cried passionately. "I'll--I'll come into your thoughtsin time. Lord knows I'm trying hard enough. "

"Oh my dear, don't I know?" she said gently. "And has it occurred to youwhat a mercy it is for me that you're like this now? If I had to hideeverything up, like I used to, I couldn't bear it--never seeing himagain--if you didn't help me to. "

"It's queer, " he said slowly. "Most people--husband and wife--would notbe able to talk about this sort of thing to each other. They'd hide andlie to each other. "

"We've both been weak--and we've both been helped. And these demands wemake of each other teach us so much. If Kraill had not demanded courageof me I'd--he'd have had me. It's no use lying about it, is it? Whyshould you be so frank about your whisky, and give yourself away to meevery time about it, and I hide up my weakness from you?"

"You're--weirdly honest, old girl, " he said with a short laugh. 

"Yes. Even now, if I had not promised him courage of thinking, Isuppose--he'd have me--but I had to live up to what he saw in me. "

"And that, of course, is what saved me, " he said quietly. 

"I've often wondered, " she said. "Are you going to tell me now?"

There was a long silence. He smoked two cigarettes as his mind went backto that hot, strange day. 

"I went out, " he began at last, "to kill him. I'd always been a cowardbefore. But then I didn't know what fear was. In a crisis likethat--Marcella, listen to me getting back the psychology I learnt at thehospital!--the ruling emotion comes on top. And my ruling emotion, Ithink, is selfishness. Brutally frank, old lady! Learnt that from you. But do you remember that soap, when young Andrew got his face skinnedbecause I wouldn't let him have mine? And--heaps of times--about grub, and things. Oh yes, " he went on, as she looked startled, "I've quiterealized how selfish I always was to you. Well, don't you see how itworked? I thought Kraill had got you. You were my property. I justcouldn't bear that. The only thing seemed to be to kill him. "

"I didn't think you loved me, " she murmured. 

"I don't believe I did--till Kraill gave me a few tips! You see, I wentroaring off to him, and he was standing by a tree looking stunned. I wasflaring, frantic. I called him a damned adulterer. He laughed at me, andsaid just what you said, 'If I'm not better than that, she is!' Then hetold me that I'd deliberately thrown you away. Mad as I was with him, Isaw that he was quite right. "

He paused, and puffed at his cigarette. 

"Lord, it was a set-out, Marcella! He said quite calmly, that he wasgoing to take you. Then it was I saw what life without you would be. Hegave me a thumb-nail sketch of myself--and of you and him. You bothseemed rather fine. I seemed a stinking, grovelling, strawy sort ofthing. To my amazement it seemed right that he should have you. Lord, itscorched! I stopped thinking about killing him, and wanted to killmyself. "

She put out her hand to him silently and he took it in his. 

"Then, quite unexpectedly, he asked me if I was happy. Happy! In thatstrife! I found myself telling him--and I'd just called him a damnedadulterer, mind!--all about it, the awful fighting, the awful losing, and the hunger. And I knew he would understand all of it. He said he'dhad just such hungers, and had got through with them. He said thegetting through came to different people in different ways. He saidsomething I want to have framed up in the sky for miserable neurotics toread, Marcella. He said, 'With you, Louis, it's got to be drastic. It'sgot to be an earthquake. There's more than the drink in you that's gotto be rooted out. All the foundations of you, all the structure of you, have to crumble, to fall together in a heap. Your spiritual centre ofgravity has got to shift. Do you see?' I didn't see. But that's the verymost important thing, Marcella--about the centre of gravity. "

She nodded. She thought she understood. 

"Then he gave me another, gentler picture of myself--a fight here, afailure there, a hunger somewhere else, and Lord knows how many oldshreds of cynicism and belief, of selfishness and ambition andwantonness and pride, and just a little bit of love and desire forbeauty. I told him that madness of mine, about the Mater's letters thatI told you to take to King George. He was interested in that--said itwas symbolical of my love for the Mater. I think I told him every ballything in my life. And I never lied once to him. He was quiet a bit, andthen he said I'd to be shaken up, smashed and crumbled, so that theseold things would all go from me, and new things come in by the crevicesand let the axis of me get changed. That seemed reasonable. What was soqueer was how he treated me like a kid. Rather an intelligent kid, youknow. He said: 'Did you, at school, Louis, have the lamp and orange andhatpin trick to explain night and day to you?' I said yes, and it allcame back to me, being a kid in school and under orders, you know. Andhe said: 'Suppose your master had jabbed the hatpin just anywhere, nowhere near the centre--how the orange would have wobbled, wouldn'tit?' I said it would, and he went on to say the hatpin wasn't jabbedthrough my centre, and that's why _I_ wobbled so much. That was veryreasonable, too--but I told him I didn't see how the hatpin was going tobe pulled out. Yet all the time I listened to him, sort of fascinated bya charm he has--seems a ridiculous thing to say about a man, doesn'tit?"

"No--not a bit, " she said faintly. 

"He seemed to care a lot about me. No one but you ever had. And then heasked me if I realized what a thin time you had of it. 'Does it everoccur to you, Louis, that your wife has had a superhuman job? And she'sonly a girl after all. You know what women are, ' he said. They pretendto us that they're so very strong and independent. Like a child tryingto lift a great weight, and saying: 'No, no--you shan't help. I can doit, ' and in the same minute dropping it on his toes with a smash andcoming to be comforted! Marcella's like that. She's brave. But she's gotto the cracking stage now. She's got to be taken care of. I didn'tbelieve it. It seemed incongruous. "

"After what I'd just told you?"

"Yes. I've always, even as a kid, been such a liar that when anyone wasbrutally honest I thought they were posing. Kraill said, 'You'll neverbe fit to take care of her. You're just a parasite. She's coming awaywith me now. ' That squared with what I'd thought of your brutal honesty. I thought it was a blind, and that you were just coming back to fetchAndrew and then go. I wasn't cross with Kraill then. I simply crumpledup. "

There was a long silence. When he spoke again he spoke as though sharinga secret with her. 

"Do you know, I believe Kraill was playing with us both, Marcella? Ibelieve he'd gauged you right, and me too. I believe he made love toyou, knowing your cussed pride. He knew you'd turn to me, and that yourturning to me would save me. I believe he was bluffing when he said hewas going to take you. You never know, with men like that. Biology andpsychology--! He's got people's bodies and brains and souls dissected, and nothing they can do is unaccountable to him! Men like that arebeyond the ordinary human weaknesses, you know. "

She did know, very much better than he, and hugged dear thoughts as shesmiled faintly at him. 

"Then he began to take whisky out and hold it up in front of me by itshind legs, kicking. And it looked pretty silly before he'd finished withit. I was sick of it, I tell you. "

She started. She remembered how ashamed he had made her of thosemomentary cheap thrills of hers. What was it he had said--"Like a queengoing on the streets?"

"He'd smashed me up, I tell you. "

"And me, " she said softly. 

"Though I knew I'd lost you then, I knew I'd lost whisky too. All thestriving things that had made me up, you see, were lying in ruins, andthe whisky seemed such a disgusting, ridiculous thing it wouldn't fit inanywhere. Like one of those jigsaw puzzles--the whisky bit put all therest out. I felt a most blissful peacefulness . . . Like, I suppose, whena cancer is taken away after months of hellish pain. You can't imagineit! It was just like those Salvation Army chaps you hear in the streetsometimes talking about being at peace with God. You can see they are, they look so beaming! I felt like that. Only God didn't seem to comeinto it. I was just at peace with myself. "

She nodded, and he went on slowly:

"I'm not clear about the rest. Having smashed me, you see, he began toput me together again. I felt I could worship him--that sounds ratherlike hot air, old girl, but it's quite true" he added, reddening alittle. "He'd got rid of that bally cancer for me. "

"But how did you know--?"

"How do you know the sun has risen, dear? How did that poor devil thatwas tearing himself in the tombs know that he need fear no more whenChrist spoke to him? How did the blind man know he could see? I justdon't know, but it happened. And Marcella, do you know what I did?Lord--it was awful. I cried like anything, and asked him to give youback to me. It came to me like a flash that I'd no right to you, thatyou and he were much righter for each other. But I just couldn't spareyou. More selfishness! And it seemed I'd such a lot to make up to you. He said: 'Are you sure you can take care of her now, Louis?' I laughed. It seemed such cool, calm impudence the way our positions were reversed. He laughed too, and said: 'Queer how we still look upon women as goodsand chattels, isn't it?'"

"You didn't seem to take me into account much, " she said. 

"Kraill answered for you in the surest possible way. And then we startedto come back to you. He said an astonishing thing on the way back--askedme if I'd read a book on 'Dreams, ' by a German chap named Freud. I saidI left dreams and 'Old Moore's Almanac' to housemaids and old ladies. Helaughed, and we talked about dreams. He told me some of his--rather racyones. I told him lots of mine--those horrors I used to have, and allthat. And he kept nodding his head, and saying: 'Yes, I thought so. 'I've often wondered what he was getting at, or if he wasn't getting atanything at all, but just simply changing a difficult subject--like whenhe asked you to make that tea. "

"So that's that, " he said at last, and talked of England. Presently shesurprised him by saying that she very much wanted to go to Sydney. 

"Want to test me among pubs, old lady? Well--I am armed so strong inhonesty that dangers are to me indifferent! I can't help swanking bitsfrom 'Julius Caesar, ' you know--my only Shakespeare play! But it'll begreat to go to Sydney. Only--what are we going for? Shopping?"

She evaded his question, and in a flash he thought he saw the reason forthe journey and became very tender and considerate of her. They madeplans immediately; he was like a child being taken out for the day. Hekept telling her how delightful it was not to be kept on a lead; and shecould have told him how delightful it was not to be at the controllingend of a lead. 

They left Andrew with Mrs. Twist; Marcella was very quiet during thedrive in to Cook's Wall, though for some moments she was almosthysterically gay. Just beyond the station was a gang of navvies and acamp; the railway was pushing on to Klondyke; great Irishmen and navviesfrom all parts of Australia, drawn by the phenomenal pay, sweated andtoiled under the blazing sun making the railway cutting. The sound ofrumbling explosions came to them as the rocks were blasted: she watchedthe men running back with picks over their shoulders; she loved to seetheir enormous bull-like strength as they quarried the great boulders. 

They stayed at Mrs. King's, and went to a theatre the first night. Louisgrew more hungry for England every moment as he came into touch withcivilization. Marcella sat in a dream; the music that would once havedelighted her to ecstasy was muted; the people were things movingwithout life or meaning; she answered Louis every time he spoke to her, but her mind was drawn in upon itself by a gnawing anxiety. 

The next day, leaving Louis to his own resources, she and Mrs. King wentout. 

He was a little inclined to chaff them about their air of mystery, but, taking Marcella's tiredness and whiteness into account, he was expectingthem to say they had been buying baby clothes, though it was ratherunlike Marcella to keep anything secret. 

Her tragic face and Mrs. King's eyes, red with weeping, froze the gaywords on his lips when they came in just before lunch, where he wasplaying a slow game of nap with some of the boys in the kitchen. 

They went upstairs to their old room. When the door was closed she saidto him: "Louis, I've been to a doctor. He says I'm not well. "

"I knew it. I told you, didn't I? You want a change, my dear, " he saidanxiously. 

"I'm afraid it's rather more serious than that, Louis, " she saidgravely. "He seems to think it--it may be--cancer. Oh, I wish they'dcall it something else! I hate that word. It's such a hungry word. "

She was feeling stunned, and very frightened. 

"But Marcella, it's ridiculous! For one thing, you're too young--"

"That's what the doctor thought. But he says it's been known--intextbooks, you know. A girl of eighteen that he knew had it. I'm to seetwo other doctors to-morrow. "

He began to pace about the room. Then he laughed a little shrilly. 

"Oh, it's a silly mistake. Doctors are not infallible, you know! He'sbrutal to have suggested it even. Oh damn these colonials! No Englishdoctor would have told you. "

"I insisted, " she said quietly, and he guessed that the doctor was notto be blamed. 

"But, " he went on, "it couldn't have happened except through an injury. You've had no injury that I can think of--"

"No, of course I haven't, " she said rapidly. "But these things seem tohappen without cause, don't they? Anyway, we won't believe it untilwe've got to. I've been ill for months, and noticed things. I've been anawful fool. But I didn't think it was dangerous, and--I don't think I'dhave cared much if I had known. "

The next day confirmed the first doctor's opinion. Marcella was a littleincredulous. It did not seem to her that she was ill enough to be indanger. It was only when the doctors advised immediate operation thatthe horror and terror of it came flooding in upon her. 

"Louis, we'll tell them what we think about it to-morrow, please, " shesaid. 

They went back to Mrs. King's almost in silence. Both of them seemed ascreatures walking in a dream. With one accord they looked at each otherwhen they got back in the room. Mrs. King, anxious-eyed, was talking tosomeone in the kitchen. To avoid having to talk to her they went up onthe roof. The city rumbled beneath their feet, very, very much alive. Everything seemed to be blatantly alive, flaunting its bounding life atthem. They sat down on the coping. 

Without warning she clung to him and began to cry. 

"Louis--please don't let me be chopped up, " she sobbed. He held her asthough he would snatch her out of life and pain and danger. But he didnot know what to say. 

"Louis, I hate my body to push itself into notice like this, " she criedafter awhile. "I always did--as a child, and when Andrew was coming, Ihated you to see me--like that--Oh and Louis, I can't die--yet--"

"My darling, you're cracking me up!" he cried. "But don't think ofdying. Surgeons don't let people die nowadays! You can't die. You're toomuch alive. You'd fight any illness--"

They sat trying to think some alleviation into their misery. Presentlyshe snatched herself away from him. 

"It's such a beastly, slinking sort of way to die! In a bed--sick andill! Why can't they have wars--so that I could die quick on abattlefield? You wouldn't have time to be getting cold beforehand, then. Louis, it's like father, lying in bed till his poor heart was drowned. Louis--Oh--"

She stopped, breathless. Her eyes narrowed; she was thinking deep down. 

"I wonder if it's--necessary?"

He shook himself impatiently. 

"How can pain and illness ever be necessary?"

"They may be--perhaps not to the sufferer, you know, " she said, andwould not explain what she meant. She was seeing pictures of herselfpraying for weakness--and of burning Feet--

"I wish Andrew had come with us. Is there time to send for him?" shesaid presently. 

"Every day is important now, " he said, choked. 

"Yes. I've not to be sentimental, " she said, and tried not to grieve himas she remembered very vividly her own sick misery when her father andmother were ill and there was nothing she could do. 

But even as she tried to be brave little fears would crop up, littlejets of horror burst out and wring words from her lips. 

"Louis, it's the beastliness of it, you know, " she cried. "Imaginesomething taking possession of your body against your will. I hate that. Like a madman seizing hold of you--like that gorse being burnt out andgrowing up and breaking through other things that tried to grow--"

Louis was dumb. After awhile, when she had thought and thought again, she said:

"I'm a wretched coward to say these things to you. It makes it harderfor you. But I can't help it. Kraill was right when he said I'd got tocracking-point. If I were heroic I'd lie down and be a beautifulinvalid, waiting for a happy release. It would be easier for you if Icould. Louis, I just can't. It wouldn't be honest. If I die, it won't bea beautiful spectacle, my dear. I'll fight every inch of the way!There's such a lot of me to kill. I'm so alive, and I love to be alive. It--it won't be dignified--"

"Oh God, I wish I were a Christian, or a theosophist, or something, andbelieved people went on!" he groaned. 

"I don't want to go on anywhere else, " she said. "I want to go on herewith you and Andrew. And I want to see Dr. Angus and Aunt Janet and allthe others at Lashnagar--and--No, I don't want to see him, " she added, and thought again for a while in silence. "I don't need to--"

He looked at her quickly, and said nothing. 

"Louis, do you think I've been wrong? I remember I said something toKraill about not wanting to die, though it seemed worlds away then. Andhe said: 'It seems to me that you take too much on yourself. Are youthe ultimate kindliness of the world?' Perhaps it will be better forAndrew if I'm not there--Oh, but that's morbid!"

"It is, " he said decidedly. "And you're not going to die--"

She broke in quickly: "Just think if this had happened last year! I'dhave been frantic for fear of leaving you and Andrew. Why, I would neverhave dared to go to the hospital, for fear of what might happen to youwhile I was there. And now I'm not a bit afraid of that. "

"Then don't be afraid at all. Look here, let's talk as if you're not myMarcella at all, dear. Let's talk as if you were someone we're both keenabout. Can't you see that you're in very little danger, really? You'reso young, and so tremendously hard--"

She tried to make him think she was reassured, but a little later thefear cropped out again. 

"If I die, " she said quietly, "what are you going to do? No, don't lookmiserable about it. I'm miserable enough for two of us, goodness knows. But people have been known not to wake up after an operation, haven'tthey?"

"Just as they've been known to be run over by a taxi, " he said. 

"Yes. Well then, let's try to be quite unemotional about this strangercalled Marcella that we're both keen about. If she did happen to finishup--out of sheer cussedness and desire to make a sensation, next week, you'd be the victim of a ghost, Louis! I'd simply have to be back to seewhat you're up to! You know what a managing sort of person Marcella is, don't you?"

He made a desperate effort to be unemotional, and presently he said, very decidedly:

"I know now what I'm going to do, old girl! I absolutely refuse to allowillness to go on! There! That's a challenge to the Almighty, if He likesto take it--"

She laughed gently, with tears in her eyes. 

"I feel helpless. And I'm fed up with feeling helpless. Thatsocialization of knowledge has got to begin, or I'll--Oh. I don't know!Look at the idiocy of it! Here we are in the twentieth century, andpeople are dying like flies all over the show. Why, there's no room forhouses because there's so much room needed for grave-yards! And--evenif they don't die, they're ill, most of them. And I'm not going to haveit!"

"Louis! What are you going to do?" she said, staring at him, taken outof her fear by his enthusiasm. "I've never seen you like this before. "

"No. I never have been. But this business of illness has just come andtouched me on the raw, you see! You ought not to be ill. It's waste andlunacy to think of it. And I--ten years of my life wasted by a neurosis!And your father, and Lord knows how many millions more! I'll tell youthis much, Marcella! Before five years have gone by I'll be in thebattlefield against illness, and I'll be damned if illness won't have tolook out! I loathe it, just as you do! I resent it! I'm going to stopit. Listen, old girl, as soon as you're out of that hospital, you're offto England, and I'm going to the Pater, and I'm going on my knees to beghim to give me another go at the hospital. I've got to get my toolsready, you know--"

"Do you think your father will?"

"He'll be sceptical. I should if I were he. I've been such a bounder tohim in the past. But if he's too sceptical to help--well, I'll go toBuckingham Palace and ask King George to lend me the money! I shouldthink he'd be jolly glad to think there was a chance of wiping outillness for ever. "

Tears brimmed over: it was when she saw the eternal child in Louis thatshe loved him most, and was most afraid for him; not afraid now that hewould waste himself again, but afraid that he would never touch themountain-tops at which he was aiming. 

"Yes, we'll go home, " she said dreamily. "And I'll take you onLashnagar--and we'll see them all again. I'll ask Uncle to give us themoney to take us home. This wretched illness will take all we have. "

"Don't you worry about your Uncle's money, " he said grimly. "I'll see tothat! Marcella, there's nothing I can't do now. If only I hadn'tmonkeyed about at the hospital, probably I'd have had the knowledge tosave you all this now. "

"Why, how silly!" she laughed. "If you hadn't monkeyed about at thehospital we should never have met!"

The next day she went into hospital: as the anesthetic broke over her indelicious warm waves she was frantically afraid that she was going todie; it seemed to her that these calm, business-like surgeons and nursesonly treated her as one of millions, not realizing that she was MarcellaLashcairn, immensely important to Louis and Andrew. She began to feelthat it would be much better if she did not have an anesthetic at all, and superintended the whole business herself intelligently. It seemedwrong that she should have no hand in a thing of such profoundimportance. Then her will relaxed a little and she was horribly afraidthat she would feel sharp knives through the anesthetic. A blindingflash of realization abased her utterly. Just on the borders ofunconsciousness she saw Kraill looking at her with his beautiful eyesclouded with disappointment. 

"He knows I'm afraid of being cut up--and he knows I'm afraid of dyingI--Naturally he knows--he lives in my imagination!--and he wanted mycourage--But I'm not really frightened, you know. Can't you see I'mnot?"

It became immediately necessary to explain this to Kraill. She tried topush the mask away. A very steady, pleasant voice was saying "breathedeeply, " and she realized that she had once more been taken up by thingsmuch stronger and wiser than herself: quite conceivably they might makea mess of her, hurt her and even kill her. But they were doing wisely;and anyway, she herself could do nothing more--buoyant warm waves tookher up and carried her right away from caring. 

When she wakened again all fear had gone; she was conscious of a burningcorkscrew boring into her body somewhere, but she was too lazy tolocalize it. A long, long time after that she saw sunshine and smeltsomething very beautiful. 

She focussed her eyes on something that swayed drunkenly: after awhileit stood still, and she saw that it was a little blue vase filled withboronia. The breeze from the open window was tapping the blind softly toand fro, and wafting the scent of the boronia over her face. Then shesaw Louis's face, very white, above her. 

"All right, old girl?" he whispered. 

She tried to find her hand to raise it to him, but it seemed so farfrom her that she would have to go to the end of the world to fetch it. And that was too far. So she smiled at him. 

"You're all right, you see, " he said nervously. "Gloomy forebodings areso silly, aren't they?"

"I--thought I should feel it, " she said. 

"I told you you wouldn't, didn't I? The nurse said you took an awfultime to go under--"

"Yes. I wanted to explain something. And I wanted to help thesurgeons--I thought I'd--do it--much better than they could. "

"Just like you, old lady, " he said, with his eyes wet. 

"Silly to fight, Louis--strong things--wise things--like thosesurgeons--even if they are making awful pains for you to bear--"

"I wouldn't talk, darling, " he whispered anxiously, his face againsthers. 

"I'm not talking, Louis--I'm thinking, " she said anxiously. "Something Iwas thinking--all mixed up with old Wullie, and a pathway. It seems tome God is like those surgeons--only--strong and wise, you know--only Henever gives you chloroform, does He?"

She lost sight of Louis's face then for a very long time. 

CHAPTER XXXI

Three months later they were aboard a P. And O. Steamer, calling theirgood-byes to Mrs. King and half a dozen of the boys, and Mr. And Mrs. Twist who had come all the way from Loose End to see them off. 

Marcella had stayed in hospital for two months; for another month shehad been struggling with inability to begin life again in a nursing homeoverlooking the thunders of the Pacific. Louis had gone back to theHomestead. He would not explain what he was going to do. He merelyfetched Andrew, and put him in charge of Mrs. King, who brought himevery day to see her. And then he vanished. But she had no fears forhim. They had vanished; her sudden yielding to the chloroform in thehospital had been symbolical of a deeper yielding; she felt that thesestrong, wise forces of her life, if pain became unendurable, wouldeither cure it or find an anesthetic for it. 

And one day, towards the end of the three months, Louis had come to thenursing home to see her. His hands, as he seized her passionately, felthard and stuck to her thin silk blouse. 

"Louis!" she cried, taking one of the hands in hers, which had grownvery soft and white, "I've seen them pretty bad before with the gorse. But whatever have you been doing? Where have you been? They're like anavvy's hands!"

"Were you worried about me, old girl?" he asked. 

"No, but dreadfully curious, " she began. He took a roll of dirty notesout of his pocket and threw it in her lap. 

"Look! Alone I did it! Monish, old girl! Filthy lucre! Just enough totake us home. I meant to do it off my own bat, without asking youruncle!"

"But how on earth could you, in the time?" she asked. 

"Navvying! That bally railway cutting at Cook's Wall! Lord, Marcella, ifI don't get the Pater to pay for me to go to the hospital, I'll do ayear first on the music-halls as the modern Hercules. I should makemillions! My hands were blistered till they got like iron; my back feltbroken; I used to lie awake at nights and weep till I got toughened. Ihad a few fights, too. "

"Why? Didn't they like you?"

"No, they're not so silly as you. They resented my Englishparticularly, and they resented my funking whisky when they were allboozing. They thought I was being superior. Lord, if they'd known! Onenight, when they were calling me Jesus' Little Lamb and Wonky Willie, Isaw red and tackled an Irishman. Of course, he knocked me out of time. Iknew he would. And just to show them that I wasn't wonky, and wasn't aCocoa Fiend--that was another name they had for me--I downed a tumblerfull of whisky neat. "

She drew a deep breath. 

"Oh, don't worry! It made me damned sick! Lord, wasn't I bad! There'ssomething in my brain so fed up with the stuff that my body won't giveit house-room. "

"Good thing too, " said Marcella. 

"I'm not so sure, " he said reflectively. "In a way, it's weak. Whiskystill beats me, you see. There ought not to be anything on earth one'safraid of. "

"I think that's a bit morbid. I'm very much afraid of snails, and Icertainly don't think I'm called upon to go and caress snails. "

"Ah, this is different. This isn't physical. It's psychological. Justas, once, I hungered for whisky, now I loathe and dread it. The idealthing would be to be indifferent to it. That may come in time. "

Marcella asked him nothing about herself. What the doctors had told himshe did not know: she was content to wait. All she wanted, now, was toget home. 

They stayed a week in London with Louis's people. It was pathetic to seethe mother's wistful anxiety and the father's open scepticism change toconfidence as the week went by. 

"He's a changeling, my dear, " said Mrs. Fame to Marcella when, in spiteof the old lady's wish to keep them in London, they told her they mustgo North. 

"Louis has always been a puzzle to me, " said his father. "Even as alittle chap he did things I couldn't understand--selfish things, crooked things--I don't understand what has happened to him. "

"If I told you you would think General Booth had been getting at me, "said Marcella. "But Louis will explain it all to you, some day. "

From the slowly dawning pride on the father's face and the pathetichope of the mother Marcella guessed that Louis would not have to raisehis fees on the music-halls. 

The winds were black and wintry already round the station at Carlossieas the train drew in. Marcella had wired that she was coming, giving noexplanations. Andrew had been very fidgety. He was wearing his firstsmall suit and what he gained in dignity from knickers and three pocketshe lost in comfort. At last he fell asleep. Marcella looked from him toLouis and felt that it was very childish of her, but she was reallyanxious to get them both home, put them on exhibition, as it were. Shehad never got over the feeling that Andrew had not merely happened, butwas a voluntary achievement. Lately she had had the same idea aboutLouis. She wanted to see the effect of them both upon the people athome. 

The station at Carlossie was just the same: it looked much smaller, andthe people, too, seemed smaller. Dr. Angus was there in his Invernesscape, smiling with the same air of conscious achievement as Marcellafelt. 

"So ye're back again, Mrs. Marcella? I knew we'd be getting ye backsoon. And bringing two men with ye!"

He shook hands gravely with Andrew and gave Louis a swift, appraisinglook that seemed to satisfy him. 

"Your aunt's getting a wee bit frail, Mrs. Marcella! So I brought theold machine along. "

They climbed into the machine--his old, high dog-cart, and drove alongthrough tearing winds which were like the greeting embraces of friendsto Marcella. The doctor told her all the news; all about the new babies, and the few deaths and illnesses while she had been away. The dashing ofthe water on the beach came to them. He told her that Jock had beenwashed from his little boat one rough night, and his body had never beenfound. The reek of the green wood fires came to them on the salt breeze. 

"What's that remind you of, Louis?" she asked him. 

"Gorse!" he said with a grimace. 

"I love it!" she said simply. 

The door of Wullie's hut stood open. He was silhouetted dark against thelight within. The doctor drew up. 

"Must stop and speak to Wullie, " he said rather apologetically, toLouis. The old man came out and stood looking at Marcella. He did notseem a day older. 

"So ye're back again, Marcella?" he said. "I knew ye'd be back! I knewye'd soon wear the wings off yer feet! But ye're not well?"

"How could I be, away from home?" she said gently. "I'll be well againhere. "

Tammas came up then, with his wife and the six big children Marcellaknew, and two littler ones she had never seen. Jock's Bessie came outand put a small bundle on the floor of the machine. 

"Juist a cookie for the bit laddie, " she explained. 

They all stared at Louis and then spoke to him: he got the idea thatthey were sizing him up, calling him to account for how he had dealtwith Marcella, who belonged to them. They claimed young Andrew whom theycoolly called "Andrew Lashcairn. " As they drove on through the villagethey took on something of the nature of a triumphal progress, foreveryone came out, and talked. And everyone seemed to be Marcella'sowners. 

Aunt Janet was on the step when they reached the farm: her eagle facewas thinner, quite fleshless; in her black silk frock, shivered at theseams, and the great cairngorm brooch, she looked quite terrifying. 

"So you're back, Marcella? I knew you would be coming back, " she said. 

Louis wondered if this were the stock greeting at Lashnagar. 

"I wonder what you've got for going across the world?" she said. "You'renot well. "

"I've got my two men, " laughed Marcella, as she kissed the old lady. 

"Humphm!" said Aunt Janet. "He'd have found you out if you'd stayed hereall the time. "

"Do you know, Marcella, " said Louis, as they went along the windypassages to her father's room in which Aunt Janet had elected to putthem. "I've an extraordinary feeling that I've nothing to do with youany more. All these people--they seem to own you! You're an elusiveyoung beggar, you know. First Kraill--I had to ask his permission tokeep you. Now a whole village full!"

She shook her head and put her hand in his. 

"Who's got me most, do you think?"

He answered as he thought. 

There was a great spurting wood fire on the hearth in the book-room. Asshe looked round Marcella saw that most of the furniture left in thefarm had been brought in. Jean came in, carrying a dish of scones. Andrew ran straight to her, just as Marcella used to. She explained thatshe had come back because the mistress was lonely without her, and shecould not get used to any ways but those of the farm. 

The doctor stayed to the meal. There was no bread on the table. Louisseemed surprised to see the oatcakes and the cheese and the herrings. ToMarcella they were a feast of heaven. They put young Andrew in oldAndrew's chair beneath the dusty pennant. He sat with his fat brown legsswinging, exceedingly conscious of their manly appearance which hecompared with his father's and the doctor's, delighted to see that thedoctor's old tweed knickerbockers were very much the same shape as his. 

"There's bramble jelly for the boy, " said Aunt Janet, who scarcely tookher eyes from him for a moment. "Mrs. Mactavish sends me some everyyear--one pot. There's been four pots since you went away. And I'venever been minded to open one. Maybe it's mouldered now. "

They talked quietly; out on Lashnagar the winds began to howl; in thepassages they shrieked and whined, and whistled and groaned in thechimney sending out little puffs of smoke. Up above their headssomething scuttled swiftly. The little boy forgot his dignity and drewnearer to his mother. 

"That's the rats, Andrew, " said Aunt Janet, watching him. His motherexplained that rats were a pest, to be hunted out like rabbits inAustralia. 

He drew away from her then and stood with his back to the fire, hishands behind. 

"Andwew kill wats, " he announced. "Wiv a big stick. "

The doctor and Louis smoked and talked together of days forty years agoin Edinburgh, of days seven years ago at St. Crispin's. Marcella andAunt Janet spoke softly, sitting by the fire. 

"I wouldn't be sitting so near the fire, Marcella. You'll have all thecolour taken out of your skirt. Not that it matters particularly, " saidAunt Janet. 

"It's lovely by the fire, " murmured Marcella. 

Aunt Janet reached over suddenly and spread an old plaid shawl over thegirl's knees. She suddenly felt that Louis and Andrew and the last fouryears were unreal and dreamlike. They had happened to her, but now shewas back home again, being told what to do. 

Andrew began to rub his eyes. 

"Yell be getting away to your bed now, Andrew, " said Aunt Janet. 

Jean stood up, waiting for him. He hugged his father and mother, shookhands with the doctor and looked searchingly at Aunt Janet before hekissed her. She put her hand behind the curtain, rustled a piece ofpaper and gave him an acid drop. 

"I used tae pit Marcella, yer mither, tae her bed when she was a weething, " said Jean, taking his small brown hand. He put the sweet intohis mouth and trotted off beside her. At the door he stopped to kiss hishand to his mother. The rats scuttled across the floor above; one in thewainscoting scratched and gnawed. Andrew hesitated and came back a fewsteps. They were all watching him. 

"Mummy!" he began in a very thin little voice. Marcella started as if togo to him, and sat back suddenly. 

"Andwew will kill wats--wiv a big stick, " he said, and marched out ofthe room before Jean. 

Before a week had gone by it seemed to Marcella that she had never beenaway from Lashnagar. The place wrapped her round, took possession ofher. She took Louis down to the huts to see Wullie; she toasted herringsover the fire, and Louis was unexpectedly friendly; the only differencewas that Jock was not there any more when the fishing boats came in; andwhere she had left girls and boys she found young men and women andlittle babies: they grew up quickly on the hillside. Louis went with heron Ben Grief and saw the old grey house. He wandered on Lashnagar andlooked down the terrifying chasms, and heard the screaming of the gulls;and he was unutterably wretched and out of it all. 

On Lashnagar he said to her, one day:

"Marcella, it ought to be made compulsory for people, before they thinkof being married, to find out all about each other's youth. "

"Like that poem of poor Lamb's?" she said. "Oh thou dearer than abrother! Why wast thou not born within my father's dwelling? So might wetalk of the old familiar faces--Yes, I believe there's a lot in it. "

"Since I've been here and seen things, I've understood you better. Seeing your home, and mine, and thinking how we were the products ofthose homes! I'm glad young Andrew is here, till it's time for him to goto school. I see where you get your friendliness that used to shock me, and your hardness. I'd like him to get it all. "

"I was hoping to protect him from it, " she said. "But I know you'reright, really, " she said slowly. 

That was the day before he went south to Edinburgh to join the hospital. His mother wanted him in London, and his father wrote saying that hisold room was ready for him. But Louis told them that Marcella must be atLashnagar, and Edinburgh was nearer Lashnagar than London was. Dr. Angusfelt personally responsible for the resources of Edinburgh when he heardthe news and once again he made a pilgrimage, taking Louis to his oldrooms in Montague Street, and doing the honours of the city with aproprietorial air. He took to running down to Edinburgh quitefrequently; he said he was brushing up his knowledge. 

The winter passed; Louis spent Christmas at Lashnagar and then tookMarcella and the boy to London. Marcella was feeling very ill, but hewas too happy and too full of his work to notice it. She was very gladto get back again, to sleep in her father's old four-poster bed lookingout on Ben Grief. When he had gone back to Edinburgh she spent manywakeful nights, drawn in upon herself, thinking herself to nothingnesslike a Buddhist monk until pain brought her to realization again. Inthose hours she thought much of her father and heard his voice in herears, saw him standing there before her, clinging to the post as heprayed for strength. Louis wrote her immense letters: sometimes in thenight she would light her candle and read them with tears blinding hereyes and an unspeaking gratitude in her heart. She said nothing to AuntJanet about her illness in Sydney, or about her pain, but one eveningthe old lady, looking across the firelit hearth, said quietly:

"I shall outlive you, Marcella. Seems foolish! You--young, all tinglingfor life and joy, and people to care about you. I like a last year'sleaf before the wind, dried and dead. The one shall be taken and theother left. It seems foolish. "

"How did you know? Did Louis tell you?" asked Marcella in a low voice. The pain had been unbearable all day but she had wrapt herself in agreat cape of her father's and taken it out on Lashnagar, where no onecould see her, leaving Andrew at the hut with Wullie. For a long timeshe had lost consciousness, to waken very cold in the winter dusk. 

"No, Louis said nothing. But I've eyes. You're marked for death. I sawit when you came in at the door that night. Besides, you and I are verymuch alike, so I understand you. And you're getting very much like yourmother. "

"I think I'll see Dr. Angus to-morrow, " said Marcella presently. "But Idon't think it's much use. That's the worst of being married to anenthusiastic medical student! You know so much!"

The wood crackled for a while before Aunt Janet spoke. 

"We are getting wiped out, Marcella! Only an old stick like me, who hasrepressed everything, lives to tell the tale. I've ruled myself never tofeel anything. "

"I'm glad I haven't. I'd rather be smashed up with pain than be dead. You see, Aunt Janet, you repressed things and I took them out and walkedover them. "

"Maybe I would if I had my time to go over again. But I don't know. It'sa blessing not to feel. I'm fond of you, you know, but I scarcely feltyour going away. And I don't suppose I shall feel your dying very much. "

"You care about Andrew, " said Marcella quickly. 

"Yes, I care about Andrew, " said Aunt Janet and gathered herself intothe past. 

The next day Marcella went to see Dr. Angus who was horrified andincredulous, and wired for a specialist from Edinburgh. Marcella knew itwas all useless, and when the specialist went away after talking to Dr. Angus, without saying anything more about operations, she felt veryglad. 

Louis suspected nothing; he was working very hard for his firstexamination the week before Easter and she would not have him worried;she wrote to him every day, though writing grew more and more difficult. She fought desperately against being an invalid and staying in bed, butat last she had to give way; Dr. Angus came every day and talked to herfor hours; sometimes he gave her morphia; once or twice when the painhad stranded her almost unbreathing on a shore of numbness andexhaustion she wished that she had died in the hospital in Sydney: butnot for long; in spite of the pain she wanted to live. Once or twice, when all was quiet, and the pain was having its night-time orgy withher, she cried out in the unbearable agony of it. She would have no onewith her at nights, but Aunt Janet's uncanny penetration guessed at thepain and she made Dr. Angus leave morphia tablets for her. At first, though they were at her hand, she refused them. 

"I don't want to waste time in unconsciousness, " she said once. Later, she grew glad to waste time: she understood how her father used to prayfor drugs when he was too tired to pray for courage in those wearynights of his. Another time she said that it was cowardly: Louis, in hiswhisky days, had been seeking anesthesia from painful thoughts; she wastoo proud to seek it for a painful body. She tried hard, too, to keepshining Kraill's conception of her courage; she did not realize that hewould never know, however much she gave way: always, for her, he livedjust on the threshold of her consciousness. 

One day when the doctor was sitting beside her and she had got out of amaze of pain into a buoyant sea of bodily unconsciousness, she talked tohim about his letter in which he had grieved at his inadequacy. Thenshe told him about Louis, and about Kraill, for she thought it mightencourage him to know how the miracle of healing had come about. 

"He wrote to me this morning, doctor, " she said. "Will you feel under mypillow and get the letter? I know he wouldn't mind your reading it. "

The doctor unfolded the thick bundle of pages and read--and as he readhe saw that the words were all blurred by tears, and guessed that theywere certainly not tears shed by the exuberant young man who had writtenthe letter. 

"Three cheers, old girl. The week of torture is past! I know I gotthrough. I simply sailed through. My brain is a fifty times bettermachine than it was seven years ago. And they're accommodating at theseScotch medical schools. I told 'em I'd got through part of my Final inLondon before the bust-up came, and the Dean sent for me to-day and saidit seemed a pity for me to slog at the donkey-work again, when I knewit. So we talked it over, and he says I ought to do the Final next year. And then, Marcella, look out! I've told you I've laid down my challengeto sickness! I'll have it whacked before I die. I can't see why anyoneshould die except of senile decay or accident--and those we'll eliminatein time! I feel that there's only a dyke of matchboarding between me andthe ocean of knowledge. One day it's going to break, and I'll be floodedwith it. It's a most uncanny feeling, old girl. One of the chaps here--arather mad American--says that there are people who've broken that dykedown--Shakespeare, for instance. (But if I broke it down, I wouldn't besuch a footler as to write plays and poems, would you?) Corlyon--that'sthe mad American--is the son of a big psychologist at Harvard; he gaveme some light on Kraill's remark about dreams that day. He says they'rebeing used a lot by some German and American alienists in curing allsorts of neuroses. (By the way, old girl, next time you write, tell meif you understand all these technicalities. I want you to understandthem, and if you don't I'll explain as I go on. One never can be sureabout you. Sometimes you seem no end of a duffer, and next minute youcome out with an amazing piece of penetration. ) Well, these newpsychologists say that things like drinking, sex, drugging, kleptomania, and all these bally nuisances that make people impossible members of acommunity, come from repression. A man has a perfectly well-meaningimpulse to do something. His education, or his religion or hisconvention tells him it's wrong, so he represses it. He fights it, pushes it back. It gets encysted and, in time, forms a spiritualabscess. It's got to break through. Of course, the idea is not torepress things at all. I don't say let things rip, and go in for a wholeglorious orgy of wine, woman and song. But take the desire out, have atalk with it, and make it look silly like Kraill made whisky look sillyto me. There, I thought that would interest you. (A bit more proof howdamnably clever he was!)

"Marcella, I told you then I'd be the same to you as Kraill was, didn'tI? I worshipped you; I wanted you; you were my saviour, and I'd havepicked up the Great Pyramid and walked off staggering with it if you'dasked me. That was the path that carried me over my particular messymorass (that, and my acquisitive spirit that objected to giving up partof my goods and chattels!) And now--listen here, old lady! It's a thinga chap couldn't say to most of his wives. I can say it to you and knowthat you'll understand. (That's the heavenly safeness of you. You dounderstand, and never judge resentfully) Marcella, I'm going to be thesort of man Kraill is! And I'm going to be it not for you at all now!I'm going to be bigger than he, even. And I know he'll be big enough tobe glad if I am. A good doctor's reward is in his patient's recovery, and in a way, whatever the patient does afterwards counts to the doctor, doesn't it? So now, old girl, if there was no you on earth, I'd stillkeep my tail up! Put that in your pipe of peace and smoke it! Differentdays, isn't it to the time when I couldn't be sent to buy a baby'sfeeding-bottle without getting boozed? I knew you'd like to know that. Oh, wasn't I a fool to think you wanted to tie me to your apron strings?I've got to neglect you for a bit now. I've got to run on without you, dear. Thank God you're not the sort to get huffy about it, and want medancing attendance on you. A man with a man's job to do can't have timefor the softness of women about him: he can't stop to look to right orleft! But when I'm in Harley Street--well there! No more decayed castlesor wooden huts for you!

"I'm aching to see you, Marcella. It's the Mater's birthday on EasterSunday, so I'm running down to see her on Saturday. I shall travel backby that train that leaves Euston at midnight on Sunday. It's great to beaway from you, because it's so great to come back. "

The doctor looked at her as he put the letter down, and blew his noseand polished his glasses. 

"Two or three years ago I'd have been sick to think I was only thebridge to carry him over--to his job. But now--" She smiled a little, wondering why he should talk to her of the softness of women, that hemust dispense with for a while; and Kraill had seen her hard, and askedher to be courageous for him!

After the doctor had gone Andrew came in, warm and rosy from his bath. He had had a glorious day on the beach with Wullie; he scrambled intoJean's arms to be carried to bed, because they had forgotten hisslippers and his feet were cold. 

"Night, night, mummy, " he said. "Inve morning I shan't wake you up, 'cosI'm going to see the boats come in at five! An' Jean's putting oatcakein my pocket--like a man--!"

He went off, laughing. After he was in bed, she heard him singing for along time until his voice droned away to drowsiness. 

She lay silent and motionless. Aunt Janet came in. She took up thehypodermic syringe impassively. Marcella shook her head. 

"No. I want to think to-night. Louis's coming on Monday. I've to thinkof some way of not letting him know how ill I am, because of his work, "she said. "But will you put pencil and paper where I can get it?"

"You'll not be writing letters to-night, Marcella?" said Aunt Janet. 

"No. I'm going to make my will, " she laughed. "I've only Louis andAndrew to leave--"

Her aunt kissed her and turned away. Through the open window came thesoft roar of the sea. It was very still to-night; the moon shone acrossit, but that she could not see: she had seen it so often that it wasthere in her imagination. On Ben Grief the shadows lay inky in thesilver light. She looked at the syringe, and then at the tabloids, andsighed a little; the pain was a thing tearing and burning; several timesshe tried to begin to write and had to lie back with closed eyesfloating away on a sea of horror. Several times her hand quiveredtowards the tabloids and came back to the pencil. The shadows seemed tojostle each other about the room. Kraill's eyes shone out of them for aninstant, blue and impelling. She got a grip on herself and wrote, a wordat a time, making each letter with proud precision:

 * * * * *

DEAR PROFESSOR KRAILL, I am sending you a letter I had from my husband to-day. Have youforgotten us, and that wonderful thing you did out in the Bush? You toldme then that you liked to interfere in other people's business, but thatthey didn't always take the interfering nicely. I want you to know whatyour interfering has meant to us. 

You will gather from Louis's letter what you meant to him. It is moredifficult to explain what you meant to me. Can you understand if I sayyou've been a constant goad to me? It would have been easier for me if Ihad never seen you, because you have been the censor of my spirit eversince. After you went away I was blazing with misery. I hadn't got sofar as you, you see. I was passionately wishing that I'd known you whenyou were more on my level. And I saw that you had had a vision of methat was very much better than I shall ever be now. As Oliver WendellHolmes wrote, there are three Marcellas--the one Marcella herself knows, the one the people round about know, and the one God knows. That was theone you saw for a minute and, not to disappoint you, I've had to live upto it. It hasn't been easy. As you will see from his letter, even Louisdoesn't need me now. And as for my boy--I know now, that though beastsclaw at his life and colds and hungers and desolations come to him, theycannot put out the shine of him. But for me it has been very lonely. Iwanted to be the thing of soft corners and seduction that you weresickened of. I had to rip myself to bits and make myself the ratherrarefied sort of thing you demanded. I didn't dare not to be brave, because you were so much enthroned in my life that every thought was adeliberate homage to you. I might have got considerably happy, and foundmany thrills out of thinking about you softly, imagining kisses, adventures, perhaps. Many women would, and I'm sure many men. I couldn'tdo that because it would have made you less shining, though more dear inmy mind. And when I tell you that almost ever since you went away I havebeen very ill, much of the time in horrible pain, you will see that yougave me something to live up to when you said you needed my courage. There's a fight going on all the time between my spirit and my body. Sometimes, when the pain has been appalling, I have thought I wouldwrite to you and ask you to release me from being brave. But I did notwant to seem to you a tortured thing--Sometimes, too, I havedeliberately pushed the morphia on one side and stuck it out. It was oneway of getting my own back on this bundle of nerves and sensations thathas played such havoc with me and that, as you scornfully told me, hasonce or twice cheapened me to an unworthy pleasure--'like a queen goingon the streets. ' I've been damned, damned, by this overlordship of thebody. Now I'm going to get rid of it, and even now I don't want to! Iknow now I am dying, and there is morphia here under my hand. But I'llbe damned in pain rather than be beaten by it! I won't die a cow'sdeath, as the old Norsemen used to call it! I'll fight every inch of theway. --But I wish Aunt Janet would come in and jab the needle in me, forcibly. That would be quite honourable, wouldn't it?

 * * * * *

The candle began to flicker and, turning, she saw that it was spendingits last dying flame. It was impossible to write. She lay still, watching the glimmering dark square of the window. She could not seeanother candle there. All she could see was the little phial oftabloids. But she lay back and let the pain fasten on her. The blazingneedles that were piercing her, the blazing hammers that were batteringher, gathered in fury and for a few merciful hours she lostconsciousness. 

When she wakened again the pain had completely gone and the first faintcool light was struggling through the mists on Ben Grief. She gropedabout the counterpane and found her pencil, and went on writing. Thistime the letters were not so proudly neat. Many of them were shaky andspindlelegged and she knew it. 

 * * * * *

The candle went out, then. Some hours have passed, and with them thepain. A very beautiful thing has come to me;--the peace that passethall understanding until you've lost your body. I understand now, verywell. Our lives are just God's pathway, and we get in His way and haveto be hurt before He can get along us. I was, unconsciously, His pathwayto Louis until you came along--and you were a smoother pathway than I. His feet have blazed along my life now, burning out all theroughnesses--crushing me down. It's been a heavy weight to carry--theburden of salvation. It is such a heavy weight that one can't carryanything else. I tried to carry myself, and prides and hungers and lovefor you. All of them had to be blazed out. --No--not the love. That couldnot go. That and the courage will go on; pity perhaps will go, for onlyour bodies are pitiful. But the love is deathless. God's banner over mewas love. I think I've read that somewhere His footmarks over my lifewere love. I've not read that. I had to find it out--slowly, hungrily, painfully, strivingly, because I've always been such a fool. But justthis minute I've seen that I've been God's Fool--and God is Love. 

 * * * * *

The sun came up behind the pines on Ben Grief, golden and silver in theApril morning. Very faintly came the voices of the fishermen; in thenext room she heard small, busy sounds; two faint falls made her smile. Andrew had mechanically put on his shoes, thought better of it andkicked them off again. She heard him creep along the landing to her doorand listen. When she tried to call him to come and kiss her she foundthat her voice had died. She heard him say, quietly:

"Mummy's fast asleep, " and smiled again as she felt that he was runningthrough the unbarred door shrieking and laughing in the delight of thesoft air, the dancing sea, the kindly sun. She knew that he had notwashed his face, and worried a little about it, and then smiled again. 

His voice grew fainter. She tried to lift her hand to fold her letter. It felt as though it were miles away from her, and too heavy to move. 

"Why, I'm dying now, " she thought, and was surprised to find it such anordinary, unvolitional thing to do. It was very good to do somethingunvolitional, very restful. --Little snappings sounded in her ears, anddistant crashings and thunders as of a storm perceived by a deaf man whocan see and understand without hearing. 

She thought very clearly of Death for a moment, and then of God. She hadoften thought of Death and of God, and was surprised to find that shehad been wrong about both. 

"I thought--He never gave you--anesthetics--" she told herself. "Why, that's what death is--"

Then came the clear vision of God--not the Great Being with devastatingfeet at all: He seemed to be like the surgeon in Sydney, for a moment, very sure of His work, very strong, very much stronger and wiser thanshe was. It was no use at all to fight a thing so wise and strong andtender--

At that moment, as this most beautiful, most kindly thing came to her, she wanted to tell Kraill about it, so that he should be filled with thebeauty of it without having to come to death to find it out. The pencilwas in her hand, resting on the page. Her brain willed her fingers toconquer their heaviness, their farawayness, and write:

"God seems like you when you told me I needn't be frightened about Louisany more--"

The crashings in her ears grew fainter. More light came. 

"No. He is more than that. He is the sun that is shining and the softnoise that is coming up from the sea--and Andrew's laughing--No--thosewere only His robes that I was looking at!--God is the courage youloved--God is the courage; His clothes are loving-kindness--"

In that moment that the structure of her life fell inwards she saw stillmore. 

"I know now that I need not regret all these greeds and hungers andprides of mine that have been unfulfilled. They have been burned out bythe courage and the loving-kindness--"

The pencil rolled on to the floor; what her spirit had willed to tellhim her fingers had made a weak scrawl of straggling, futile marks.