THE LONGEST JOURNEY

By E. M. Forster

PART 1 -- CAMBRIDGE

I

"The cow is there, " said Ansell, lighting a match and holding it outover the carpet. No one spoke. He waited till the end of the match felloff. Then he said again, "She is there, the cow. There, now. "

"You have not proved it, " said a voice. 

"I have proved it to myself. "

"I have proved to myself that she isn't, " said the voice. "The cow isnot there. " Ansell frowned and lit another match. 

"She's there for me, " he declared. "I don't care whether she's there foryou or not. Whether I'm in Cambridge or Iceland or dead, the cow will bethere. "

It was philosophy. They were discussing the existence of objects. Dothey exist only when there is some one to look at them? Or have they areal existence of their own? It is all very interesting, but at the sametime it is difficult. Hence the cow. She seemed to make thingseasier. She was so familiar, so solid, that surely the truths that sheillustrated would in time become familiar and solid also. Is the cowthere or not? This was better than deciding between objectivity andsubjectivity. So at Oxford, just at the same time, one was asking, "Whatdo our rooms look like in the vac. ?"

"Look here, Ansell. I'm there--in the meadow--the cow's there. You'rethere--the cow's there. Do you agree so far?" "Well?"

"Well, if you go, the cow stops; but if I go, the cow goes. Then whatwill happen if you stop and I go?"

Several voices cried out that this was quibbling. 

"I know it is, " said the speaker brightly, and silence descended again, while they tried honestly to think the matter out. 

Rickie, on whose carpet the matches were being dropped, did not like tojoin in the discussion. It was too difficult for him. He could not evenquibble. If he spoke, he should simply make himself a fool. He preferredto listen, and to watch the tobacco-smoke stealing out past thewindow-seat into the tranquil October air. He could see the court too, and the college cat teasing the college tortoise, and the kitchen-menwith supper-trays upon their heads. Hot food for one--that must be forthe geographical don, who never came in for Hall; cold food for three, apparently at half-a-crown a head, for some one he did not know; hotfood, a la carte--obviously for the ladies haunting the next staircase;cold food for two, at two shillings--going to Ansell's rooms for himselfand Ansell, and as it passed under the lamp he saw that it was meringuesagain. Then the bedmakers began to arrive, chatting to each otherpleasantly, and he could hear Ansell's bedmaker say, "Oh dang!" whenshe found she had to lay Ansell's tablecloth; for there was not a breathstirring. The great elms were motionless, and seemed still in the gloryof midsummer, for the darkness hid the yellow blotches on their leaves, and their outlines were still rounded against the tender sky. Those elmswere Dryads--so Rickie believed or pretended, and the line between thetwo is subtler than we admit. At all events they were lady trees, andhad for generations fooled the college statutes by their residence inthe haunts of youth. 

But what about the cow? He returned to her with a start, for this wouldnever do. He also would try to think the matter out. Was she there ornot? The cow. There or not. He strained his eyes into the night. 

Either way it was attractive. If she was there, other cows were theretoo. The darkness of Europe was dotted with them, and in the far Easttheir flanks were shining in the rising sun. Great herds of them stoodbrowsing in pastures where no man came nor need ever come, or plashedknee-deep by the brink of impassable rivers. And this, moreover, was theview of Ansell. Yet Tilliard's view had a good deal in it. One might doworse than follow Tilliard, and suppose the cow not to be there unlessoneself was there to see her. A cowless world, then, stretched roundhim on every side. Yet he had only to peep into a field, and, click! itwould at once become radiant with bovine life. 

Suddenly he realized that this, again, would never do. As usual, he hadmissed the whole point, and was overlaying philosophy with gross andsenseless details. For if the cow was not there, the world and thefields were not there either. And what would Ansell care about sunlitflanks or impassable streams? Rickie rebuked his own groveling soul, andturned his eyes away from the night, which had led him to such absurdconclusions. 

The fire was dancing, and the shadow of Ansell, who stood close up toit, seemed to dominate the little room. He was still talking, or ratherjerking, and he was still lighting matches and dropping their ends uponthe carpet. Now and then he would make a motion with his feet as if hewere running quickly backward upstairs, and would tread on the edgeof the fender, so that the fire-irons went flying and the buttered-bundishes crashed against each other in the hearth. The other philosopherswere crouched in odd shapes on the sofa and table and chairs, and one, who was a little bored, had crawled to the piano and was timidly tryingthe Prelude to Rhinegold with his knee upon the soft pedal. The air washeavy with good tobacco-smoke and the pleasant warmth of tea, and asRickie became more sleepy the events of the day seemed to float one byone before his acquiescent eyes. In the morning he had read Theocritus, whom he believed to be the greatest of Greek poets; he had lunched witha merry don and had tasted Zwieback biscuits; then he had walked withpeople he liked, and had walked just long enough; and now his room wasfull of other people whom he liked, and when they left he would go andhave supper with Ansell, whom he liked as well as any one. A year agohe had known none of these joys. He had crept cold and friendlessand ignorant out of a great public school, preparing for a silent andsolitary journey, and praying as a highest favour that he might be leftalone. Cambridge had not answered his prayer. She had taken and soothedhim, and warmed him, and had laughed at him a little, saying that hemust not be so tragic yet awhile, for his boyhood had been but a dustycorridor that led to the spacious halls of youth. In one year he hadmade many friends and learnt much, and he might learn even more if hecould but concentrate his attention on that cow. 

The fire had died down, and in the gloom the man by the piano venturedto ask what would happen if an objective cow had a subjective calf. Ansell gave an angry sigh, and at that moment there was a tap on thedoor. 

"Come in!" said Rickie. 

The door opened. A tall young woman stood framed in the light that fellfrom the passage. 

"Ladies!" whispered every-one in great agitation. 

"Yes?" he said nervously, limping towards the door (he was rather lame). "Yes? Please come in. Can I be any good--"

"Wicked boy!" exclaimed the young lady, advancing a gloved finger intothe room. "Wicked, wicked boy!"

He clasped his head with his hands. 

"Agnes! Oh how perfectly awful!"

"Wicked, intolerable boy!" She turned on the electric light. Thephilosophers were revealed with unpleasing suddenness. "My goodness, a tea-party! Oh really, Rickie, you are too bad! I say again: wicked, abominable, intolerable boy! I'll have you horsewhipped. If youplease"--she turned to the symposium, which had now risen to its feet"If you please, he asks me and my brother for the week-end. Weaccept. At the station, no Rickie. We drive to where his old lodgingswere--Trumpery Road or some such name--and he's left them. I'm furious, and before I can stop my brother, he's paid off the cab and there we arestranded. I've walked--walked for miles. Pray can you tell me what is tobe done with Rickie?"

"He must indeed be horsewhipped, " said Tilliard pleasantly. Then he madea bolt for the door. 

"Tilliard--do stop--let me introduce Miss Pembroke--don't all go!" Forhis friends were flying from his visitor like mists before the sun. "Oh, Agnes, I am so sorry; I've nothing to say. I simply forgot you werecoming, and everything about you. "

"Thank you, thank you! And how soon will you remember to ask whereHerbert is?"

"Where is he, then?"

"I shall not tell you. "

"But didn't he walk with you?"

"I shall not tell, Rickie. It's part of your punishment. You are notreally sorry yet. I shall punish you again later. "

She was quite right. Rickie was not as much upset as he ought to havebeen. He was sorry that he had forgotten, and that he had caused hisvisitors inconvenience. But he did not feel profoundly degraded, as ayoung man should who has acted discourteously to a young lady. Had heacted discourteously to his bedmaker or his gyp, he would have mindedjust as much, which was not polite of him. 

"First, I'll go and get food. Do sit down and rest. Oh, let meintroduce--"

Ansell was now the sole remnant of the discussion party. He still stoodon the hearthrug with a burnt match in his hand. Miss Pembroke's arrivalhad never disturbed him. 

"Let me introduce Mr. Ansell--Miss Pembroke. "

There came an awful moment--a moment when he almost regretted thathe had a clever friend. Ansell remained absolutely motionless, movingneither hand nor head. Such behaviour is so unknown that Miss Pembrokedid not realize what had happened, and kept her own hand stretched outlonger than is maidenly. 

"Coming to supper?" asked Ansell in low, grave tones. 

"I don't think so, " said Rickie helplessly. 

Ansell departed without another word. 

"Don't mind us, " said Miss Pembroke pleasantly. "Why shouldn't you keepyour engagement with your friend? Herbert's finding lodgings, --that'swhy he's not here, --and they're sure to be able to give us some dinner. What jolly rooms you've got!"

"Oh no--not a bit. I say, I am sorry. I am sorry. I am most awfullysorry. "

"What about?"

"Ansell" Then he burst forth. "Ansell isn't a gentleman. His father's adraper. His uncles are farmers. He's here because he's so clever--juston account of his brains. Now, sit down. He isn't a gentleman at all. "And he hurried off to order some dinner. 

"What a snob the boy is getting!" thought Agnes, a good deal mollified. It never struck her that those could be the words of affection--thatRickie would never have spoken them about a person whom he disliked. Nor did it strike her that Ansell's humble birth scarcely explainedthe quality of his rudeness. She was willing to find life full oftrivialities. Six months ago and she might have minded; but now--shecared not what men might do unto her, for she had her own splendidlover, who could have knocked all these unhealthy undergraduates intoa cocked-hat. She dared not tell Gerald a word of what had happened: hemight have come up from wherever he was and half killed Ansell. And shedetermined not to tell her brother either, for her nature was kindly, and it pleased her to pass things over. 

She took off her gloves, and then she took off her ear-rings and beganto admire them. These ear-rings were a freak of hers--her only freak. She had always wanted some, and the day Gerald asked her to marry himshe went to a shop and had her ears pierced. In some wonderful way sheknew that it was right. And he had given her the rings--little goldknobs, copied, the jeweller told them, from something prehistoric andhe had kissed the spots of blood on her handkerchief. Herbert, as usual, had been shocked. 

"I can't help it, " she cried, springing up. "I'm not like other girls. "She began to pace about Rickie's room, for she hated to keep quiet. There was nothing much to see in it. The pictures were not attractive, nor did they attract her--school groups, Watts' "Sir Percival, " adog running after a rabbit, a man running after a maid, a cheap brownMadonna in a cheap green frame--in short, a collection where onemediocrity was generally cancelled by another. Over the door there hunga long photograph of a city with waterways, which Agnes, who had neverbeen to Venice, took to be Venice, but which people who had been toStockholm knew to be Stockholm. Rickie's mother, looking rather sweet, was standing on the mantelpiece. Some more pictures had just arrivedfrom the framers and were leaning with their faces to the wall, but shedid not bother to turn them round. On the table were dirty teacups, aflat chocolate cake, and Omar Khayyam, with an Oswego biscuit betweenhis pages. Also a vase filled with the crimson leaves of autumn. Thismade her smile. 

Then she saw her host's shoes: he had left them lying on the sofa. Rickie was slightly deformed, and so the shoes were not the same size, and one of them had a thick heel to help him towards an even walk. "Ugh!" she exclaimed, and removed them gingerly to the bedroom. Thereshe saw other shoes and boots and pumps, a whole row of them, alldeformed. "Ugh! Poor boy! It is too bad. Why shouldn't he be like otherpeople? This hereditary business is too awful. " She shut the door witha sigh. Then she recalled the perfect form of Gerald, his athletic walk, the poise of his shoulders, his arms stretched forward to receive her. Gradually she was comforted. 

"I beg your pardon, miss, but might I ask how many to lay?" It was thebedmaker, Mrs. Aberdeen. 

"Three, I think, " said Agnes, smiling pleasantly. "Mr. Elliot'll be backin a minute. He has gone to order dinner. 

"Thank you, miss. "

"Plenty of teacups to wash up!"

"But teacups is easy washing, particularly Mr. Elliot's. "

"Why are his so easy?"

"Because no nasty corners in them to hold the dirt. Mr. Anderson--he'sbelow-has crinkly noctagons, and one wouldn't believe the difference. It was I bought these for Mr. Elliot. His one thought is to save onetrouble. I never seed such a thoughtful gentleman. The world, I say, will be the better for him. " She took the teacups into the gyp room, andthen returned with the tablecloth, and added, "if he's spared. "

"I'm afraid he isn't strong, " said Agnes. 

"Oh, miss, his nose! I don't know what he'd say if he knew I mentionedhis nose, but really I must speak to someone, and he has neither fathernor mother. His nose! It poured twice with blood in the Long. "

"Yes?"

"It's a thing that ought to be known. I assure you, that little room!. .. And in any case, Mr. Elliot's a gentleman that can ill afford to loseit. Luckily his friends were up; and I always say they're more likebrothers than anything else. "

"Nice for him. He has no real brothers. "

"Oh, Mr. Hornblower, he is a merry gentleman, and Mr. Tilliard too!And Mr. Elliot himself likes his romp at times. Why, it's the merrieststaircase in the buildings! Last night the bedmaker from W said tome, 'What are you doing to my gentlemen? Here's Mr. Ansell come back 'otwith his collar flopping. ' I said, 'And a good thing. ' Some bedders keeptheir gentlemen just so; but surely, miss, the world being what it is, the longer one is able to laugh in it the better. "

Bedmakers have to be comic and dishonest. It is expected of them. In apicture of university life it is their only function. So when we meetone who has the face of a lady, and feelings of which a lady might beproud, we pass her by. 

"Yes?" said Miss Pembroke, and then their talk was stopped by thearrival of her brother. 

"It is too bad!" he exclaimed. "It is really too bad. "

"Now, Bertie boy, Bertie boy! I'll have no peevishness. "

"I am not peevish, Agnes, but I have a full right to be. Pray, why didhe not meet us? Why did he not provide rooms? And pray, why did youleave me to do all the settling? All the lodgings I knew are full, andour bedrooms look into a mews. I cannot help it. And then--look here!It really is too bad. " He held up his foot like a wounded dog. It wasdripping with water. 

"Oho! This explains the peevishness. Off with it at once. It'll beanother of your colds. "

"I really think I had better. " He sat down by the fire and daintilyunlaced his boot. "I notice a great change in university tone. I cannever remember swaggering three abreast along the pavement and charginginoffensive visitors into a gutter when I was an undergraduate. One ofthe men, too, wore an Eton tie. But the others, I should say, came fromvery queer schools, if they came from any schools at all. "

Mr. Pembroke was nearly twenty years older than his sister, and hadnever been as handsome. But he was not at all the person to knock intoa gutter, for though not in orders, he had the air of being on the vergeof them, and his features, as well as his clothes, had the clericalcut. In his presence conversation became pure and colourless and fullof understatements, and--just as if he was a real clergyman--neithermen nor boys ever forgot that he was there. He had observed this, and itpleased him very much. His conscience permitted him to enter the Churchwhenever his profession, which was the scholastic, should demand it. 

"No gutter in the world's as wet as this, " said Agnes, who had peeledoff her brother's sock, and was now toasting it at the embers on a pairof tongs. 

"Surely you know the running water by the edge of the Trumpington road?It's turned on occasionally to clear away the refuse--a most primitiveidea. When I was up we had a joke about it, and called it the 'Pem. '"

"How complimentary!"

"You foolish girl, --not after me, of course. We called it the 'Pem'because it is close to Pembroke College. I remember--" He smiled alittle, and twiddled his toes. Then he remembered the bedmaker, andsaid, "My sock is now dry. My sock, please. "

"Your sock is sopping. No, you don't!" She twitched the tongs away fromhim. Mrs. Aberdeen, without speaking, fetched a pair of Rickie's socksand a pair of Rickie's shoes. 

"Thank you; ah, thank you. I am sure Mr. Elliot would allow it. "

Then he said in French to his sister, "Has there been the slightest signof Frederick?"

"Now, do call him Rickie, and talk English. I found him here. He hadforgotten about us, and was very sorry. Now he's gone to get somedinner, and I can't think why he isn't back. "

Mrs. Aberdeen left them. 

"He wants pulling up sharply. There is nothing original inabsent-mindedness. True originality lies elsewhere. Really, the lowerclasses have no nous. However can I wear such deformities?" For he hadbeen madly trying to cram a right-hand foot into a left-hand shoe. 

"Don't!" said Agnes hastily. "Don't touch the poor fellow's things. " Thesight of the smart, stubby patent leather made her almost feel faint. She had known Rickie for many years, but it seemed so dreadful and sodifferent now that he was a man. It was her first great contact with theabnormal, and unknown fibres of her being rose in revolt against it. Shefrowned when she heard his uneven tread upon the stairs. 

"Agnes--before he arrives--you ought never to have left me and goneto his rooms alone. A most elementary transgression. Imagine theunpleasantness if you had found him with friends. If Gerald--"

Rickie by now had got into a fluster. At the kitchens he had lost hishead, and when his turn came--he had had to wait--he had yielded hisplace to those behind, saying that he didn't matter. And he had wastedmore precious time buying bananas, though he knew that the Pembrokeswere not partial to fruit. Amid much tardy and chaotic hospitalitythe meal got under way. All the spoons and forks were anyhow, for Mrs. Aberdeen's virtues were not practical. The fish seemed never to havebeen alive, the meat had no kick, and the cork of the collegeclaret slid forth silently, as if ashamed of the contents. Agnes wasparticularly pleasant. But her brother could not recover himself. Hestill remembered their desolate arrival, and he could feel the waters ofthe Pem eating into his instep. 

"Rickie, " cried the lady, "are you aware that you haven't congratulatedme on my engagement?"

Rickie laughed nervously, and said, "Why no! No more I have. "

"Say something pretty, then. "

"I hope you'll be very happy, " he mumbled. "But I don't know anythingabout marriage. "

"Oh, you awful boy! Herbert, isn't he just the same? But you do knowsomething about Gerald, so don't be so chilly and cautious. I've justrealized, looking at those groups, that you must have been at schooltogether. Did you come much across him?"

"Very little, " he answered, and sounded shy. He got up hastily, andbegan to muddle with the coffee. 

"But he was in the same house. Surely that's a house group?"

"He was a prefect. " He made his coffee on the simple system. One had abrown pot, into which the boiling stuff was poured. Just before servingone put in a drop of cold water, and the idea was that the grounds fellto the bottom. 

"Wasn't he a kind of athletic marvel? Couldn't he knock any boy ormaster down?"

"Yes. "

"If he had wanted to, " said Mr. Pembroke, who had not spoken for sometime. 

"If he had wanted to, " echoed Rickie. "I do hope, Agnes, you'll be mostawfully happy. I don't know anything about the army, but I should thinkit must be most awfully interesting. "

Mr. Pembroke laughed faintly. 

"Yes, Rickie. The army is a most interesting profession, --the professionof Wellington and Marlborough and Lord Roberts; a most interestingprofession, as you observe. A profession that may mean death--death, rather than dishonour. "

"That's nice, " said Rickie, speaking to himself. "Any professionmay mean dishonour, but one isn't allowed to die instead. The army'sdifferent. If a soldier makes a mess, it's thought rather decent ofhim, isn't it, if he blows out his brains? In the other professions itsomehow seems cowardly. "

"I am not competent to pronounce, " said Mr. Pembroke, who was notaccustomed to have his schoolroom satire commented on. "I merely knowthat the army is the finest profession in the world. Which reminds me, Rickie--have you been thinking about yours?"

"No. "

"Not at all?"

"No. "

"Now, Herbert, don't bother him. Have another meringue. "

"But, Rickie, my dear boy, you're twenty. It's time you thought. TheTripos is the beginning of life, not the end. In less than two years youwill have got your B. A. What are you going to do with it?"

"I don't know. "

"You're M. A. , aren't you?" asked Agnes; but her brother proceeded--

"I have seen so many promising, brilliant lives wrecked simply onaccount of this--not settling soon enough. My dear boy, you must think. Consult your tastes if possible--but think. You have not a moment tolose. The Bar, like your father?"

"Oh, I wouldn't like that at all. "

"I don't mention the Church. "

"Oh, Rickie, do be a clergyman!" said Miss Pembroke. "You'd be simplykilling in a wide-awake. "

He looked at his guests hopelessly. Their kindness and competenceoverwhelmed him. "I wish I could talk to them as I talk to myself, " hethought. "I'm not such an ass when I talk to myself. I don't believe, for instance, that quite all I thought about the cow was rot. " Aloud hesaid, "I've sometimes wondered about writing. "

"Writing?" said Mr. Pembroke, with the tone of one who gives everythingits trial. "Well, what about writing? What kind of writing?"

"I rather like, "--he suppressed something in his throat, --"I rather liketrying to write little stories. "

"Why, I made sure it was poetry!" said Agnes. "You're just the boy forpoetry. "

"I had no idea you wrote. Would you let me see something? Then I couldjudge. "

The author shook his head. "I don't show it to any one. It isn'tanything. I just try because it amuses me. "

"What is it about?"

"Silly nonsense. "

"Are you ever going to show it to any one?"

"I don't think so. "

Mr. Pembroke did not reply, firstly, because the meringue he was eatingwas, after all, Rickie's; secondly, because it was gluey and stuck hisjaws together. Agnes observed that the writing was really a very goodidea: there was Rickie's aunt, --she could push him. 

"Aunt Emily never pushes any one; she says they always rebound and crushher. "

"I only had the pleasure of seeing your aunt once. I should have thoughther a quite uncrushable person. But she would be sure to help you. "

"I couldn't show her anything. She'd think them even sillier than theyare. "

"Always running yourself down! There speaks the artist!"

"I'm not modest, " he said anxiously. "I just know they're bad. "

Mr. Pembroke's teeth were clear of meringue, and he could refrain nolonger. "My dear Rickie, your father and mother are dead, and you oftensay your aunt takes no interest in you. Therefore your life depends onyourself. Think it over carefully, but settle, and having once settled, stick. If you think that this writing is practicable, and that youcould make your living by it--that you could, if needs be, support awife--then by all means write. But you must work. Work and drudge. Beginat the bottom of the ladder and work upwards. "

Rickie's head drooped. Any metaphor silenced him. He never thought ofreplying that art is not a ladder--with a curate, as it were, on thefirst rung, a rector on the second, and a bishop, still nearer heaven, at the top. He never retorted that the artist is not a bricklayer atall, but a horseman, whose business it is to catch Pegasus at once, not to practise for him by mounting tamer colts. This is hard, hot, andgenerally ungraceful work, but it is not drudgery. For drudgery is notart, and cannot lead to it. 

"Of course I don't really think about writing, " he said, as he pouredthe cold water into the coffee. "Even if my things ever were decent, Idon't think the magazines would take them, and the magazines are one'sonly chance. I read somewhere, too, that Marie Corelli's about the onlyperson who makes a thing out of literature. I'm certain it wouldn't payme. "

"I never mentioned the word 'pay, '" said Mr. Pembroke uneasily. 

"You must not consider money. There are ideals too. "

"I have no ideals. "

"Rickie!" she exclaimed. "Horrible boy!"

"No, Agnes, I have no ideals. " Then he got very red, for it was a phrasehe had caught from Ansell, and he could not remember what came next. 

"The person who has no ideals, " she exclaimed, "is to be pitied. "

"I think so too, " said Mr. Pembroke, sipping his coffee. "Life withoutan ideal would be like the sky without the sun. "

Rickie looked towards the night, wherein there now twinkled innumerablestars--gods and heroes, virgins and brides, to whom the Greeks havegiven their names. 

"Life without an ideal--" repeated Mr. Pembroke, and then stopped, forhis mouth was full of coffee grounds. The same affliction had overtakenAgnes. After a little jocose laughter they departed to their lodgings, and Rickie, having seen them as far as the porter's lodge, hurried, singing as he went, to Ansell's room, burst open the door, and said, "Look here! Whatever do you mean by it?"

"By what?" Ansell was sitting alone with a piece of paper in front ofhim. On it was a diagram--a circle inside a square, inside which wasagain a square. 

"By being so rude. You're no gentleman, and I told her so. " He slammedhim on the head with a sofa cushion. "I'm certain one ought to bepolite, even to people who aren't saved. " ("Not saved" was a phrase theyapplied just then to those whom they did not like or intimatelyknow. ) "And I believe she is saved. I never knew any one so alwaysgood-tempered and kind. She's been kind to me ever since I knew her. Iwish you'd heard her trying to stop her brother: you'd have certainlycome round. Not but what he was only being nice as well. But she isreally nice. And I thought she came into the room so beautifully. Do youknow--oh, of course, you despise music--but Anderson was playing Wagner, and he'd just got to the part where they sing

 'Rheingold! 'Rheingold!

and the sun strikes into the waters, and the music, which up to then hasso often been in E flat--"

"Goes into D sharp. I have not understood a single word, partly becauseyou talk as if your mouth was full of plums, partly because I don't knowwhom you're talking about. " "Miss Pembroke--whom you saw. "

"I saw no one. "

"Who came in?"

"No one came in. "

"You're an ass!" shrieked Rickie. "She came in. You saw her come in. Sheand her brother have been to dinner. "

"You only think so. They were not really there. "

"But they stop till Monday. "

"You only think that they are stopping. "

"But--oh, look here, shut up! The girl like an empress--"

"I saw no empress, nor any girl, nor have you seen them. "

"Ansell, don't rag. "

"Elliot, I never rag, and you know it. She was not really there. "

There was a moment's silence. Then Rickie exclaimed, "I've got you. Yousay--or was it Tilliard?--no, YOU say that the cow's there. Well--therethese people are, then. Got you. Yah!"

"Did it never strike you that phenomena may be of two kinds: ONE, thosewhich have a real existence, such as the cow; TWO, those which arethe subjective product of a diseased imagination, and which, to ourdestruction, we invest with the semblance of reality? If this neverstruck you, let it strike you now. "

Rickie spoke again, but received no answer. He paced a little up anddown the sombre roam. Then he sat on the edge of the table and watchedhis clever friend draw within the square a circle, and within thecircle a square, and inside that another circle, and inside that anothersquare. 

"Why will you do that?"

No answer. 

"Are they real?"

"The inside one is--the one in the middle of everything, that there'snever room enough to draw. "

II

A little this side of Madingley, to the left of the road, there is asecluded dell, paved with grass and planted with fir-trees. It could nothave been worth a visit twenty years ago, for then it was only a scarof chalk, and it is not worth a visit at the present day, for the treeshave grown too thick and choked it. But when Rickie was up, it chancedto be the brief season of its romance, a season as brief for a chalk-pitas a man--its divine interval between the bareness of boyhood and thestuffiness of age. Rickie had discovered it in his second term, when theJanuary snows had melted and left fiords and lagoons of clearest waterbetween the inequalities of the floor. The place looked as big asSwitzerland or Norway--as indeed for the moment it was--and he came uponit at a time when his life too was beginning to expand. Accordingly thedell became for him a kind of church--a church where indeed you coulddo anything you liked, but where anything you did would be transfigured. Like the ancient Greeks, he could even laugh at his holy place andleave it no less holy. He chatted gaily about it, and about the pleasantthoughts with which it inspired him; he took his friends there; he eventook people whom he did not like. "Procul este, profani!" exclaimed adelighted aesthete on being introduced to it. But this was never to bethe attitude of Rickie. He did not love the vulgar herd, but he knewthat his own vulgarity would be greater if he forbade it ingress, andthat it was not by preciosity that he would attain to the intimatespirit of the dell. Indeed, if he had agreed with the aesthete, hewould possibly not have introduced him. If the dell was to bear anyinscription, he would have liked it to be "This way to Heaven, " paintedon a sign-post by the high-road, and he did not realize till later yearsthat the number of visitors would not thereby have sensibly increased. 

On the blessed Monday that the Pembrokes left, he walked out here withthree friends. It was a day when the sky seemed enormous. One cloud, as large as a continent, was voyaging near the sun, whilst other cloudsseemed anchored to the horizon, too lazy or too happy to move. The skyitself was of the palest blue, paling to white where it approached theearth; and the earth, brown, wet, and odorous, was engaged beneath it onits yearly duty of decay. Rickie was open to the complexities of autumn;he felt extremely tiny--extremely tiny and extremely important; andperhaps the combination is as fair as any that exists. He hoped that allhis life he would never be peevish or unkind. 

"Elliot is in a dangerous state, " said Ansell. They had reached thedell, and had stood for some time in silence, each leaning against atree. It was too wet to sit down. 

"How's that?" asked Rickie, who had not known he was in any state atall. He shut up Keats, whom he thought he had been reading, and slippedhim back into his coat-pocket. Scarcely ever was he without a book. 

"He's trying to like people. "

"Then he's done for, " said Widdrington. "He's dead. "

"He's trying to like Hornblower. "

The others gave shrill agonized cries. 

"He wants to bind the college together. He wants to link us to the beefyset. "

"I do like Hornblower, " he protested. "I don't try. "

"And Hornblower tries to like you. "

"That part doesn't matter. "

"But he does try to like you. He tries not to despise you. It isaltogether a most public-spirited affair. "

"Tilliard started them, " said Widdrington. "Tilliard thinks it such apity the college should be split into sets. "

"Oh, Tilliard!" said Ansell, with much irritation. "But what can youexpect from a person who's eternally beautiful? The other night we hadbeen discussing a long time, and suddenly the light was turned on. Everyone else looked a sight, as they ought. But there was Tilliard, sittingneatly on a little chair, like an undersized god, with not a curlcrooked. I should say he will get into the Foreign Office. "

"Why are most of us so ugly?" laughed Rickie. 

"It's merely a sign of our salvation--merely another sign that thecollege is split. "

"The college isn't split, " cried Rickie, who got excited on this subjectwith unfailing regularity. "The college is, and has been, and alwayswill be, one. What you call the beefy set aren't a set at all. They'rejust the rowing people, and naturally they chiefly see each other; butthey're always nice to me or to any one. Of course, they think us ratherasses, but it's quite in a pleasant way. "

"That's my whole objection, " said Ansell. "What right have they tothink us asses in a pleasant way? Why don't they hate us? What right hasHornblower to smack me on the back when I've been rude to him?"

"Well, what right have you to be rude to him?"

"Because I hate him. You think it is so splendid to hate no one. I tellyou it is a crime. You want to love every one equally, and that's worsethan impossible it's wrong. When you denounce sets, you're really tryingto destroy friendship. "

"I maintain, " said Rickie--it was a verb he clung to, in the hope thatit would lend stability to what followed--"I maintain that one can likemany more people than one supposes. "

"And I maintain that you hate many more people than you pretend. "

"I hate no one, " he exclaimed with extraordinary vehemence, and the dellre-echoed that it hated no one. 

"We are obliged to believe you, " said Widdrington, smiling a little "butwe are sorry about it. "

"Not even your father?" asked Ansell. 

Rickie was silent. 

"Not even your father?"

The cloud above extended a great promontory across the sun. It only laythere for a moment, yet that was enough to summon the lurking coldnessfrom the earth. 

"Does he hate his father?" said Widdrington, who had not known. "Oh, good!"

"But his father's dead. He will say it doesn't count. "

"Still, it's something. Do you hate yours?"

Ansell did not reply. Rickie said: "I say, I wonder whether one ought totalk like this?"

"About hating dead people?"

"Yes--"

"Did you hate your mother?" asked Widdrington. 

Rickie turned crimson. 

"I don't see Hornblower's such a rotter, " remarked the other man, whosename was James. 

"James, you are diplomatic, " said Ansell. "You are trying to tide overan awkward moment. You can go. "

Widdrington was crimson too. In his wish to be sprightly he had usedwords without thinking of their meanings. Suddenly he realized that"father" and "mother" really meant father and mother--people whom he hadhimself at home. He was very uncomfortable, and thought Rickie had beenrather queer. He too tried to revert to Hornblower, but Ansell would notlet him. The sun came out, and struck on the white ramparts of the dell. Rickie looked straight at it. Then he said abruptly--

"I think I want to talk. "

"I think you do, " replied Ansell. 

"Shouldn't I be rather a fool if I went through Cambridge withouttalking? It's said never to come so easy again. All the people are deadtoo. I can't see why I shouldn't tell you most things about my birth andparentage and education. "

"Talk away. If you bore us, we have books. "

With this invitation Rickie began to relate his history. The reader whohas no book will be obliged to listen to it. 

Some people spend their lives in a suburb, and not for any urgentreason. This had been the fate of Rickie. He had opened his eyesto filmy heavens, and taken his first walk on asphalt. He had seencivilization as a row of semi-detached villas, and society as a state inwhich men do not know the men who live next door. He had himself becomepart of the grey monotony that surrounds all cities. There was nonecessity for this--it was only rather convenient to his father. 

Mr. Elliot was a barrister. In appearance he resembled his son, beingweakly and lame, with hollow little cheeks, a broad white band offorehead, and stiff impoverished hair. His voice, which he did nottransmit, was very suave, with a fine command of cynical intonation. By altering it ever so little he could make people wince, especially ifthey were simple or poor. Nor did he transmit his eyes. Their peculiarflatness, as if the soul looked through dirty window-panes, theunkindness of them, the cowardice, the fear in them, were to trouble theworld no longer. 

He married a girl whose voice was beautiful. There was no caress init yet all who heard it were soothed, as though the world held someunexpected blessing. She called to her dogs one night over invisiblewaters, and he, a tourist up on the bridge, thought "that isextraordinarily adequate. " In time he discovered that her figure, face, and thoughts were adequate also, and as she was not impossible socially, he married her. "I have taken a plunge, " he told his family. The family, hostile at first, had not a word to say when the woman was introducedto them; and his sister declared that the plunge had been taken from theopposite bank. 

Things only went right for a little time. Though beautiful without andwithin, Mrs. Elliot had not the gift of making her home beautiful; andone day, when she bought a carpet for the dining-room that clashed, helaughed gently, said he "really couldn't, " and departed. Departure isperhaps too strong a word. In Mrs. Elliot's mouth it became, "My husbandhas to sleep more in town. " He often came down to see them, nearlyalways unexpectedly, and occasionally they went to see him. "Father'shouse, " as Rickie called it, only had three rooms, but these were fullof books and pictures and flowers; and the flowers, instead of beingsquashed down into the vases as they were in mummy's house, rosegracefully from frames of lead which lay coiled at the bottom, asdoubtless the sea serpent has to lie, coiled at the bottom of the sea. Once he was let to lift a frame out--only once, for he dropped somewater on a creton. "I think he's going to have taste, " said Mr. Elliotlanguidly. "It is quite possible, " his wife replied. She had not takenoff her hat and gloves, nor even pulled up her veil. Mr. Elliot laughed, and soon afterwards another lady came in, and they--went away. 

"Why does father always laugh?" asked Rickie in the evening when he andhis mother were sitting in the nursery. 

"It is a way of your father's. "

"Why does he always laugh at me? Am I so funny?" Then after a pause, "You have no sense of humour, have you, mummy?"

Mrs. Elliot, who was raising a thread of cotton to her lips, held itsuspended in amazement. 

"You told him so this afternoon. But I have seen you laugh. " He noddedwisely. "I have seen you laugh ever so often. One day you were laughingalone all down in the sweet peas. "

"Was I?"

"Yes. Were you laughing at me?"

"I was not thinking about you. Cotton, please--a reel of No. 50 whitefrom my chest of drawers. Left hand drawer. Now which is your lefthand?"

"The side my pocket is. "

"And if you had no pocket?"

"The side my bad foot is. "

"I meant you to say, 'the side my heart is, '" said Mrs. Elliot, holdingup the duster between them. "Most of us--I mean all of us--can feel onone side a little watch, that never stops ticking. So even if you had nobad foot you would still know which is the left. No. 50 white, please. No; I'll get it myself. " For she had remembered that the dark passagefrightened him. 

These were the outlines. Rickie filled them in with the slowness and theaccuracy of a child. He was never told anything, but he discovered forhimself that his father and mother did not love each other, and that hismother was lovable. He discovered that Mr. Elliot had dubbed him Rickiebecause he was rickety, that he took pleasure in alluding to his son'sdeformity, and was sorry that it was not more serious than his own. Mr. Elliot had not one scrap of genius. He gathered the pictures and thebooks and the flower-supports mechanically, not in any impulse of love. He passed for a cultured man because he knew how to select, and hepassed for an unconventional man because he did not select quite likeother people. In reality he never did or said or thought one singlething that had the slightest beauty or value. And in time Rickiediscovered this as well. 

The boy grew up in great loneliness. He worshipped his mother, and shewas fond of him. But she was dignified and reticent, and pathos, liketattle, was disgusting to her. She was afraid of intimacy, in case itled to confidences and tears, and so all her life she held her son at alittle distance. Her kindness and unselfishness knew no limits, but ifhe tried to be dramatic and thank her, she told him not to be a littlegoose. And so the only person he came to know at all was himself. He would play Halma against himself. He would conduct solitaryconversations, in which one part of him asked and another part answered. It was an exciting game, and concluded with the formula: "Good-bye. Thank you. I am glad to have met you. I hope before long we shall enjoyanother chat. " And then perhaps he would sob for loneliness, for hewould see real people--real brothers, real friends--doing in warm lifethe things he had pretended. "Shall I ever have a friend?" he demandedat the age of twelve. "I don't see how. They walk too fast. And abrother I shall never have. "

("No loss, " interrupted Widdrington. 

"But I shall never have one, and so I quite want one, even now. ")

When he was thirteen Mr. Elliot entered on his illness. The pretty roomsin town would not do for an invalid, and so he came back to his home. One of the first consequences was that Rickie was sent to a publicschool. Mrs. Elliot did what she could, but she had no hold whateverover her husband. 

"He worries me, " he declared. "He's a joke of which I have got tired. "

"Would it be possible to send him to a private tutor's?"

"No, " said Mr. Elliot, who had all the money. "Coddling. "

"I agree that boys ought to rough it; but when a boy is lame and verydelicate, he roughs it sufficiently if he leaves home. Rickie can't playgames. He doesn't make friends. He isn't brilliant. Thinking it over, Ifeel that as it's like this, we can't ever hope to give him the ordinaryeducation. Perhaps you could think it over too. " No. 

"I am sure that things are best for him as they are. The day-schoolknocks quite as many corners off him as he can stand. He hates it, butit is good for him. A public school will not be good for him. It is toorough. Instead of getting manly and hard, he will--"

"My head, please. "

Rickie departed in a state of bewildered misery, which was scarcely everto grow clearer. 

Each holiday he found his father more irritable, and a little weaker. Mrs. Elliot was quickly growing old. She had to manage the servants, tohush the neighbouring children, to answer the correspondence, to paperand re-paper the rooms--and all for the sake of a man whom she did notlike, and who did not conceal his dislike for her. One day she foundRickie tearful, and said rather crossly, "Well, what is it this time?"

He replied, "Oh, mummy, I've seen your wrinkles your grey hair--I'munhappy. "

Sudden tenderness overcame her, and she cried, "My darling, what does itmatter? Whatever does it matter now?"

He had never known her so emotional. Yet even better did he rememberanother incident. Hearing high voices from his father's room, he wentupstairs in the hope that the sound of his tread might stop them. Mrs. Elliot burst open the door, and seeing him, exclaimed, "My dear! If youplease, he's hit me. " She tried to laugh it off, but a few hours laterhe saw the bruise which the stick of the invalid had raised upon hismother's hand. 

God alone knows how far we are in the grip of our bodies. He alone canjudge how far the cruelty of Mr. Elliot was the outcome of extenuatingcircumstances. But Mrs. Elliot could accurately judge of its extent. 

At last he died. Rickie was now fifteen, and got off a whole week'sschool for the funeral. His mother was rather strange. She was muchhappier, she looked younger, and her mourning was as unobtrusive asconvention permitted. All this he had expected. But she seemed tobe watching him, and to be extremely anxious for his opinion on any, subject--more especially on his father. Why? At last he saw that she wastrying to establish confidence between them. But confidence cannot beestablished in a moment. They were both shy. The habit of years wasupon them, and they alluded to the death of Mr. Elliot as an irreparableloss. 

"Now that your father has gone, things will be very different. "

"Shall we be poorer, mother?" No. 

"Oh!"

"But naturally things will be very different. "

"Yes, naturally. "

"For instance, your poor father liked being near London, but I almostthink we might move. Would you like that?"

"Of course, mummy. " He looked down at the ground. He was not accustomedto being consulted, and it bewildered him. 

"Perhaps you might like quite a different life better?"

He giggled. 

"It's a little difficult for me, " said Mrs. Elliot, pacing vigorously upand down the room, and more and more did her black dress seem a mockery. "In some ways you ought to be consulted: nearly all the money is left toyou, as you must hear some time or other. But in other ways you're onlya boy. What am I to do?"

"I don't know, " he replied, appearing more helpless and unhelpful thanhe really was. 

"For instance, would you like me to arrange things exactly as I like?"

"Oh do!" he exclaimed, thinking this a most brilliant suggestion. 

"The very nicest thing of all. " And he added, in his half-pedantic, half-pleasing way, "I shall be as wax in your hands, mamma. "

She smiled. "Very well, darling. You shall be. " And she pressed himlovingly, as though she would mould him into something beautiful. 

For the next few days great preparations were in the air. She went tosee his father's sister, the gifted and vivacious Aunt Emily. They wereto live in the country--somewhere right in the country, with grass andtrees up to the door, and birds singing everywhere, and a tutor. For hewas not to go back to school. Unbelievable! He was never to go back toschool, and the head-master had written saying that he regretted thestep, but that possibly it was a wise one. 

It was raw weather, and Mrs. Elliot watched over him with ceaselesstenderness. It seemed as if she could not do too much to shield him andto draw him nearer to her. 

"Put on your greatcoat, dearest, " she said to him. 

"I don't think I want it, " answered Rickie, remembering that he was nowfifteen. 

"The wind is bitter. You ought to put it on. "

"But it's so heavy. "

"Do put it on, dear. "

He was not very often irritable or rude, but he answered, "Oh, I shan'tcatch cold. I do wish you wouldn't keep on bothering. " He did notcatch cold, but while he was out his mother died. She only survivedher husband eleven days, a coincidence which was recorded on theirtombstone. 

Such, in substance, was the story which Rickie told his friends asthey stood together in the shelter of the dell. The green bank at theentrance hid the road and the world, and now, as in spring, they couldsee nothing but snow-white ramparts and the evergreen foliage of thefirs. Only from time to time would a beech leaf flutter in from thewoods above, to comment on the waning year, and the warmth and radianceof the sun would vanish behind a passing cloud. 

About the greatcoat he did not tell them, for he could not have spokenof it without tears. 

III

Mr. Ansell, a provincial draper of moderate prosperity, ought by rightsto have been classed not with the cow, but with those phenomena that arenot really there. But his son, with pardonable illogicality, exceptedhim. He never suspected that his father might be the subjective productof a diseased imagination. From his earliest years he had taken him forgranted, as a most undeniable and lovable fact. To be born one thing andgrow up another--Ansell had accomplished this without weakening oneof the ties that bound him to his home. The rooms above the shop stillseemed as comfortable, the garden behind it as gracious, as theyhad seemed fifteen years before, when he would sit behind MissAppleblossom's central throne, and she, like some allegorical figure, would send the change and receipted bills spinning away from her inlittle boxwood balls. At first the young man had attributed these happyrelations to his own tact. But in time he perceived that the tact wasall on the side of his father. Mr. Ansell was not merely a man of someeducation; he had what no education can bring--the power of detectingwhat is important. Like many fathers, he had spared no expense over hisboy, --he had borrowed money to start him at a rapacious and fashionableprivate school; he had sent him to tutors; he had sent him to Cambridge. But he knew that all this was not the important thing. The importantthing was freedom. The boy must use his education as he chose, and if hepaid his father back it would certainly not be in his own coin. So whenStewart said, "At Cambridge, can I read for the Moral Science Tripos?"Mr. Ansell had only replied, "This philosophy--do you say that it liesbehind everything?"

"Yes, I think so. It tries to discover what is good and true. "

"Then, my boy, you had better read as much of it as you can. "

And a year later: "I'd like to take up this philosophy seriously, but Idon't feel justified. "

"Why not?"

"Because it brings in no return. I think I'm a great philosopher, butthen all philosophers think that, though they don't dare to say so. But, however great I am. I shan't earn money. Perhaps I shan't ever be ableto keep myself. I shan't even get a good social position. You've onlyto say one word, and I'll work for the Civil Service. I'm good enough toget in high. "

Mr. Ansell liked money and social position. But he knew that there isa more important thing, and replied, "You must take up this philosophyseriously, I think. "

"Another thing--there are the girls. "

"There is enough money now to get Mary and Maud as good husbands as theydeserve. " And Mary and Maud took the same view. It was in this plebeianhousehold that Rickie spent part of the Christmas vacation. His ownhome, such as it was, was with the Silts, needy cousins of his father's, and combined to a peculiar degree the restrictions of hospitality withthe discomforts of a boarding-house. Such pleasure as he had outsideCambridge was in the homes of his friends, and it was a particular joyand honour to visit Ansell, who, though as free from social snobbishnessas most of us will ever manage to be, was rather careful when he droveup to the facade of his shop. 

"I like our new lettering, " he said thoughtfully. The words "StewartAnsell" were repeated again and again along the High Street--curly goldletters that seemed to float in tanks of glazed chocolate. 

"Rather!" said Rickie. But he wondered whether one of the bonds thatkept the Ansell family united might not be their complete absence oftaste--a surer bond by far than the identity of it. And he wondered thisagain when he sat at tea opposite a long row of crayons--Stewart as ababy, Stewart as a small boy with large feet, Stewart as a larger boywith smaller feet, Mary reading a book whose leaves were as thick aseiderdowns. And yet again did he wonder it when he woke with a gasp inthe night to find a harp in luminous paint throbbing and glowering athim from the adjacent wall. "Watch and pray" was written on the harp, and until Rickie hung a towel over it the exhortation was partiallysuccessful. 

It was a very happy visit. Miss Appleblosssom--who now acted ashousekeeper--had met him before, during her never-forgotten expeditionto Cambridge, and her admiration of University life was as shrill andas genuine now as it had been then. The girls at first were a littleaggressive, for on his arrival he had been tired, and Maud had taken itfor haughtiness, and said he was looking down on them. But this passed. They did not fall in love with him, nor he with them, but a morning wasspent very pleasantly in snow-balling in the back garden. Ansell wasrather different to what he was in Cambridge, but to Rickie not lessattractive. And there was a curious charm in the hum of the shop, whichswelled into a roar if one opened the partition door on a market-day. 

"Listen to your money!" said Rickie. "I wish I could hear mine. I wishmy money was alive. "

"I don't understand. "

"Mine's dead money. It's come to me through about six deadpeople--silently. "

"Getting a little smaller and a little more respectable each time, onaccount of the death-duties. "

"It needed to get respectable. "

"Why? Did your people, too, once keep a shop?"

"Oh, not as bad as that! They only swindled. About a hundred years agoan Elliot did something shady and founded the fortunes of our house. "

"I never knew any one so relentless to his ancestors. You make up foryour soapiness towards the living. "

"You'd be relentless if you'd heard the Silts, as I have, talk about 'afortune, small perhaps, but unsoiled by trade!' Of course Aunt Emily israther different. Oh, goodness me! I've forgotten my aunt. She lives notso far. I shall have to call on her. "

Accordingly he wrote to Mrs. Failing, and said he should like to pay hisrespects. He told her about the Ansells, and so worded the letter thatshe might reasonably have sent an invitation to his friend. 

She replied that she was looking forward to their tete-a-tete. 

"You mustn't go round by the trains, " said Mr. Ansell. "It meanschanging at Salisbury. By the road it's no great way. Stewart shalldrive you over Salisbury Plain, and fetch you too. "

"There's too much snow, " said Ansell. 

"Then the girls shall take you in their sledge. "

"That I will, " said Maud, who was not unwilling to see the inside ofCadover. But Rickie went round by the trains. 

"We have all missed you, " said Ansell, when he returned. "There is ageneral feeling that you are no nuisance, and had better stop till theend of the vac. "

This he could not do. He was bound for Christmas to the Silts--"as aREAL guest, " Mrs. Silt had written, underlining the word "real" twice. And after Christmas he must go to the Pembrokes. 

"These are no reasons. The only real reason for doing a thing is becauseyou want to do it. I think the talk about 'engagements' is cant. "

"I think perhaps it is, " said Rickie. But he went. Never had the turkeybeen so athletic, or the plum-pudding tied into its cloth so tightly. Yet he knew that both these symbols of hilarity had cost money, andit went to his heart when Mr. Silt said in a hungry voice, "Have youthought at all of what you want to be? No? Well, why should you? Youhave no need to be anything. " And at dessert: "I wonder who Cadover goesto? I expect money will follow money. It always does. " It was with aguilty feeling of relief that he left for the Pembrokes'. 

The Pembrokes lived in an adjacent suburb, or rather "sububurb, "--thetract called Sawston, celebrated for its public school. Their style oflife, however, was not particularly suburban. Their house was small andits name was Shelthorpe, but it had an air about it which suggested acertain amount of money and a certain amount of taste. There were decentwater-colours in the drawing-room. Madonnas of acknowledged merit hungupon the stairs. A replica of the Hermes of Praxiteles--of course onlythe bust--stood in the hall with a real palm behind it. Agnes, in herslap-dash way, was a good housekeeper, and kept the pretty things welldusted. It was she who insisted on the strip of brown holland that leddiagonally from the front door to the door of Herbert's study: boys'grubby feet should not go treading on her Indian square. It was she whoalways cleaned the picture-frames and washed the bust and the leaves ofthe palm. In short, if a house could speak--and sometimes it does speakmore clearly than the people who live in it--the house of the Pembrokeswould have said, "I am not quite like other houses, yet I am perfectlycomfortable. I contain works of art and a microscope and books. But I donot live for any of these things or suffer them to disarrange me. I livefor myself and for the greater houses that shall come after me. Yet inme neither the cry of money nor the cry for money shall ever be heard. "

Mr. Pembroke was at the station. He did better as a host than as aguest, and welcomed the young man with real friendliness. 

"We were all coming, but Gerald has strained his ankle slightly, and wants to keep quiet, as he is playing next week in a match. And, needless to say, that explains the absence of my sister. "

"Gerald Dawes?"

"Yes; he's with us. I'm so glad you'll meet again. "

"So am I, " said Rickie with extreme awkwardness. "Does he remember me?"

"Vividly. "

Vivid also was Rickie's remembrance of him. 

"A splendid fellow, " asserted Mr. Pembroke. 

"I hope that Agnes is well. "

"Thank you, yes; she is well. And I think you're looking more like otherpeople yourself. "

"I've been having a very good time with a friend. "

"Indeed. That's right. Who was that?"

Rickie had a young man's reticence. He generally spoke of "a friend, ""a person I know, " "a place I was at. " When the book of life is opening, our readings are secret, and we are unwilling to give chapter and verse. Mr. Pembroke, who was half way through the volume, and had skipped orforgotten the earlier pages, could not understand Rickie's hesitation, nor why with such awkwardness he should pronounce the harmlessdissyllable "Ansell. "

"Ansell? Wasn't that the pleasant fellow who asked us to lunch?"

"No. That was Anderson, who keeps below. You didn't see Ansell. The oneswho came to breakfast were Tilliard and Hornblower. "

"Of course. And since then you have been with the Silts. How are they?"

"Very well, thank you. They want to be remembered to you. "

The Pembrokes had formerly lived near the Elliots, and had shown greatkindness to Rickie when his parents died. They were thus rather in theposition of family friends. 

"Please remember us when you write. " He added, almost roguishly, "TheSilts are kindness itself. All the same, it must be just a little--dull, we thought, and we thought that you might like a change. And of coursewe are delighted to have you besides. That goes without saying. "

"It's very good of you, " said Rickie, who had accepted the invitationbecause he felt he ought to. 

"Not a bit. And you mustn't expect us to be otherwise than quiet on theholidays. There is a library of a sort, as you know, and you will findGerald a splendid fellow. "

"Will they be married soon?"

"Oh no!" whispered Mr. Pembroke, shutting his eyes, as if Rickie hadmade some terrible faux pas. "It will be a very long engagement. He mustmake his way first. I have seen such endless misery result from peoplemarrying before they have made their way. "

"Yes. That is so, " said Rickie despondently, thinking of the Silts. 

"It's a sad unpalatable truth, " said Mr. Pembroke, thinking that thedespondency might be personal, "but one must accept it. My sister andGerald, I am thankful to say, have accepted it, though naturally it hasbeen a little pill. "

Their cab lurched round the corner as he spoke, and the two patientscame in sight. Agnes was leaning over the creosoted garden-gate, andbehind her there stood a young man who had the figure of a Greek athleteand the face of an English one. He was fair and cleanshaven, and hiscolourless hair was cut rather short. The sun was in his eyes, and they, like his mouth, seemed scarcely more than slits in his healthy skin. Just where he began to be beautiful the clothes started. Round his neckwent an up-and-down collar and a mauve-and-gold tie, and the rest of hislimbs were hidden by a grey lounge suit, carefully creased in the rightplaces. 

"Lovely! Lovely!" cried Agnes, banging on the gate, "Your train musthave been to the minute. "

"Hullo!" said the athlete, and vomited with the greeting a cloud oftobacco-smoke. It must have been imprisoned in his mouth some time, forno pipe was visible. 

"Hullo!" returned Rickie, laughing violently. They shook hands. 

"Where are you going, Rickie?" asked Agnes. "You aren't grubby. Whydon't you stop? Gerald, get the large wicker-chair. Herbert has letters, but we can sit here till lunch. It's like spring. "

The garden of Shelthorpe was nearly all in front an unusual and pleasantarrangement. The front gate and the servants' entrance were both at theside, and in the remaining space the gardener had contrived a littlelawn where one could sit concealed from the road by a fence, from theneighbour by a fence, from the house by a tree, and from the path by abush. 

"This is the lovers' bower, " observed Agnes, sitting down on the bench. Rickie stood by her till the chair arrived. 

"Are you smoking before lunch?" asked Mr. Dawes. 

"No, thank you. I hardly ever smoke. "

"No vices. Aren't you at Cambridge now?"

"Yes. "

"What's your college?"

Rickie told him. 

"Do you know Carruthers?"

"Rather!"

"I mean A. P. Carruthers, who got his socker blue. "

"Rather! He's secretary to the college musical society. "

"A. P. Carruthers?"

"Yes. "

Mr. Dawes seemed offended. He tapped on his teeth, and remarked that theweather bad no business to be so warm in winter. "But it was fiendishbefore Christmas, " said Agnes. 

He frowned, and asked, "Do you know a man called Gerrish?"

"No. "

"Ah. "

"Do you know James?"

"Never heard of him. "

"He's my year too. He got a blue for hockey his second term. "

"I know nothing about the 'Varsity. "

Rickie winced at the abbreviation "'Varsity. " It was at that time theproper thing to speak of "the University. "

"I haven't the time, " pursued Mr. Dawes. 

"No, no, " said Rickie politely. 

"I had the chance of being an Undergrad, myself, and, by Jove, I'mthankful I didn't!"

"Why?" asked Agnes, for there was a pause. 

"Puts you back in your profession. Men who go there first, before theArmy, start hopelessly behind. The same with the Stock Exchange orPainting. I know men in both, and they've never caught up the time theylost in the 'Varsity--unless, of course, you turn parson. "

"I love Cambridge, " said she. "All those glorious buildings, and everyone so happy and running in and out of each other's rooms all day long. "

"That might make an Undergrad happy, but I beg leave to state itwouldn't me. I haven't four years to throw away for the sake of beingcalled a 'Varsity man and hobnobbing with Lords. "

Rickie was prepared to find his old schoolfellow ungrammatical andbumptious, but he was not prepared to find him peevish. Athletes, hebelieved, were simple, straightforward people, cruel and brutal if youlike, but never petty. They knocked you down and hurt you, and then wenton their way rejoicing. For this, Rickie thought, there is something tobe said: he had escaped the sin of despising the physically strong--asin against which the physically weak must guard. But here was Dawesreturning again and again to the subject of the University, full oftransparent jealousy and petty spite, nagging, nagging, nagging, likea maiden lady who has not been invited to a tea-party. Rickie wonderedwhether, after all, Ansell and the extremists might not be right, andbodily beauty and strength be signs of the soul's damnation. 

He glanced at Agnes. She was writing down some orderings for thetradespeople on a piece of paper. Her handsome face was intent on thework. The bench on which she and Gerald were sitting had no back, butshe sat as straight as a dart. He, though strong enough to sit straight, did not take the trouble. 

"Why don't they talk to each other?" thought Rickie. 

"Gerald, give this paper to the cook. "

"I can give it to the other slavey, can't I?"

"She'd be dressing. "

"Well, there's Herbert. "

"He's busy. Oh, you know where the kitchen is. Take it to the cook. "

He disappeared slowly behind the tree. 

"What do you think of him?" she immediately asked. He murmured civilly. 

"Has he changed since he was a schoolboy?"

"In a way. "

"Do tell me all about him. Why won't you?"

She might have seen a flash of horror pass over Rickie's face. Thehorror disappeared, for, thank God, he was now a man, whom civilizationprotects. But he and Gerald had met, as it were, behind the scenes, before our decorous drama opens, and there the elder boy had done thingsto him--absurd things, not worth chronicling separately. An apple-piebed is nothing; pinches, kicks, boxed ears, twisted arms, pulled hair, ghosts at night, inky books, befouled photographs, amount to very littleby themselves. But let them be united and continuous, and you have ahell that no grown-up devil can devise. Between Rickie and Gerald therelay a shadow that darkens life more often than we suppose. The bully andhis victim never quite forget their first relations. They meet in clubsand country houses, and clap one another on the back; but in both thememory is green of a more strenuous day, when they were boys together. 

He tried to say, "He was the right kind of boy, and I was the wrongkind. " But Cambridge would not let him smooth the situation over byself-belittlement. If he had been the wrong kind of boy, Gerald had beena worse kind. He murmured, "We are different, very, " and Miss Pembroke, perhaps suspecting something, asked no more. But she kept to the subjectof Mr. Dawes, humorously depreciating her lover and discussing himwithout reverence. Rickie laughed, but felt uncomfortable. When peoplewere engaged, he felt that they should be outside criticism. Yet here hewas criticizing. He could not help it. He was dragged in. 

"I hope his ankle is better. "

"Never was bad. He's always fussing over something. "

"He plays next week in a match, I think Herbert says. "

"I dare say he does. "

"Shall we be going?"

"Pray go if you like. I shall stop at home. I've had enough of coldfeet. "

It was all very colourless and odd. 

Gerald returned, saying, "I can't stand your cook. What's she want toask me questions for? I can't stand talking to servants. I say, 'If Ispeak to you, well and good'--and it's another thing besides if she werepretty. "

"Well, I hope our ugly cook will have lunch ready in a minute, " saidAgnes. "We're frightfully unpunctual this morning, and I daren't sayanything, because it was the same yesterday, and if I complain againthey might leave. Poor Rickie must be starved. "

"Why, the Silts gave me all these sandwiches and I've never eaten them. They always stuff one. "

"And you thought you'd better, eh?" said Mr. Dawes, "in case you weren'tstuffed here. "

Miss Pembroke, who house-kept somewhat economically, looked annoyed. 

The voice of Mr. Pembroke was now heard calling from the house, "Frederick! Frederick! My dear boy, pardon me. It was an importantletter about the Church Defence, otherwise--. Come in and see yourroom. "

He was glad to quit the little lawn. He had learnt too much there. Itwas dreadful: they did not love each other. More dreadful even than thecase of his father and mother, for they, until they married, had got onpretty well. But this man was already rude and brutal and cold: he wasstill the school bully who twisted up the arms of little boys, and ranpins into them at chapel, and struck them in the stomach when they wereswinging on the horizontal bar. Poor Agnes; why ever had she done it?Ought not somebody to interfere?

He had forgotten his sandwiches, and went back to get them. 

Gerald and Agnes were locked in each other's arms. 

He only looked for a moment, but the sight burnt into his brain. Theman's grip was the stronger. He had drawn the woman on to his knee, was pressing her, with all his strength, against him. Already her handsslipped off him, and she whispered, "Don't you hurt--" Her face had noexpression. It stared at the intruder and never saw him. Then her loverkissed it, and immediately it shone with mysterious beauty, like somestar. 

Rickie limped away without the sandwiches, crimson and afraid. Hethought, "Do such things actually happen?" and he seemed to be lookingdown coloured valleys. Brighter they glowed, till gods of pure flamewere born in them, and then he was looking at pinnacles of virgin snow. While Mr. Pembroke talked, the riot of fair images increased. 

They invaded his being and lit lamps at unsuspected shrines. Theirorchestra commenced in that suburban house, where he had to stand asidefor the maid to carry in the luncheon. Music flowed past him likea river. He stood at the springs of creation and heard the primevalmonotony. Then an obscure instrument gave out a little phrase. 

The river continued unheeding. The phrase was repeated and a listenermight know it was a fragment of the Tune of tunes. Nobler instrumentsaccepted it, the clarionet protected, the brass encouraged, and it roseto the surface to the whisper of violins. In full unison was Love born, flame of the flame, flushing the dark river beneath him and the virginsnows above. His wings were infinite, his youth eternal; the sun wasa jewel on his finger as he passed it in benediction over the world. Creation, no longer monotonous, acclaimed him, in widening melody, inbrighter radiances. Was Love a column of fire? Was he a torrent of song?Was he greater than either--the touch of a man on a woman?

It was the merest accident that Rickie had not been disgusted. But thishe could not know. 

Mr. Pembroke, when he called the two dawdlers into lunch, was aware of ahand on his arm and a voice that murmured, "Don't--they may be happy. "

He stared, and struck the gong. To its music they approached, priest andhigh priestess. 

"Rickie, can I give these sandwiches to the boot boy?" said the one. "Hewould love them. "

"The gong! Be quick! The gong!"

"Are you smoking before lunch?" said the other. 

But they had got into heaven, and nothing could get them out of it. Others might think them surly or prosaic. He knew. He could rememberevery word they spoke. He would treasure every motion, every glance ofeither, and so in time to come, when the gates of heaven had shut, somefaint radiance, some echo of wisdom might remain with him outside. 

As a matter of fact, he saw them very little during his visit. Hechecked himself because he was unworthy. What right had he to pry, evenin the spirit, upon their bliss? It was no crime to have seen themon the lawn. It would be a crime to go to it again. He tried to keephimself and his thoughts away, not because he was ascetic, but becausethey would not like it if they knew. This behaviour of his suited themadmirably. And when any gracious little thing occurred to them--anylittle thing that his sympathy had contrived and allowed--they put itdown to chance or to each other. 

So the lovers fall into the background. They are part of the distantsunrise, and only the mountains speak to them. Rickie talks to Mr. Pembroke, amidst the unlit valleys of our over-habitable world. 

IV

Sawston School had been founded by a tradesman in the seventeenthcentury. It was then a tiny grammar-school in a tiny town, and the CityCompany who governed it had to drive half a day through the woods andheath on the occasion of their annual visit. In the twentieth centurythey still drove, but only from the railway station; and foundthemselves not in a tiny town, nor yet in a large one, but amongstinnumerable residences, detached and semi-detached, which had gatheredround the school. For the intentions of the founder had been altered, orat all events amplified, instead of educating the "poore of my home, "he now educated the upper classes of England. The change had taken placenot so very far back. Till the nineteenth century the grammar-school wasstill composed of day scholars from the neighbourhood. Then two thingshappened. Firstly, the school's property rose in value, and it becamerich. Secondly, for no obvious reason, it suddenly emitted a quantityof bishops. The bishops, like the stars from a Roman candle, wereall colours, and flew in all directions, some high, some low, some todistant colonies, one into the Church of Rome. But many a father tracedtheir course in the papers; many a mother wondered whether her son, ifproperly ignited, might not burn as bright; many a family moved to theplace where living and education were so cheap, where day-boys were notlooked down upon, and where the orthodox and the up-to-date were said tobe combined. The school doubled its numbers. It built new class-rooms, laboratories and a gymnasium. It dropped the prefix "Grammar. " It coaxedthe sons of the local tradesmen into a new foundation, the "CommercialSchool, " built a couple of miles away. And it started boarding-houses. It had not the gracious antiquity of Eton or Winchester, nor, on theother hand, had it a conscious policy like Lancing, Wellington, andother purely modern foundations. Where tradition served, it clung tothem. Where new departures seemed desirable, they were made. It aimedat producing the average Englishman, and, to a very great extent, itsucceeded. 

Here Mr. Pembroke passed his happy and industrious life. His technicalposition was that of master to a form low down on the Modern Side. Buthis work lay elsewhere. He organized. If no organization existed, he would create one. If one did exist, he would modify it. "Anorganization, " he would say, "is after all not an end in itself. It mustcontribute to a movement. " When one good custom seemed likely tocorrupt the school, he was ready with another; he believed that withoutinnumerable customs there was no safety, either for boys or men. 

Perhaps he is right, and always will be right. Perhaps each of uswould go to ruin if for one short hour we acted as we thought fit, andattempted the service of perfect freedom. The school caps, with theirelaborate symbolism, were his; his the many-tinted bathing-drawers, that showed how far a boy could swim; his the hierarchy of jerseys andblazers. It was he who instituted Bounds, and call, and the two sortsof exercise-paper, and the three sorts of caning, and "The Sawtonian, " abi-terminal magazine. His plump finger was in every pie. The dome ofhis skull, mild but impressive, shone at every master's meeting. He wasgenerally acknowledged to be the coming man. 

His last achievement had been the organization of the day-boys. They hadbeen left too much to themselves, and were weak in esprit de corps;they were apt to regard home, not school, as the most important thingin their lives. Moreover, they got out of their parents' hands; they didtheir preparation any time and some times anyhow. They shirked games, they were out at all hours, they ate what they should not, they smoked, they bicycled on the asphalt. Now all was over. Like boarders, theywere to be in at 7:15 P. M. , and were not allowed out after unless witha written order from their parent or guardian; they, too, must work atfixed hours in the evening, and before breakfast next morning from 7 to8. Games were compulsory. They must not go to parties in term time. They must keep to bounds. Of course the reform was not complete. Itwas impossible to control the dieting, though, on a printed circular, day-parents were implored to provide simple food. And it is alsobelieved that some mothers disobeyed the rule about preparation, andallowed their sons to do all the work over-night and have a longersleep in the morning. But the gulf between day-boys and boarders wasconsiderably lessened, and grew still narrower when the day-boys toowere organized into a House with house-master and colours of their own. "Through the House, " said Mr. Pembroke, "one learns patriotism forthe school, just as through the school one learns patriotism for thecountry. Our only course, therefore, is to organize the day-boys intoa House. " The headmaster agreed, as he often did, and the new communitywas formed. Mr. Pembroke, to avoid the tongues of malice, had refusedthe post of house-master for himself, saying to Mr. Jackson, who taughtthe sixth, "You keep too much in the background. Here is a chance foryou. " But this was a failure. Mr. Jackson, a scholar and a student, neither felt nor conveyed any enthusiasm, and when confronted with hisHouse, would say, "Well, I don't know what we're all here for. Now Ishould think you'd better go home to your mothers. " He returned to hisbackground, and next term Mr. Pembroke was to take his place. 

Such were the themes on which Mr. Pembroke discoursed to Rickie's civilear. He showed him the school, and the library, and the subterraneanhall where the day-boys might leave their coats and caps, and where, onfestal occasions, they supped. He showed him Mr. Jackson's pretty house, and whispered, "Were it not for his brilliant intellect, it would be acase of Quickmarch!" He showed him the racquet-court, happily completed, and the chapel, unhappily still in need of funds. Rickie was impressed, but then he was impressed by everything. Of course a House of day-boysseemed a little shadowy after Agnes and Gerald, but he imparted somereality even to that. 

"The racquet-court, " said Mr. Pembroke, "is most gratifying. We neverexpected to manage it this year. But before the Easter holidays everyboy received a subscription card, and was given to understand that hemust collect thirty shillings. You will scarcely believe me, but theynearly all responded. Next term there was a dinner in the great school, and all who had collected, not thirty shillings, but as much as apound, were invited to it--for naturally one was not precise for a fewshillings, the response being the really valuable thing. Practically thewhole school had to come. "

"They must enjoy the court tremendously. "

"Ah, it isn't used very much. Racquets, as I daresay you know, is ratheran expensive game. Only the wealthier boys play--and I'm sorry to saythat it is not of our wealthier boys that we are always the proudest. But the point is that no public school can be called first-class untilit has one. They are building them right and left. "

"And now you must finish the chapel?"

"Now we must complete the chapel. " He paused reverently, and said, "Andhere is a fragment of the original building. " Rickie at once had a rushof sympathy. He, too, looked with reverence at the morsel of Jacobeanbrickwork, ruddy and beautiful amidst the machine-squared stones of themodern apse. The two men, who had so little in common, were thrilledwith patriotism. They rejoiced that their country was great, noble, andold. 

"Thank God I'm English, " said Rickie suddenly. 

"Thank Him indeed, " said Mr. Pembroke, laying a hand on his back. 

"We've been nearly as great as the Greeks, I do believe. Greater, I'msure, than the Italians, though they did get closer to beauty. Greaterthan the French, though we do take all their ideas. I can't helpthinking that England is immense. English literature certainly. "

Mr. Pembroke removed his hand. He found such patriotism somewhat craven. Genuine patriotism comes only from the heart. It knows no parleying withreason. English ladies will declare abroad that there are no fogs inLondon, and Mr. Pembroke, though he would not go to this, was onlyrestrained by the certainty of being found out. On this occasionhe remarked that the Greeks lacked spiritual insight, and had a lowconception of woman. 

"As to women--oh! there they were dreadful, " said Rickie, leaning hishand on the chapel. "I realize that more and more. But as to spiritualinsight, I don't quite like to say; and I find Plato too difficult, butI know men who don't, and I fancy they mightn't agree with you. "

"Far be it from me to disparage Plato. And for philosophy as a whole Ihave the greatest respect. But it is the crown of a man's education, not the foundation. Myself, I read it with the utmost profit, but I haveknown endless trouble result from boys who attempt it too soon, beforethey were set. "

"But if those boys had died first, " cried Rickie with sudden vehemence, "without knowing what there is to know--"

"Or isn't to know!" said Mr. Pembroke sarcastically. 

"Or what there isn't to know. Exactly. That's it. "

"My dear Rickie, what do you mean? If an old friend may be frank, youare talking great rubbish. " And, with a few well-worn formulae, hepropped up the young man's orthodoxy. The props were unnecessary. Rickiehad his own equilibrium. Neither the Revivalism that assails a boy atabout the age of fifteen, nor the scepticism that meets him five yearslater, could sway him from his allegiance to the church into which hehad been born. But his equilibrium was personal, and the secret of ituseless to others. He desired that each man should find his own. 

"What does philosophy do?" the propper continued. "Does it make a manhappier in life? Does it make him die more peacefully? I fancy that inthe long-run Herbert Spencer will get no further than the rest of us. Ah, Rickie! I wish you could move among the school boys, and see theirhealthy contempt for all they cannot touch!" Here he was going too far, and had to add, "Their spiritual capacities, of course, are anothermatter. " Then he remembered the Greeks, and said, "Which proves myoriginal statement. "

Submissive signs, as of one propped, appeared in Rickie's face. Mr. Pembroke then questioned him about the men who found Plato notdifficult. But here he kept silence, patting the school chapel gently, and presently the conversation turned to topics with which they wereboth more competent to deal. 

"Does Agnes take much interest in the school?"

"Not as much as she did. It is the result of her engagement. If ournaughty soldier had not carried her off, she might have made an idealschoolmaster's wife. I often chaff him about it, for he a littledespises the intellectual professions. Natural, perfectly natural. Howcan a man who faces death feel as we do towards mensa or tupto?"

"Perfectly true. Absolutely true. "

Mr. Pembroke remarked to himself that Frederick was improving. 

"If a man shoots straight and hits straight and speaks straight, if hisheart is in the right place, if he has the instincts of a Christianand a gentleman--then I, at all events, ask no better husband for mysister. "

"How could you get a better?" he cried. "Do you remember the thing in'The Clouds'?" And he quoted, as well as he could, from the invitationof the Dikaios Logos, the description of the young Athenian, perfect inbody, placid in mind, who neglects his work at the Bar and trains allday among the woods and meadows, with a garland on his head and a friendto set the pace; the scent of new leaves is upon them; they rejoice inthe freshness of spring; over their heads the plane-tree whispers to theelm, perhaps the most glorious invitation to the brainless life that hasever been given. 

"Yes, yes, " said Mr. Pembroke, who did not want a brother-in-law out ofAristophanes. Nor had he got one, for Mr. Dawes would not have botheredover the garland or noticed the spring, and would have complained thatthe friend ran too slowly or too fast. 

"And as for her--!" But he could think of no classical parallel forAgnes. She slipped between examples. A kindly Medea, a Cleopatra with asense of duty--these suggested her a little. She was not born in Greece, but came overseas to it--a dark, intelligent princess. With all hersplendour, there were hints of splendour still hidden--hints of anolder, richer, and more mysterious land. He smiled at the idea of herbeing "not there. " Ansell, clever as he was, had made a bad blunder. Shehad more reality than any other woman in the world. 

Mr. Pembroke looked pleased at this boyish enthusiasm. He was fond ofhis sister, though he knew her to be full of faults. "Yes, I envy her, "he said. "She has found a worthy helpmeet for life's journey, I dobelieve. And though they chafe at the long engagement, it is a blessingin disguise. They learn to know each other thoroughly before contractingmore intimate ties. "

Rickie did not assent. The length of the engagement seemed to himunspeakably cruel. Here were two people who loved each other, and theycould not marry for years because they had no beastly money. Not allHerbert's pious skill could make this out a blessing. It was bad enoughbeing "so rich" at the Silts; here he was more ashamed of it than ever. In a few weeks he would come of age and his money be his own. What apity things were so crookedly arranged. He did not want money, or at allevents he did not want so much. 

"Suppose, " he meditated, for he became much worried over this, --"supposeI had a hundred pounds a year less than I shall have. Well, I shouldstill have enough. I don't want anything but food, lodging, clothes, and now and then a railway fare. I haven't any tastes. I don't collectanything or play games. Books are nice to have, but after all there isMudie's, or if it comes to that, the Free Library. Oh, my profession! Iforgot I shall have a profession. Well, that will leave me with more tospare than ever. " And he supposed away till he lost touch with the worldand with what it permits, and committed an unpardonable sin. 

It happened towards the end of his visit--another airless day of thatmild January. Mr. Dawes was playing against a scratch team of cads, andhad to go down to the ground in the morning to settle something. Rickieproposed to come too. 

Hitherto he had been no nuisance. "You will be frightfully bored, " saidAgnes, observing the cloud on her lover's face. "And Gerald walks like amaniac. "

"I had a little thought of the Museum this morning, " said Mr. Pembroke. "It is very strong in flint arrow-heads. "

"Ah, that's your line, Rickie. I do envy you and Herbert the way youenjoy the past. "

"I almost think I'll go with Dawes, if he'll have me. I can walk quitefast just to the ground and back. Arrowheads are wonderful, but I don'treally enjoy them yet, though I hope I shall in time. "

Mr. Pembroke was offended, but Rickie held firm. 

In a quarter of an hour he was back at the house alone, nearly crying. 

"Oh, did the wretch go too fast?" called Miss Pembroke from her bedroomwindow. 

"I went too fast for him. " He spoke quite sharply, and before he hadtime to say he was sorry and didn't mean exactly that, the window hadshut. 

"They've quarrelled, " she thought. "Whatever about?"

She soon heard. Gerald returned in a cold stormy temper. Rickie hadoffered him money. 

"My dear fellow don't be so cross. The child's mad. "

"If it was, I'd forgive that. But I can't stand unhealthiness. "

"Now, Gerald, that's where I hate you. You don't know what it is to pitythe weak. "

"Woman's job. So you wish I'd taken a hundred pounds a year from him. Did you ever hear such blasted cheek? Marry us--he, you, and me--ahundred pounds down and as much annual--he, of course, to pry into allwe did, and we to kowtow and eat dirt-pie to him. If that's Mr. RicketyElliot's idea of a soldier and an Englishman, it isn't mine, and I wishI'd had a horse-whip. "

She was roaring with laughter. "You're babies, a pair of you, and you'rethe worst. Why couldn't you let the little silly down gently? There hewas puffing and sniffing under my window, and I thought he'd insultedyou. Why didn't you accept?"

"Accept?" he thundered. 

"It would have taken the nonsense out of him for ever. Why, he was onlytalking out of a book. "

"More fool he. "

"Well, don't be angry with a fool. He means no harm. He muddles all daywith poetry and old dead people, and then tries to bring it into life. It's too funny for words. "

Gerald repeated that he could not stand unhealthiness. 

"I don't call that exactly unhealthy. "

"I do. And why he could give the money's worse. "

"What do you mean?"

He became shy. "I hadn't meant to tell you. It's not quite for a lady. "For, like most men who are rather animal, he was intellectually a prude. "He says he can't ever marry, owing to his foot. It wouldn't be fair toposterity. His grandfather was crocked, his father too, and he's as bad. He thinks that it's hereditary, and may get worse next generation. He'sdiscussed it all over with other Undergrads. A bright lot they must be. He daren't risk having any children. Hence the hundred quid. "

She stopped laughing. "Oh, little beast, if he said all that!"

He was encouraged to proceed. Hitherto he had not talked about theirschool days. Now he told her everything, --the "barley-sugar, " as hecalled it, the pins in chapel, and how one afternoon he had tied himhead-downward on to a tree trunk and then ran away--of course only for amoment. 

For this she scolded him well. But she had a thrill of joy when shethought of the weak boy in the clutches of the strong one. 

V

Gerald died that afternoon. He was broken up in the football match. Rickie and Mr. Pembroke were on the ground when the accident took place. It was no good torturing him by a drive to the hospital, and he wasmerely carried to the little pavilion and laid upon the floor. A doctorcame, and so did a clergyman, but it seemed better to leave him for thelast few minutes with Agnes, who had ridden down on her bicycle. 

It was a strange lamentable interview. The girl was so accustomed tohealth, that for a time she could not understand. It must be a joke thathe chose to lie there in the dust, with a rug over him and his kneesbent up towards his chin. His arms were as she knew them, and theiradmirable muscles showed clear and clean beneath the jersey. The face, too, though a little flushed, was uninjured: it must be some curiousjoke. 

"Gerald, what have you been doing?"

He replied, "I can't see you. It's too dark. "

"Oh, I'll soon alter that, " she said in her old brisk way. She openedthe pavilion door. The people who were standing by it moved aside. Shesaw a deserted meadow, steaming and grey, and beyond it slateroofedcottages, row beside row, climbing a shapeless hill. Towards London thesky was yellow. "There. That's better. " She sat down by him again, anddrew his hand into her own. "Now we are all right, aren't we?"

"Where are you?"

This time she could not reply. 

"What is it? Where am I going?"

"Wasn't the rector here?" said she after a silence. 

"He explained heaven, and thinks that I--but--I couldn't tell a parson;but I don't seem to have any use for any of the things there. "

"We are Christians, " said Agnes shyly. "Dear love, we don't talk aboutthese things, but we believe them. I think that you will get well andbe as strong again as ever; but, in any case, there is a spiritual life, and we know that some day you and I--"

"I shan't do as a spirit, " he interrupted, sighing pitifully. "I wantyou as I am, and it cannot be managed. The rector had to say so. Iwant--I don't want to talk. I can't see you. Shut that door. "

She obeyed, and crept into his arms. Only this time her grasp was thestronger. Her heart beat louder and louder as the sound of his grew morefaint. He was crying like a little frightened child, and her lips werewet with his tears. "Bear it bravely, " she told him. 

"I can't, " he whispered. "It isn't to be done. I can't see you, " andpassed from her trembling with open eyes. 

She rode home on her bicycle, leaving the others to follow. Some ladieswho did not know what had happened bowed and smiled as she passed, andshe returned their salute. 

"Oh, miss, is it true?" cried the cook, her face streaming with tears. 

Agnes nodded. Presumably it was true. Letters had just arrived: onewas for Gerald from his mother. Life, which had given them no warning, seemed to make no comment now. The incident was outside nature, andwould surely pass away like a dream. She felt slightly irritable, andthe grief of the servants annoyed her. 

They sobbed. "Ah, look at his marks! Ah, little he thought--little hethought!" In the brown holland strip by the front door a heavy footballboot had left its impress. They had not liked Gerald, but he was a man, they were women, he had died. Their mistress ordered them to leave her. 

For many minutes she sat at the foot of the stairs, rubbing her eyes. Anobscure spiritual crisis was going on. 

Should she weep like the servants? Or should she bear up and trust inthe consoler Time? Was the death of a man so terrible after all? As sheinvited herself to apathy there were steps on the gravel, and RickieElliot burst in. He was splashed with mud, his breath was gone, andhis hair fell wildly over his meagre face. She thought, "These are thepeople who are left alive!" From the bottom of her soul she hated him. 

"I came to see what you're doing, " he cried. 

"Resting. "

He knelt beside her, and she said, "Would you please go away?"

"Yes, dear Agnes, of course; but I must see first that you mind. " Herbreath caught. Her eves moved to the treads, going outwards, so firmly, so irretrievably. 

He panted, "It's the worst thing that can ever happen to you in allyour life, and you've got to mind it you've got to mind it. They'll comesaying, 'Bear up trust to time. ' No, no; they're wrong. Mind it. "

Through all her misery she knew that this boy was greater than theysupposed. He rose to his feet, and with intense conviction cried: "ButI know--I understand. It's your death as well as his. He's gone, Agnes, and his arms will never hold you again. In God's name, mind such athing, and don't sit fencing with your soul. Don't stop being great;that's the one crime he'll never forgive you. "

She faltered, "Who--who forgives?"

"Gerald. "

At the sound of his name she slid forward, and all her dishonesty lefther. She acknowledged that life's meaning had vanished. Bending down, she kissed the footprint. "How can he forgive me?" she sobbed. "Wherehas he gone to? You could never dream such an awful thing. He couldn'tsee me though I opened the door--wide--plenty of light; and then hecould not remember the things that should comfort him. He wasn't a--hewasn't ever a great reader, and he couldn't remember the things. Therector tried, and he couldn't--I came, and I couldn't--" She could notspeak for tears. Rickie did not check her. He let her accuse herself, and fate, and Herbert, who had postponed their marriage. She might havebeen a wife six months; but Herbert had spoken of self-control and ofall life before them. He let her kiss the footprints till their marksgave way to the marks of her lips. She moaned. "He is gone--where ishe?" and then he replied quite quietly, "He is in heaven. "

She begged him not to comfort her; she could not bear it. 

"I did not come to comfort you. I came to see that you mind. He is inheaven, Agnes. The greatest thing is over. "

Her hatred was lulled. She murmured, "Dear Rickie!" and held up her handto him. Through her tears his meagre face showed as a seraph's who spokethe truth and forbade her to juggle with her soul. "Dear Rickie--but forthe rest of my life what am I to do?"

"Anything--if you remember that the greatest thing is over. "

"I don't know you, " she said tremulously. "You have grown up in amoment. You never talked to us, and yet you understand it all. Tell meagain--I can only trust you--where he is. "

"He is in heaven. "

"You are sure?"

It puzzled her that Rickie, who could scarcely tell you the time withouta saving clause, should be so certain about immortality. 

VI

He did not stop for the funeral. Mr. Pembroke thought that he had a badeffect on Agnes, and prevented her from acquiescing in the tragedy asrapidly as she might have done. As he expressed it, "one must not courtsorrow, " and he hinted to the young man that they desired to be alone. 

Rickie went back to the Silts. 

He was only there a few days. As soon as term opened he returned toCambridge, for which he longed passionately. The journey thither was nowfamiliar to him, and he took pleasure in each landmark. The fair valleyof Tewin Water, the cutting into Hitchin where the train traverses thechalk, Baldock Church, Royston with its promise of downs, were nothingin themselves, but dear as stages in the pilgrimage towards the abodeof peace. On the platform he met friends. They had all had pleasantvacations: it was a happy world. The atmosphere alters. 

Cambridge, according to her custom, welcomed her sons with open drains. Pettycury was up, so was Trinity Street, and navvies peeped out ofKing's Parade. Here it was gas, there electric light, but everywheresomething, and always a smell. It was also the day that the wheels felloff the station tram, and Rickie, who was naturally inside, was amongthe passengers who "sustained no injury but a shock, and had as hearty alaugh over the mishap afterwards as any one. "

Tilliard fled into a hansom, cursing himself for having tried to do thething cheaply. Hornblower also swept past yelling derisively, with hisluggage neatly piled above his head. "Let's get out and walk, " mutteredAnsell. But Rickie was succouring a distressed female--Mrs. Aberdeen. 

"Oh, Mrs. Aberdeen, I never saw you: I am so glad to see you--I am sovery glad. " Mrs. Aberdeen was cold. She did not like being spoken tooutside the college, and was also distrait about her basket. Hithertono genteel eye had even seen inside it, but in the collision its littlecalico veil fell off, and there was revealed--nothing. The basket wasempty, and never would hold anything illegal. All the same she wasdistrait, and "We shall meet later, sir, I dessy, " was all the greetingRickie got from her. 

"Now what kind of a life has Mrs. Aberdeen?" he exclaimed, as he andAnsell pursued the Station Road. "Here these bedders come and make uscomfortable. We owe an enormous amount to them, their wages are absurd, and we know nothing about them. Off they go to Barnwell, and then theirlives are hidden. I just know that Mrs. Aberdeen has a husband, butthat's all. She never will talk about him. Now I do so want to fill inher life. I see one-half of it. What's the other half? She may have areal jolly house, in good taste, with a little garden and books, andpictures. Or, again, she mayn't. But in any case one ought to know. Iknow she'd dislike it, but she oughtn't to dislike. After all, beddersare to blame for the present lamentable state of things, just as much asgentlefolk. She ought to want me to come. She ought to introduce me toher husband. "

They had reached the corner of Hills Road. Ansell spoke for the firsttime. He said, "Ugh!"

"Drains?"

"Yes. A spiritual cesspool. "

Rickie laughed. 

"I expected it from your letter. "

"The one you never answered?"

"I answer none of your letters. You are quite hopeless by now. You cango to the bad. But I refuse to accompany you. I refuse to believe thatevery human being is a moving wonder of supreme interest and tragedy andbeauty--which was what the letter in question amounted to. You'll findplenty who will believe it. It's a very popular view among peoplewho are too idle to think; it saves them the trouble of detecting thebeautiful from the ugly, the interesting from the dull, the tragic fromthe melodramatic. You had just come from Sawston, and were apparentlycarried away by the fact that Miss Pembroke had the usual amount of armsand legs. "

Rickie was silent. He had told his friend how he felt, but not what hadhappened. Ansell could discuss love and death admirably, but somehow hewould not understand lovers or a dying man, and in the letter there hadbeen scant allusion to these concrete facts. Would Cambridge understandthem either? He watched some dons who were peeping into an excavation, and throwing up their hands with humorous gestures of despair. Thesemen would lecture next week on Catiline's conspiracy, on Luther, onEvolution, on Catullus. They dealt with so much and they had experiencedso little. Was it possible he would ever come to think Cambridge narrow?In his short life Rickie had known two sudden deaths, and that is enoughto disarrange any placid outlook on the world. He knew once for allthat we are all of us bubbles on an extremely rough sea. Into this seahumanity has built, as it were, some little breakwaters--scientificknowledge, civilized restraint--so that the bubbles do not break sofrequently or so soon. But the sea has not altered, and it was only achance that he, Ansell, Tilliard, and Mrs. Aberdeen had not all beenkilled in the tram. 

They waited for the other tram by the Roman Catholic Church, whoseflorid bulk was already receding into twilight. It is the first bigbuilding that the incoming visitor sees. "Oh, here come the colleges!"cries the Protestant parent, and then learns that it was built by aPapist who made a fortune out of movable eyes for dolls. "Built out ofdoll's eyes to contain idols"--that, at all events, is the legend andthe joke. It watches over the apostate city, taller by many a yard thananything within, and asserting, however wildly, that here is eternity, stability, and bubbles unbreakable upon a windless sea. 

A costly hymn tune announced five o'clock, and in the distance the morelovable note of St. Mary's could be heard, speaking from the heart ofthe town. Then the tram arrived--the slow stuffy tram that plies everytwenty minutes between the unknown and the marketplace--and took thempast the desecrated grounds of Downing, past Addenbrookes Hospital, girtlike a Venetian palace with a mantling canal, past the Fitz William, towering upon immense substructions like any Roman temple, right up tothe gates of one's own college, which looked like nothing else in theworld. The porters were glad to see them, but wished it had been ahansom. "Our luggage, " explained Rickie, "comes in the hotel omnibus, ifyou would kindly pay a shilling for mine. " Ansell turned aside to somelarge lighted windows, the abode of a hospitable don, and from otherwindows there floated familiar voices and the familiar mistakes in aBeethoven sonata. The college, though small, was civilized, and proud ofits civilization. It was not sufficient glory to be a Blue there, noran additional glory to get drunk. Many a maiden lady who had readthat Cambridge men were sad dogs, was surprised and perhaps a littledisappointed at the reasonable life which greeted her. Miss Appleblossomin particular had had a tremendous shock. The sight of young fellowsmaking tea and drinking water had made her wonder whether this wasCambridge College at all. "It is so, " she exclaimed afterwards. "It isjust as I say; and what's more, I wouldn't have it otherwise; Stewartsays it's as easy as easy to get into the swim, and not at allexpensive. " The direction of the swim was determined a little by thegenius of the place--for places have a genius, though the less we talkabout it the better--and a good deal by the tutors and resident fellows, who treated with rare dexterity the products that came up yearlyfrom the public schools. They taught the perky boy that he was noteverything, and the limp boy that he might be something. They evenwelcomed those boys who were neither limp nor perky, but odd--those boyswho had never been at a public school at all, and such do not find awelcome everywhere. And they did everything with ease--one might almostsay with nonchalance, so that the boys noticed nothing, and receivededucation, often for the first time in their lives. 

But Rickie turned to none of these friends, for just then he loved hisrooms better than any person. They were all he really possessed in theworld, the only place he could call his own. Over the door was his name, and through the paint, like a grey ghost, he could still read the nameof his predecessor. With a sigh of joy he entered the perishable homethat was his for a couple of years. There was a beautiful fire, andthe kettle boiled at once. He made tea on the hearth-rug and ate thebiscuits which Mrs. Aberdeen had brought for him up from Anderson's. "Gentlemen, " she said, "must learn to give and take. " He sighed againand again, like one who had escaped from danger. With his head on thefender and all his limbs relaxed, he felt almost as safe as he felt oncewhen his mother killed a ghost in the passage by carrying him throughit in her arms. There was no ghost now; he was frightened at reality; hewas frightened at the splendours and horrors of the world. 

A letter from Miss Pembroke was on the table. He did not hurry to openit, for she, and all that she did, was overwhelming. She wrote likethe Sibyl; her sorrowful face moved over the stars and shattered theirharmonies; last night he saw her with the eyes of Blake, a virgin widow, tall, veiled, consecrated, with her hands stretched out against aneverlasting wind. Why should she write? Her letters were not for thelikes of him, nor to be read in rooms like his. 

"We are not leaving Sawston, " she wrote. "I saw how selfish it was ofme to risk spoiling Herbert's career. I shall get used to any place. Now that he is gone, nothing of that sort can matter. Every one has beenmost kind, but you have comforted me most, though you did not mean to. Icannot think how you did it, or understood so much. I still think of youas a little boy with a lame leg, --I know you will let me say this, --andyet when it came to the point you knew more than people who have beenall their lives with sorrow and death. "

Rickie burnt this letter, which he ought not to have done, for it wasone of the few tributes Miss Pembroke ever paid to imagination. Buthe felt that it did not belong to him: words so sincere should be forGerald alone. The smoke rushed up the chimney, and he indulged in avision. He saw it reach the outer air and beat against the low ceilingof clouds. The clouds were too strong for it; but in them was one chink, revealing one star, and through this the smoke escaped into the lightof stars innumerable. Then--but then the vision failed, and the voice ofscience whispered that all smoke remains on earth in the form of smuts, and is troublesome to Mrs. Aberdeen. 

"I am jolly unpractical, " he mused. "And what is the point of it whenreal things are so wonderful? Who wants visions in a world that hasAgnes and Gerald?" He turned on the electric light and pulled openthe table-drawer. There, among spoons and corks and string, he found afragment of a little story that he had tried to write last term. It wascalled "The Bay of the Fifteen Islets, " and the action took place on St. John's Eve off the coast of Sicily. A party of tourists land on one ofthe islands. Suddenly the boatmen become uneasy, and say that the islandis not generally there. It is an extra one, and they had better have teaon one of the ordinaries. "Pooh, volcanic!" says the leading tourist, and the ladies say how interesting. The island begins to rock, and sodo the minds of its visitors. They start and quarrel and jabber. Fingersburst up through the sand-black fingers of sea devils. The island tilts. The tourists go mad. But just before the catastrophe one man, integervitae scelerisque purus, sees the truth. Here are no devils. Othermuscles, other minds, are pulling the island to its subterranean home. Through the advancing wall of waters he sees no grisly faces, noghastly medieval limbs, but--But what nonsense! When real things are sowonderful, what is the point of pretending?

And so Rickie deflected his enthusiasms. Hitherto they had played ongods and heroes, on the infinite and the impossible, on virtue andbeauty and strength. Now, with a steadier radiance, they transfigured aman who was dead and a woman who was still alive. 

VII

Love, say orderly people, can be fallen into by two methods: (1) throughthe desires, (2) through the imagination. And if the orderly people areEnglish, they add that (1) is the inferior method, and characteristicof the South. It is inferior. Yet those who pursue it at all eventsknow what they want; they are not puzzling to themselves or ludicrousto others; they do not take the wings of the morning and fly into theuttermost parts of the sea before walking to the registry office; theycannot breed a tragedy quite like Rickie's. 

He is, of course, absurdly young--not twenty-one and he will be engagedto be married at twenty-three. He has no knowledge of the world; forexample, he thinks that if you do not want money you can give it tofriends who do. He believes in humanity because he knows a dozen decentpeople. He believes in women because he has loved his mother. And hisfriends are as young and as ignorant as himself. They are full of thewine of life. But they have not tasted the cup--let us call it theteacup--of experience, which has made men of Mr. Pembroke's type whatthey are. Oh, that teacup! To be taken at prayers, at friendship, atlove, till we are quite sane, efficient, quite experienced, and quiteuseless to God or man. We must drink it, or we shall die. But we neednot drink it always. Here is our problem and our salvation. There comesa moment--God knows when--at which we can say, "I will experience nolonger. I will create. I will be an experience. " But to do this we mustbe both acute and heroic. For it is not easy, after accepting six cupsof tea, to throw the seventh in the face of the hostess. And to Rickiethis moment has not, as yet, been offered. 

Ansell, at the end of his third year, got a first in the Moral ScienceTripos. Being a scholar, he kept his rooms in college, and at oncebegan to work for a Fellowship. Rickie got a creditable second in theClassical Tripos, Part I. , and retired to sallow lodgings in Mill bane, carrying with him the degree of B. A. And a small exhibition, which wasquite as much as he deserved. For Part II. He read Greek Archaeology, and got a second. All this means that Ansell was much cleverer thanRickie. As for the cow, she was still going strong, though turning alittle academic as the years passed over her. 

"We are bound to get narrow, " sighed Rickie. He and his friend werelying in a meadow during their last summer term. In his incurable lovefor flowers he had plaited two garlands of buttercups and cow-parsley, and Ansell's lean Jewish face was framed in one of them. "Cambridge iswonderful, but--but it's so tiny. You have no idea--at least, I thinkyou have no idea--how the great world looks down on it. "

"I read the letters in the papers. "

"It's a bad look-out. "

"How?"

"Cambridge has lost touch with the times. "

"Was she ever intended to touch them?"

"She satisfies, " said Rickie mysteriously, "neither the professions, northe public schools, nor the great thinking mass of men and women. Thereis a general feeling that her day is over, and naturally one feelspretty sick. "

"Do you still write short stories?"

"Because your English has gone to the devil. You think and talk inJournalese. Define a great thinking mass. "

Rickie sat up and adjusted his floral crown. 

"Estimate the worth of a general feeling. "

Silence. 

"And thirdly, where is the great world?"

"Oh that--!"

"Yes. That, " exclaimed Ansell, rising from his couch in violentexcitement. "Where is it? How do you set about finding it? How long doesit take to get there? What does it think? What does it do? What doesit want? Oblige me with specimens of its art and literature. " Silence. "Till you do, my opinions will be as follows: There is no great world atall, only a little earth, for ever isolated from the rest of the littlesolar system. The earth is full of tiny societies, and Cambridge is oneof them. All the societies are narrow, but some are good and some arebad--just as one house is beautiful inside and another ugly. Observe themetaphor of the houses: I am coming back to it. The good societies say, `I tell you to do this because I am Cambridge. ' The bad ones say, `Itell you to do that because I am the great world, not because I am'Peckham, ' or `Billingsgate, ' or `Park Lane, ' but `because I am thegreat world. ' They lie. And fools like you listen to them, and believethat they are a thing which does not exist and never has existed, andconfuse 'great, ' which has no meaning whatever, with 'good, ' which meanssalvation. Look at this great wreath: it'll be dead tomorrow. Lookat that good flower: it'll come up again next year. Now for the othermetaphor. To compare the world to Cambridge is like comparing theoutsides of houses with the inside of a house. No intellectual effort isneeded, no moral result is attained. You only have to say, 'Oh, whata difference!' and then come indoors again and exhibit your broadenedmind. "

"I never shall come indoors again, " said Rickie. "That's the wholepoint. " And his voice began to quiver. "It's well enough for thosewho'll get a Fellowship, but in a few weeks I shall go down. In a fewyears it'll be as if I've never been up. It matters very much to me whatthe world is like. I can't answer your questions about it; and that'sno loss to you, but so much the worse for me. And then you've got ahouse--not a metaphorical one, but a house with father and sisters. Ihaven't, and never shall have. There'll never again be a home for melike Cambridge. I shall only look at the outside of homes. According toyour metaphor, I shall live in the street, and it matters very much tome what I find there. "

"You'll live in another house right enough, " said Ansell, ratheruneasily. "Only take care you pick out a decent one. I can't thinkwhy you flop about so helplessly, like a bit of seaweed. In four yearsyou've taken as much root as any one. "

"Where?"

"I should say you've been fortunate in your friends. "

"Oh--that!" But he was not cynical--or cynical in a very tender way. He was thinking of the irony of friendship--so strong it is, and sofragile. We fly together, like straws in an eddy, to part in the openstream. Nature has no use for us: she has cut her stuff differently. Dutiful sons, loving husbands, responsible fathers these are what shewants, and if we are friends it must be in our spare time. Abram andSarai were sorrowful, yet their seed became as sand of the sea, anddistracts the politics of Europe at this moment. But a few verses ofpoetry is all that survives of David and Jonathan. 

"I wish we were labelled, " said Rickie. He wished that all theconfidence and mutual knowledge that is born in such a place asCambridge could be organized. People went down into the world saying, "We know and like each other; we shan't forget. " But they did forget, for man is so made that he cannot remember long without a symbol; hewished there was a society, a kind of friendship office, where themarriage of true minds could be registered. 

"Why labels?"

"To know each other again. "

"I have taught you pessimism splendidly. " He looked at his watch. 

"What time?"

"Not twelve. "

Rickie got up. 

"Why go?" He stretched out his hand and caught hold of Rickie's ankle. 

"I've got that Miss Pembroke to lunch--that girl whom you say never'sthere. "

"Then why go? All this week you have pretended Miss Pembroke awaitedyou. Wednesday--Miss Pembroke to lunch. Thursday--Miss Pembroke to tea. Now again--and you didn't even invite her. "

"To Cambridge, no. But the Hall man they're stopping with has so manyengagements that she and her friend can often come to me, I'm glad tosay. I don't think I ever told you much, but over two years ago the manshe was going to marry was killed at football. She nearly died of grief. This visit to Cambridge is almost the first amusement she has felt up totaking. Oh, they go back tomorrow! Give me breakfast tomorrow. "

"All right. "

"But I shall see you this evening. I shall be round at your paper onSchopenhauer. Lemme go. "

"Don't go, " he said idly. "It's much better for you to talk to me. "

"Lemme go, Stewart. "

"It's amusing that you're so feeble. You--simply--can't--get--away. Iwish I wanted to bully you. "

Rickie laughed, and suddenly over balanced into the grass. Ansell, withunusual playfulness, held him prisoner. They lay there for few minutes, talking and ragging aimlessly. Then Rickie seized his opportunity andjerked away. 

"Go, go!" yawned the other. But he was a little vexed, for he was ayoung man with great capacity for pleasure, and it pleased him thatmorning to be with his friend. The thought of two ladies waiting lunchdid not deter him; stupid women, why shouldn't they wait? Why shouldthey interfere with their betters? With his ear on the ground helistened to Rickie's departing steps, and thought, "He wastes a lot oftime keeping engagements. Why will he be pleasant to fools?" And thenhe thought, "Why has he turned so unhappy? It isn't as it he's aphilosopher, or tries to solve the riddle of existence. And he's gotmoney of his own. " Thus thinking, he fell asleep. 

Meanwhile Rickie hurried away from him, and slackened and stopped, andhurried again. He was due at the Union in ten minutes, but he could notbring himself there. He dared not meet Miss Pembroke: he loved her. 

The devil must have planned it. They had started so gloriously; she hadbeen a goddess both in joy and sorrow. She was a goddess still. Buthe had dethroned the god whom once he had glorified equally. Slowly, slowly, the image of Gerald had faded. That was the first step. Rickiehad thought, "No matter. He will be bright again. Just now all theradiance chances to be in her. " And on her he had fixed his eyes. Hethought of her awake. He entertained her willingly in dreams. He foundher in poetry and music and in the sunset. She made him kind and strong. She made him clever. Through her he kept Cambridge in its proper place, and lived as a citizen of the great world. But one night he dreamtthat she lay in his arms. This displeased him. He determined to think alittle about Gerald instead. Then the fabric collapsed. 

It was hard on Rickie thus to meet the devil. He did not deserve it, forhe was comparatively civilized, and knew that there was nothing shamefulin love. But to love this woman! If only it had been any one else! Lovein return--that he could expect from no one, being too ugly and toounattractive. But the love he offered would not then have been vile. The insult to Miss Pembroke, who was consecrated, and whom he hadconsecrated, who could still see Gerald, and always would see him, shining on his everlasting throne this was the crime from the devil, the crime that no penance would ever purge. She knew nothing. She neverwould know. But the crime was registered in heaven. 

He had been tempted to confide in Ansell. But to what purpose? He wouldsay, "I love Miss Pembroke. " and Stewart would reply, "You ass. " Andthen. "I'm never going to tell her. " "You ass, " again. After all, itwas not a practical question; Agnes would never hear of his fall. Ifhis friend had been, as he expressed it, "labelled"; if he had beena father, or still better a brother, one might tell him of thediscreditable passion. But why irritate him for no reason? Thinking "Iam always angling for sympathy; I must stop myself, " he hurried onwardto the Union. 

He found his guests half way up the stairs, reading the advertisementsof coaches for the Long Vacation. He heard Mrs. Lewin say, "I wonderwhat he'll end by doing. " A little overacting his part, he apologizednonchalantly for his lateness. 

"It's always the same, " cried Agnes. "Last time he forgot I was comingaltogether. " She wore a flowered muslin--something indescribably liquidand cool. It reminded him a little of those swift piercing streams, neither blue nor green, that gush out of the dolomites. Her facewas clear and brown, like the face of a mountaineer; her hair was soplentiful that it seemed banked up above it; and her little toque, though it answered the note of the dress, was almost ludicrous, poisedon so much natural glory. When she moved, the sunlight flashed on herear-rings. 

He led them up to the luncheon-room. By now he was conscious of hislimitations as a host, and never attempted to entertain ladies in hislodgings. Moreover, the Union seemed less intimate. It had a faintflavour of a London club; it marked the undergraduate's nearest approachto the great world. Amid its waiters and serviettes one felt impersonal, and able to conceal the private emotions. Rickie felt that if MissPembroke knew one thing about him, she knew everything. During thisvisit he took her to no place that he greatly loved. 

"Sit down, ladies. Fall to. I'm sorry. I was out towards Coton with adreadful friend. "

Mrs. Lewin pushed up her veil. She was a typical May-term chaperon, always pleasant, always hungry, and always tired. Year after year shecame up to Cambridge in a tight silk dress, and year after year shenearly died of it. Her feet hurt, her limbs were cramped in a canoe, black spots danced before her eyes from eating too much mayonnaise. Butstill she came, if not as a mother as an aunt, if not as an aunt as afriend. Still she ascended the roof of King's, still she counted theballs of Clare, still she was on the point of grasping the organizationof the May races. "And who is your friend?" she asked. 

"His name is Ansell. "

"Well, now, did I see him two years ago--as a bedmaker in something theydid at the Foot Lights? Oh, how I roared. "

"You didn't see Mr. Ansell at the Foot Lights, " said Agnes, smiling. 

"How do you know?" asked Rickie. 

"He'd scarcely be so frivolous. "

"Do you remember seeing him?"

"For a moment. "

What a memory she had! And how splendidly during that moment she hadbehaved!

"Isn't he marvellously clever?"

"I believe so. "

"Oh, give me clever people!" cried Mrs. Lewin. "They are kindness itselfat the Hall, but I assure you I am depressed at times. One cannot talkbump-rowing for ever. "

"I never hear about him, Rickie; but isn't he really your greatestfriend?"

"I don't go in for greatest friends. "

"Do you mean you like us all equally?"

"All differently, those of you I like. "

"Ah, you've caught it!" cried Mrs. Lewin. "Mr. Elliot gave it you therewell. "

Agnes laughed, and, her elbows on the table, regarded them both throughher fingers--a habit of hers. Then she said, "Can't we see the great Mr. Ansell?"

"Oh, let's. Or would he frighten me?"

"He would frighten you, " said Rickie. "He's a trifle weird. "

"My good Rickie, if you knew the deathly dullness of Sawston--everyone saying the proper thing at the proper time, I so proper, Herbertso proper! Why, weirdness is the one thing I long for! Do arrangesomething. "

"I'm afraid there's no opportunity. Ansell goes some vast bicycle ridethis afternoon; this evening you're tied up at the Hall; and tomorrowyou go. "

"But there's breakfast tomorrow, " said Agnes. "Look here, Rickie, bringMr. Ansell to breakfast with us at Buoys. "

Mrs. Lewin seconded the invitation. 

"Bad luck again, " said Rickie boldly; "I'm already fixed up forbreakfast. I'll tell him of your very kind intention. "

"Let's have him alone, " murmured Agnes. 

"My dear girl, I should die through the floor! Oh, it'll be all rightabout breakfast. I rather think we shall get asked this evening by thatshy man who has the pretty rooms in Trinity. "

"Oh, very well. Where is it you breakfast, Rickie?"

He faltered. "To Ansell's, it is--" It seemed as if he was making somegreat admission. So self-conscious was he, that he thought the two womenexchanged glances. Had Agnes already explored that part of him that didnot belong to her? Would another chance step reveal the part that did?He asked them abruptly what they would like to do after lunch. 

"Anything, " said Mrs. Lewin, --"anything in the world. "

A walk? A boat? Ely? A drive? Some objection was raised to each. "Totell the truth, " she said at last, "I do feel a wee bit tired, and whatoccurs to me is this. You and Agnes shall leave me here and have no morebother. I shall be perfectly happy snoozling in one of these delightfuldrawing-room chairs. Do what you like, and then pick me up after it. "

"Alas, it's against regulations, " said Rickie. "The Union won't trustlady visitors on its premises alone. "

"But who's to know I'm alone? With a lot of men in the drawing-room, how's each to know that I'm not with the others?"

"That would shock Rickie, " said Agnes, laughing. "He's frightfullyhigh-principled. "

"No, I'm not, " said Rickie, thinking of his recent shiftiness overbreakfast. 

"Then come for a walk with me. I want exercise. Some connection of ourswas once rector of Madingley. I shall walk out and see the church. "

Mrs. Lewin was accordingly left in the Union. 

"This is jolly!" Agnes exclaimed as she strode along the somewhatdepressing road that leads out of Cambridge past the observatory. "Do Igo too fast?"

"No, thank you. I get stronger every year. If it wasn't for the look ofthe thing, I should be quite happy. "

"But you don't care for the look of the thing. It's only ignorant peoplewho do that, surely. "

"Perhaps. I care. I like people who are well-made and beautiful. Theyare of some use in the world. I understand why they are there. I cannotunderstand why the ugly and crippled are there, however healthy theymay feel inside. Don't you know how Turner spoils his pictures byintroducing a man like a bolster in the foreground? Well, in actual lifeevery landscape is spoilt by men of worse shapes still. "

"You sound like a bolster with the stuffing out. " They laughed. Shealways blew his cobwebs away like this, with a puff of humorous mountainair. Just now the associations he attached to her were various--shereminded him of a heroine of Meredith's--but a heroine at the end of thebook. All had been written about her. She had played her mighty part, and knew that it was over. He and he alone was not content, and wrotefor her daily a trivial and impossible sequel. 

Last time they had talked about Gerald. But that was some six monthsago, when things felt easier. Today Gerald was the faintest blur. Fortunately the conversation turned to Mr. Pembroke and to education. Did women lose a lot by not knowing Greek? "A heap, " said Rickie, roughly. But modern languages? Thus they got to Germany, which he hadvisited last Easter with Ansell; and thence to the German Emperor, andwhat a to-do he made; and from him to our own king (still Prince ofWales), who had lived while an undergraduate at Madingley Hall. Here itwas. And all the time he thought, "It is hard on her. She has no rightto be walking with me. She would be ill with disgust if she knew. It ishard on her to be loved. "

They looked at the Hall, and went inside the pretty little church. SomeArundel prints hung upon the pillars, and Agnes expressed the opinionthat pictures inside a place of worship were a pity. Rickie did notagree with this. He said again that nothing beautiful was ever to beregretted. 

"You're cracked on beauty, " she whispered--they were still inside thechurch. "Do hurry up and write something. "

"Something beautiful?"

"I believe you can. I'm going to lecture you seriously all the way home. Take care that you don't waste your life. "

They continued the conversation outside. "But I've got to hate my ownwriting. I believe that most people come to that stage--not so earlythough. What I write is too silly. It can't happen. For instance, astupid vulgar man is engaged to a lovely young lady. He wants her tolive in the towns, but she only cares for woods. She shocks him this wayand that, but gradually he tames her, and makes her nearly as dull ashe is. One day she has a last explosion--over the snobby weddingpresents--and flies out of the drawing-room window, shouting, 'Freedomand truth!' Near the house is a little dell full of fir-trees, and sheruns into it. He comes there the next moment. But she's gone. "

"Awfully exciting. Where?"

"Oh Lord, she's a Dryad!" cried Rickie, in great disgust. "She's turnedinto a tree. "

"Rickie, it's very good indeed. The kind of thing has something in it. Of course you get it all through Greek and Latin. How upset the man mustbe when he sees the girl turn. "

"He doesn't see her. He never guesses. Such a man could never see aDryad. "

"So you describe how she turns just before he comes up?"

"No. Indeed I don't ever say that she does turn. I don't use the word'Dryad' once. "

"I think you ought to put that part plainly. Otherwise, with such anoriginal story, people might miss the point. Have you had any luck withit?"

"Magazines? I haven't tried. I know what the stuff's worth. You see, ayear or two ago I had a great idea of getting into touch with Nature, just as the Greeks were in touch; and seeing England so beautiful, Iused to pretend that her trees and coppices and summer fields of parsleywere alive. It's funny enough now, but it wasn't funny then, for I gotin such a state that I believed, actually believed, that Fauns lived ina certain double hedgerow near the Cog Magogs, and one evening I walkeda mile sooner than go through it alone. "

"Good gracious!" She laid her hand on his shoulder. 

He moved to the other side of the road. "It's all right now. I'vechanged those follies for others. But while I had them I began to write, and even now I keep on writing, though I know better. I've got quite apile of little stories, all harping on this ridiculous idea of gettinginto touch with Nature. "

"I wish you weren't so modest. It's simply splendid as an idea. Though--but tell me about the Dryad who was engaged to be married. Whatwas she like?"

"I can show you the dell in which the young person disappeared. We passit on the right in a moment. "

"It does seem a pity that you don't make something of your talents. Itseems such a waste to write little stories and never publish them. Youmust have enough for a book. Life is so full in our days that shortstories are the very thing; they get read by people who'd never tackle anovel. For example, at our Dorcas we tried to read out a long affairby Henry James--Herbert saw it recommended in 'The Times. ' There was nodoubt it was very good, but one simply couldn't remember from one weekto another what had happened. So now our aim is to get something thatjust lasts the hour. I take you seriously, Rickie, and that is why I amso offensive. You are too modest. People who think they can do nothingso often do nothing. I want you to plunge. "

It thrilled him like a trumpet-blast. She took him seriously. Could hebut thank her for her divine affability! But the words would stick inhis throat, or worse still would bring other words along with them. Hisbreath came quickly, for he seldom spoke of his writing, and no one, noteven Ansell, had advised him to plunge. 

"But do you really think that I could take up literature?"

"Why not? You can try. Even if you fail, you can try. Of course we thinkyou tremendously clever; and I met one of your dons at tea, and he saidthat your degree was not in the least a proof of your abilities: he saidthat you knocked up and got flurried in examinations. Oh!"--her cheekflushed, --"I wish I was a man. The whole world lies before them. Theycan do anything. They aren't cooped up with servants and tea parties andtwaddle. But where's this dell where the Dryad disappeared?"

"We've passed it. " He had meant to pass it. It was too beautiful. Allhe had read, all he had hoped for, all he had loved, seemed to quiverin its enchanted air. It was perilous. He dared not enter it with such awoman. 

"How long ago?" She turned back. "I don't want to miss the dell. Hereit must be, " she added after a few moments, and sprang up the green bankthat hid the entrance from the road. "Oh, what a jolly place!"

"Go right in if you want to see it, " said Rickie, and did not offer togo with her. She stood for a moment looking at the view, for a few stepswill increase a view in Cambridgeshire. The wind blew her dress againsther. Then, like a cataract again, she vanished pure and cool into thedell. 

The young man thought of her feelings no longer. His heart throbbedlouder and louder, and seemed to shake him to pieces. "Rickie!"

She was calling from the dell. For an answer he sat down where he was, on the dust-bespattered margin. She could call as loud as she liked. Thedevil had done much, but he should not take him to her. 

"Rickie!"--and it came with the tones of an angel. He drove his fingersinto his ears, and invoked the name of Gerald. But there was no sign, neither angry motion in the air nor hint of January mist. June--fieldsof June, sky of June, songs of June. Grass of June beneath him, grass ofJune over the tragedy he had deemed immortal. A bird called out of thedell: "Rickie!"

A bird flew into the dell. 

"Did you take me for the Dryad?" she asked. She was sitting down withhis head on her lap. He had laid it there for a moment before he wentout to die, and she had not let him take it away. 

"I prayed you might not be a woman, " he whispered. 

"Darling, I am very much a woman. I do not vanish into groves and trees. I thought you would never come. "

"Did you expect--?"

"I hoped. I called hoping. "

Inside the dell it was neither June nor January. The chalk walls barredout the seasons, and the fir-trees did not seem to feel their passage. Only from time to time the odours of summer slipped in from the woodabove, to comment on the waxing year. She bent down to touch him withher lips. 

He started, and cried passionately, "Never forget that your greatestthing is over. I have forgotten: I am too weak. You shall never forget. What I said to you then is greater than what I say to you now. What hegave you then is greater than anything you will get from me. "

She was frightened. Again she had the sense of something abnormal. Thenshe said, "What is all this nonsense?" and folded him in her arms. 

VIII

Ansell stood looking at his breakfast-table, which was laid for fourinstead of two. His bedmaker, equally peevish, explained how it hadhappened. Last night, at one in the morning, the porter had been awokewith a note for the kitchens, and in that note Mr. Elliot said that allthese things were to be sent to Mr. Ansell's. 

"The fools have sent the original order as well. Here's the lemon-solefor two. I can't move for food. "

"The note being ambiguous, the Kitchens judged best to send it all. "She spoke of the kitchens in a half-respectful, half-pitying way, muchas one speaks of Parliament. 

"Who's to pay for it?" He peeped into the new dishes. Kidneys entombedin an omelette, hot roast chicken in watery gravy, a glazed but pallidpie. 

"And who's to wash it up?" said the bedmaker to her help outside. 

Ansell had disputed late last night concerning Schopenhauer, and was alittle cross and tired. He bounced over to Tilliard, who kept opposite. Tilliard was eating gooseberry jam. 

"Did Elliot ask you to breakfast with me?"

"No, " said Tilliard mildly. 

"Well, you'd better come, and bring every one you know. "

So Tilliard came, bearing himself a little formally, for he was notvery intimate with his neighbour. Out of the window they called toWiddrington. But he laid his hand on his stomach, thus indicating it wastoo late. 

"Who's to pay for it?" repeated Ansell, as a man appeared from theButtery carrying coffee on a bright tin tray. 

"College coffee! How nice!" remarked Tilliard, who was cutting the pie. "But before term ends you must come and try my new machine. My sistergave it me. There is a bulb at the top, and as the water boils--"

"He might have counter-ordered the lemon-sole. That's Rickie all over. Violently economical, and then loses his head, and all the things gobad. "

"Give them to the bedder while they're hot. " This was done. She acceptedthem dispassionately, with the air of one who lives without nourishment. Tilliard continued to describe his sister's coffee machine. 

"What's that?" They could hear panting and rustling on the stairs. 

"It sounds like a lady, " said Tilliard fearfully. He slipped the pieceof pie back. It fell into position like a brick. 

"Is it here? Am I right? Is it here?" The door opened and in came Mrs. Lewin. "Oh horrors! I've made a mistake. "

"That's all right, " said Ansell awkwardly. 

"I wanted Mr. Elliot. Where are they?"

"We expect Mr. Elliot every-moment, " said Tilliard. 

"Don't tell me I'm right, " cried Mrs. Lewin, "and that you're theterrifying Mr. Ansell. " And, with obvious relief, she wrung Tilliardwarmly by the hand. 

"I'm Ansell, " said Ansell, looking very uncouth and grim. 

"How stupid of me not to know it, " she gasped, and would have gone on toI know not what, but the door opened again. It was Rickie. 

"Here's Miss Pembroke, " he said. "I am going to marry her. "

There was a profound silence. 

"We oughtn't to have done things like this, " said Agnes, turning to Mrs. Lewin. "We have no right to take Mr. Ansell by surprise. It is Rickie'sfault. He was that obstinate. He would bring us. He ought to behorsewhipped. "

"He ought, indeed, " said Tilliard pleasantly, and bolted. Not till hegained his room did he realize that he had been less apt than usual. Asfor Ansell, the first thing he said was, "Why didn't you counter-orderthe lemon-sole?"

In such a situation Mrs. Lewin was of priceless value. She led the wayto the table, observing, "I quite agree with Miss Pembroke. I loathesurprises. Never shall I forget my horror when the knife-boy painted thedove's cage with the dove inside. He did it as a surprise. Poor Parsivalnearly died. His feathers were bright green!"

"Well, give me the lemon-soles, " said Rickie. "I like them. "

"The bedder's got them. "

"Well, there you are! What's there to be annoyed about?"

"And while the cage was drying we put him among the bantams. They hadbeen the greatest allies. But I suppose they took him for a parrot or ahawk, or something that bantams hate for while his cage was drying theypicked out his feathers, and PICKED and PICKED out his feathers, till hewas perfectly bald. 'Hugo, look, ' said I. 'This is the end of Parsival. Let me have no more surprises. ' He burst into tears. "

Thus did Mrs. Lewin create an atmosphere. At first it seemed unreal, but gradually they got used to it, and breathed scarcely anything elsethroughout the meal. In such an atmosphere everything seemed of smalland equal value, and the engagement of Rickie and Agnes like thefeathers of Parsival, fluttered lightly to the ground. Ansell wasgenerally silent. He was no match for these two quite clever women. Onlyonce was there a hitch. 

They had been talking gaily enough about the betrothal when Ansellsuddenly interrupted with, "When is the marriage?"

"Mr. Ansell, " said Agnes, blushing, "I wish you hadn't asked that. Thatpart's dreadful. Not for years, as far as we can see. "

But Rickie had not seen as far. He had not talked to her of this atall. Last night they had spoken only of love. He exclaimed, "Oh, Agnes-don't!" Mrs. Lewin laughed roguishly. 

"Why this delay?" asked Ansell. 

Agnes looked at Rickie, who replied, "I must get money, worse luck. "

"I thought you'd got money. "

He hesitated, and then said, "I must get my foot on the ladder, then. "

Ansell began with, "On which ladder?" but Mrs. Lewin, using theprivilege of her sex, exclaimed, "Not another word. If there's a thing Iabominate, it is plans. My head goes whirling at once. " What she reallyabominated was questions, and she saw that Ansell was turning serious. To appease him, she put on her clever manner and asked him aboutGermany. How had it impressed him? Were we so totally unfitted torepel invasion? Was not German scholarship overestimated? He replieddiscourteously, but he did reply; and if she could have stopped himthinking, her triumph would have been complete. 

When they rose to go, Agnes held Ansell's hand for a moment in her own. 

"Good-bye, " she said. "It was very unconventional of us to come as wedid, but I don't think any of us are conventional people. "

He only replied, "Good-bye. " The ladies started off. Rickie lingeredbehind to whisper, "I would have it so. I would have you begin squaretogether. I can't talk yet--I've loved her for years--can't think whatshe's done it for. I'm going to write short stories. I shall start thisafternoon. She declares there may be something in me. "

As soon as he had left, Tilliard burst in, white with agitation, andcrying, "Did you see my awful faux pas--about the horsewhip? What shallI do? I must call on Elliot. Or had I better write?"

"Miss Pembroke will not mind, " said Ansell gravely. "She isunconventional. " He knelt in an arm-chair and hid his face in the back. 

"It was like a bomb, " said Tilliard. 

"It was meant to be. "

"I do feel a fool. What must she think?"

"Never mind, Tilliard. You've not been as big a fool as myself. At allevents, you told her he must be horsewhipped. "

Tilliard hummed a little tune. He hated anything nasty, and there wasnastiness in Ansell. "What did you tell her?" he asked. 

"Nothing. "

"What do you think of it?"

"I think: Damn those women. "

"Ah, yes. One hates one's friends to get engaged. It makes one feel soold: I think that is one of the reasons. The brother just above me haslately married, and my sister was quite sick about it, though the thingwas suitable in every way. "

"Damn THESE women, then, " said Ansell, bouncing round in the chair. "Damn these particular women. "

"They looked and spoke like ladies. "

"Exactly. Their diplomacy was ladylike. Their lies were ladylike. They've caught Elliot in a most ladylike way. I saw it all during theone moment we were natural. Generally we were clattering after themarried one, whom--like a fool--I took for a fool. But for one moment wewere natural, and during that moment Miss Pembroke told a lie, and madeRickie believe it was the truth. "

"What did she say?"

"She said `we see' instead of 'I see. '"

Tilliard burst into laughter. This jaundiced young philosopher, with hiskinky view of life, was too much for him. 

"She said 'we see, '" repeated Ansell, "instead of 'I see, ' and she madehim believe that it was the truth. She caught him and makes him believethat he caught her. She came to see me and makes him think that it ishis idea. That is what I mean when I say that she is a lady. "

"You are too subtle for me. My dull eyes could only see two happypeople. "

"I never said they weren't happy. "

"Then, my dear Ansell, why are you so cut up? It's beastly when a friendmarries, --and I grant he's rather young, --but I should say it's the bestthing for him. A decent woman--and you have proved not one thing againsther--a decent woman will keep him up to the mark and stop him gettingslack. She'll make him responsible and manly, for much as I like Rickie, I always find him a little effeminate. And, really, "--his voice grewsharper, for he was irritated by Ansell's conceit, "and, really, youtalk as if you were mixed up in the affair. They pay a civil visit toyour rooms, and you see nothing but dark plots and challenges to war. "

"War!" cried Ansell, crashing his fists together. "It's war, then!"

"Oh, what a lot of tommy-rot, " said Tilliard. "Can't a man and woman getengaged? My dear boy--excuse me talking like this--what on earth is itto do with us?"

"We're his friends, and I hope we always shall be, but we shan't keephis friendship by fighting. We're bound to fall into the background. Wife first, friends some way after. You may resent the order, but it isordained by nature. "

"The point is, not what's ordained by nature or any other fool, butwhat's right. "

"You are hopelessly unpractical, " said Tilliard, turning away. "And letme remind you that you've already given away your case by acknowledgingthat they're happy. "

"She is happy because she has conquered; he is happy because he hasat last hung all the world's beauty on to a single peg. He was alwaystrying to do it. He used to call the peg humanity. Will either of thesehappinesses last? His can't. Hers only for a time. I fight this womannot only because she fights me, but because I foresee the most appallingcatastrophe. She wants Rickie, partly to replace another man whom shelost two years ago, partly to make something out of him. He is to write. In time she will get sick of this. He won't get famous. She will onlysee how thin he is and how lame. She will long for a jollier husband, and I don't blame her. And, having made him thoroughly miserable anddegraded, she will bolt--if she can do it like a lady. "

Such were the opinions of Stewart Ansell. 

IX

Seven letters written in June:--

Cambridge

Dear Rickie, I would rather write, and you can guess what kind of letter this iswhen I say it is a fair copy: I have been making rough drafts allthe morning. When I talk I get angry, and also at times try to beclever--two reasons why I fail to get attention paid to me. This is aletter of the prudent sort. If it makes you break off the engagement, its work is done. You are not a person who ought to marry at all. Youare unfitted in body: that we once discussed. You are also unfitted insoul: you want and you need to like many people, and a man of that sortought not to marry. "You never were attached to that great sect" whocan like one person only, and if you try to enter it you will finddestruction. I have read in books and I cannot afford to despise books, they are all that I have to go by--that men and women desire differentthings. Man wants to love mankind; woman wants to love one man. When shehas him her work is over. She is the emissary of Nature, and Nature'sbidding has been fulfilled. But man does not care a damn for Nature--orat least only a very little damn. He cares for a hundred things besides, and the more civilized he is the more he will care for these otherhundred things, and demand not only--a wife and children, but alsofriends, and work, and spiritual freedom. 

I believe you to be extraordinarily civilized. --Yours ever, S. A. 

Shelthorpe, 9 Sawston Park Road, Sawston

Dear Ansell, But I'm in love--a detail you've forgotten. I can't listen to EnglishEssays. The wretched Agnes may be an "emissary of Nature, " but I onlygrinned when I read it. I may be extraordinarily civilized, but I don'tfeel so; I'm in love, and I've found a woman to love me, and I meanto have the hundred other things as well. She wants me to havethem--friends and work, and spiritual freedom, and everything. Youand your books miss this, because your books are too sedate. Readpoetry--not only Shelley. Understand Beatrice, and Clara Middleton, andBrunhilde in the first scene of Gotterdammerung. Understand Goethe whenhe says "the eternal feminine leads us on, " and don't write anotherEnglish Essay. --Yours ever affectionately, R. E. 

Cambridge

Dear Rickie:

What am I to say? "Understand Xanthippe, and Mrs. Bennet, and Elsa inthe question scene of Lohengrin"? "Understand Euripides when he says theeternal feminine leads us a pretty dance"? I shall say nothing of thesort. The allusions in this English Essay shall not be literary. Mypersonal objections to Miss Pembroke are as follows:--(1) She is notserious. (2) She is not truthful. 

Shelthorpe, 9 Sawston Park Road Sawston

My Dear Stewart, You couldn't know. I didn't know for a moment. But this letter of yoursis the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me yet--morewonderful (I don't exaggerate) than the moment when Agnes promised tomarry me. I always knew you liked me, but I never knew how much untilthis letter. Up to now I think we have been too much like the strongheroes in books who feel so much and say so little, and feel all themore for saying so little. Now that's over and we shall never be thatkind of an ass again. We've hit--by accident--upon something permanent. You've written to me, "I hate the woman who will be your wife, " andI write back, "Hate her. Can't I love you both?" She will never comebetween us, Stewart (She wouldn't wish to, but that's by the way), because our friendship has now passed beyond intervention. No thirdperson could break it. We couldn't ourselves, I fancy. We may quarreland argue till one of us dies, but the thing is registered. I only wish, dear man, you could be happier. For me, it's as if a light was suddenlyheld behind the world. 

R. E. 

Shelthorpe, 9 Sawston Park Road, Sawston

Dear Mrs. Lewin, --

The time goes flying, but I am getting to learn my wonderful boy. Wespeak a great deal about his work. He has just finished a curious thingcalled "Nemi"--about a Roman ship that is actually sunk in some lake. Icannot think how he describes the things, when he has never seen them. If, as I hope, he goes to Italy next year, he should turn out somethingreally good. Meanwhile we are hunting for a publisher. Herbert believesthat a collection of short stories is hard to get published. It is, after all, better to write one long one. 

But you must not think we only talk books. What we say on other topicscannot so easily be repeated! Oh, Mrs Lewin, he is a dear, and dearerthan ever now that we have him at Sawston. Herbert, in a quiet way, has been making inquiries about those Cambridge friends of his. Nothingagainst them, but they seem to be terribly eccentric. None of themare good at games, and they spend all their spare time thinking anddiscussing. They discuss what one knows and what one never will know andwhat one had much better not know. Herbert says it is because they havenot got enough to do. --Ever your grateful and affectionate friend, Agnes Pembroke

Shelthorpe, 9 Sawston Park Road Sawston

Dear Mr. Silt, --

Thank you for the congratulations, which I have handed over to thedelighted Rickie. 

(The congratulations were really addressed to Agnes--a social blunderwhich Mr. Pembroke deftly corrects. )

I am sorry that the rumor reached you that I was not pleased. Anythingpleases me that promises my sister's happiness, and I have known yourcousin nearly as long as you have. It will be a very long engagement, for he must make his way first. The dear boy is not nearly as wealthy ashe supposed; having no tastes, and hardly any expenses, he used to talkas if he were a millionaire. He must at least double his income beforehe can dream of more intimate ties. This has been a bitter pill, but Iam glad to say that they have accepted it bravely. 

Hoping that you and Mrs. Silt will profit by your week at Margate. -Iremain, yours very sincerely, Herbert Pembroke

Cadover, Wilts. 

Dear Miss Pembroke, --Agnes--

I hear that you are going to marry my nephew. I have no idea what he islike, and wonder whether you would bring him that I may find out. Isn'tSeptember rather a nice month? You might have to go to Stone Henge, butwith that exception would be left unmolested. I do hope you will managethe visit. We met once at Mrs. Lewin's, and I have a very clearrecollection of you. --Believe me, yours sincerely, Emily Failing

X

The rain tilted a little from the south-west. For the most part it fellfrom a grey cloud silently, but now and then the tilt increased, anda kind of sigh passed over the country as the drops lashed the walls, trees, shepherds, and other motionless objects that stood in theirslanting career. At times the cloud would descend and visibly embracethe earth, to which it had only sent messages; and the earth itselfwould bring forth clouds--clouds of a whiter breed--which formed inshallow valleys and followed the courses of the streams. It seemed thebeginning of life. Again God said, "Shall we divide the waters from theland or not? Was not the firmament labour and glory sufficient?" At allevents it was the beginning of life pastoral, behind which imaginationcannot travel. 

Yet complicated people were getting wet--not only the shepherds. Forinstance, the piano-tuner was sopping. So was the vicar's wife. So werethe lieutenant and the peevish damsels in his Battleston car. Gallantry, charity, and art pursued their various missions, perspiring and muddy, while out on the slopes beyond them stood the eternal man and theeternal dog, guarding eternal sheep until the world is vegetarian. 

Inside an arbour--which faced east, and thus avoided the badweather--there sat a complicated person who was dry. She looked at thedrenched world with a pleased expression, and would smile when a cloudwould lay down on the village, or when the rain sighed louder than usualagainst her solid shelter. Ink, paperclips, and foolscap paper wereon the table before her, and she could also reach an umbrella, awaterproof, a walking-stick, and an electric bell. Her age was betweenelderly and old, and her forehead was wrinkled with an expression ofslight but perpetual pain. But the lines round her mouth indicated thatshe had laughed a great deal during her life, just as the clean tightskin round her eyes perhaps indicated that she had not often cried. Shewas dressed in brown silk. A brown silk shawl lay most becomingly overher beautiful hair. 

After long thought she wrote on the paper in front of her, "The subjectof this memoir first saw the light at Wolverhampton on May the 14th, 1842. " She laid down her pen and said "Ugh!" A robin hopped in and shewelcomed him. A sparrow followed and she stamped her foot. She watchedsome thick white water which was sliding like a snake down the gutterof the gravel path. It had just appeared. It must have escaped from ahollow in the chalk up behind. The earth could absorb no longer. Thelady did not think of all this, for she hated questions of whence andwherefore, and the ways of the earth ("our dull stepmother") bored herunspeakably. But the water, just the snake of water, was amusing, andshe flung her golosh at it to dam it up. Then she wrote feverishly, "Thesubject of this memoir first saw the light in the middle of the night. It was twenty to eleven. His pa was a parson, but he was not his pa'sson, and never went to heaven. " There was the sound of a train, andpresently white smoke appeared, rising laboriously through the heavyair. It distracted her, and for about a quarter of an hour she satperfectly still, doing nothing. At last she pushed the spoilt paperaside, took afresh piece, and was beginning to write, "On May the 14th, 1842, " when there was a crunch on the gravel, and a furious voice said, "I am sorry for Flea Thompson. "

"I daresay I am sorry for him too, " said the lady; her voice was languidand pleasant. "Who is he?"

"Flea's a liar, and the next time we meet he'll be a football. " Offslipped a sodden ulster. He hung it up angrily upon a peg: the arbourprovided several. 

"But who is he, and why has he that disastrous name?"

"Flea? Fleance. All the Thompsons are named out of Shakespeare. Hegrazes the Rings. "

"Ah, I see. A pet lamb. "

"Lamb! Shepherd!"

"One of my Shepherds?"

"The last time I go with his sheep. But not the last time he sees me. Iam sorry for him. He dodged me today. "

"Do you mean to say"--she became animated--"that you have been out inthe wet keeping the sheep of Flea Thompson?"

"I had to. " He blew on his fingers and took off his cap. Water trickledover his unshaven cheeks. His hair was so wet that it seemed worked uponhis scalp in bronze. 

"Get away, bad dog!" screamed the lady, for he had given himself a shakeand spattered her dress with water. He was a powerful boy of twenty, admirably muscular, but rather too broad for his height. People calledhim "Podge" until they were dissuaded. Then they called him "Stephen" or"Mr. Wonham. " Then he said, "You can call me Podge if you like. "

"As for Flea--!" he began tempestuously. He sat down by her, and withmuch heavy breathing told the story, --"Flea has a girl at Wintersbridge, and I had to go with his sheep while he went to see her. Two hours. Weagreed. Half an hour to go, an hour to kiss his girl, and half an hourback--and he had my bike. Four hours! Four hours and seven minutes I wason the Rings, with a fool of a dog, and sheep doing all they knew to getthe turnips. "

"My farm is a mystery to me, " said the lady, stroking her fingers. 

"Some day you must really take me to see it. It must be like a Gilbertand Sullivan opera, with a chorus of agitated employers. How is it thatI have escaped? Why have I never been summoned to milk the cows, or flaythe pigs, or drive the young bullocks to the pasture?"

He looked at her with astonishingly blue eyes--the only dry things hehad about him. He could not see into her: she would have puzzled anolder and clever man. He may have seen round her. 

"A thing of beauty you are not. But I sometimes think you are a joy forever. "

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, you understand right enough, " she exclaimed irritably, and thensmiled, for he was conceited, and did not like being told that he wasnot a thing of beauty. "Large and steady feet, " she continued, "havethis disadvantage--you can knock down a man, but you will never knockdown a woman. "

"I don't know what you mean. I'm not likely--"

"Oh, never mind--never, never mind. I was being funny. I repent. Tell meabout the sheep. Why did you go with them?"

"I did tell you. I had to. "

"But why?"

"He had to see his girl. "

"But why?"

His eyes shot past her again. It was so obvious that the man had to seehis girl. For two hours though--not for four hours seven minutes. 

"Did you have any lunch?"

"I don't hold with regular meals. "

"Did you have a book?"

"I don't hold with books in the open. None of the older men read. "

"Did you commune with yourself, or don't you hold with that?"

"Oh Lord, don't ask me!"

"You distress me. You rob the Pastoral of its lingering romance. Isthere no poetry and no thought in England? Is there no one, in all thesedowns, who warbles with eager thought the Doric lay?"

"Chaps sing to themselves at times, if you mean that. "

"I dream of Arcady. I open my eyes. Wiltshire. Of Amaryllis: FleaThompson's girl. Of the pensive shepherd, twitching his mantle blue: youin an ulster. Aren't you sorry for me?"

"May I put in a pipe?"

"By all means put a pipe in. In return, tell me of what you werethinking for the four hours and the seven minutes. "

He laughed shyly. "You do ask a man such questions. "

"Did you simply waste the time?"

"I suppose so. "

"I thought that Colonel Robert Ingersoll says you must be strenuous. "

At the sound of this name he whisked open a little cupboard, anddeclaring, "I haven't a moment to spare, " took out of it a pile of"Clarion" and other reprints, adorned as to their covers with bald orbearded apostles of humanity. Selecting a bald one, he began at onceto read, occasionally exclaiming, "That's got them, " "That's knockedGenesis, " with similar ejaculations of an aspiring mind. She glancedat the pile. Reran, minus the style. Darwin, minus the modesty. Acomic edition of the book of Job, by "Excelsior, " Pittsburgh, Pa. "TheBeginning of Life, " with diagrams. "Angel or Ape?" by Mrs. Julia P. Chunk. She was amused, and wondered idly what was passing within hisnarrow but not uninteresting brain. Did he suppose that he was going to"find out"? She had tried once herself, but had since subsided into asprightly orthodoxy. Why didn't he read poetry, instead of wasting histime between books like these and country like that?

The cloud parted, and the increase of light made her look up. Over thevalley she saw a grave sullen down, and on its flanks a little brownsmudge--her sheep, together with her shepherd, Fleance Thompson, returned to his duties at last. A trickle of water came through thearbour roof. She shrieked in dismay. 

"That's all right, " said her companion, moving her chair, but stillkeeping his place in his book. 

She dried up the spot on the manuscript. Then she wrote: "AnthonyEustace Failing, the subject of this memoir, was born at Wolverhampton. "But she wrote no more. She was fidgety. Another drop fell from the roof. Likewise an earwig. She wished she had not been so playful in flingingher golosh into the path. The boy who was overthrowing religion breathedsomewhat heavily as he did so. Another earwig. She touched the electricbell. 

"I'm going in, " she observed. "It's far too wet. " Again the cloud partedand caused her to add, "Weren't you rather kind to Flea?" But he wasdeep in the book. He read like a poor person, with lips apart and afinger that followed the print. At times he scratched his ear, or ranhis tongue along a straggling blonde moustache. His face had after all acertain beauty: at all events the colouring was regal--a steady crimsonfrom throat to forehead: the sun and the winds had worked on him dailyever since he was born. "The face of a strong man, " thought the lady. "Let him thank his stars he isn't a silent strong man, or I'd turnhim into the gutter. " Suddenly it struck her that he was like an Irishterrier. He worried infinity as if it was a bone. Gnashing his teeth, he tried to carry the eternal subtleties by violence. As a man he oftenbored her, for he was always saying and doing the same things. But asa philosopher he really was a joy for ever, an inexhaustible buffoon. Taking up her pen, she began to caricature him. She drew a rabbit-warrenwhere rabbits were at play in four dimensions. Before she had introducedthe principal figure, she was interrupted by the footman. He had come upfrom the house to answer the bell. On seeing her he uttered a respectfulcry. 

"Madam! Are you here? I am very sorry. I looked for you everywhere. Mr. Elliot and Miss Pembroke arrived nearly an hour ago. "

"Oh dear, oh dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Failing. "Take these papers. Where'sthe umbrella? Mr. Stephen will hold it over me. You hurry back andapologize. Are they happy?"

"Miss Pembroke inquired after you, madam. "

"Have they had tea?"

"Yes, madam. "

"Leighton!"

"Yes, sir. "

"I believe you knew she was here all the time. You didn't want to wetyour pretty skin. "

"You must not call me 'she' to the servants, " said Mrs. Failing as theywalked away, she limping with a stick, he holding a great umbrella overher. "I will not have it. " Then more pleasantly, "And don't tell himhe lies. We all lie. I knew quite well they were coming by the four-sixtrain. I saw it pass. "

"That reminds me. Another child run over at the Roman crossing. Whish--bang--dead. "

"Oh my foot! Oh my foot, my foot!" said Mrs. Failing, and paused to takebreath. 

"Bad?" he asked callously. 

Leighton, with bowed head, passed them with the manuscript anddisappeared among the laurels. The twinge of pain, which had beenslight, passed away, and they proceeded, descending a green airlesscorridor which opened into the gravel drive. 

"Isn't it odd, " said Mrs. Failing, "that the Greeks should beenthusiastic about laurels--that Apollo should pursue any one who couldpossibly turn into such a frightful plant? What do you make of Rickie?"

"Oh, I don't know. "

"Shall I lend you his story to read?"

He made no reply. 

"Don't you think, Stephen, that a person in your precarious positionought to be civil to my relatives?"

"Sorry, Mrs. Failing. I meant to be civil. I only hadn't--anything tosay. "

She a laughed. "Are you a dear boy? I sometimes wonder; or are you abrute?"

Again he had nothing to say. Then she laughed more mischievously, andsaid--

"How can you be either, when you are a philosopher? Would you mindtelling me--I am so anxious to learn--what happens to people when theydie?"

"Don't ask ME. " He knew by bitter experience that she was making fun ofhim. 

"Oh, but I do ask you. Those paper books of yours are so up-to-date. For instance, what has happened to the child you say was killed on theline?"

The rain increased. The drops pattered hard on the leaves, and outsidethe corridor men and women were struggling, however stupidly, with thefacts of life. Inside it they wrangled. She teased the boy, and laughedat his theories, and proved that no man can be an agnostic who has asense of humour. Suddenly she stopped, not through any skill of his, butbecause she had remembered some words of Bacon: "The true atheist is hewhose hands are cauterized by holy things. " She thought of her distantyouth. The world was not so humorous then, but it had been moreimportant. For a moment she respected her companion, and determined tovex him no more. 

They left the shelter of the laurels, crossed the broad drive, and wereinside the house at last. She had got quite wet, for the weather wouldnot let her play the simple life with impunity. As for him, he seemed apiece of the wet. 

"Look here, " she cried, as he hurried up to his attic, "don't shave!"

He was delighted with the permission. 

"I have an idea that Miss Pembroke is of the type that pretends to beunconventional and really isn't. I want to see how she takes it. Don'tshave. "

In the drawing-room she could hear the guests conversing in the subduedtones of those who have not been welcomed. Having changed her dress andglanced at the poems of Milton, she went to them, with uplifted hands ofapology and horror. 

"But I must have tea, " she announced, when they had assured her thatthey understood. "Otherwise I shall start by being cross. Agnes, stopme. Give me tea. "

Agnes, looking pleased, moved to the table and served her hostess. Rickie followed with a pagoda of sandwiches and little cakes. 

"I feel twenty-seven years younger. Rickie, you are so like your father. I feel it is twenty-seven years ago, and that he is bringing your motherto see me for the first time. It is curious--almost terrible--to seehistory repeating itself. "

The remark was not tactful. 

"I remember that visit well, " she continued thoughtfully, "I suppose itwas a wonderful visit, though we none of us knew it at the time. We allfell in love with your mother. I wish she would have fallen in love withus. She couldn't bear me, could she?"

"I never heard her say so, Aunt Emily. "

"No; she wouldn't. I am sure your father said so, though. My dear boy, don't look so shocked. Your father and I hated each other. He said so, I said so, I say so; say so too. Then we shall start fair. --Just acocoanut cake. --Agnes, don't you agree that it's always best to speakout?"

"Oh, rather, Mrs. Failing. But I'm shockingly straightforward. "

"So am I, " said the lady. "I like to get down to the bedrock. --Hullo!Slippers? Slippers in the drawingroom?"

A young man had come in silently. Agnes observed with a feeling ofregret that he had not shaved. Rickie, after a moment's hesitation, remembered who it was, and shook hands with him. "You've grown since Isaw you last. "

He showed his teeth amiably. 

"How long was that?" asked Mrs. Failing. 

"Three years, wasn't it? Came over from the Ansells--friends. "

"How disgraceful, Rickie! Why don't you come and see me oftener?"

He could not retort that she never asked him. 

"Agnes will make you come. Oh, let me introduce Mr. Wonham--MissPembroke. "

"I am deputy hostess, " said Agnes. "May I give you some tea?"

"Thank you, but I have had a little beer. "

"It is one of the shepherds, " said Mrs. Failing, in low tones. 

Agnes smiled rather wildly. Mrs. Lewin had warned her that Cadoverwas an extraordinary place, and that one must never be astonished atanything. A shepherd in the drawing-room! No harm. Still one oughtto know whether it was a shepherd or not. At all events he was ingentleman's clothing. She was anxious not to start with a blunder, andtherefore did not talk to the young fellow, but tried to gather what hewas from the demeanour of Rickie. 

"I am sure, Mrs. Failing, that you need not talk of 'making' people cometo Cadover. There will be no difficulty, I should say. "

"Thank you, my dear. Do you know who once said those exact words to me?"

"Who?"

"Rickie's mother. "

"Did she really?"

"My sister-in-law was a dear. You will have heard Rickie's praises, butnow you must hear mine. I never knew a woman who was so unselfish andyet had such capacities for life. "

"Does one generally exclude the other?" asked Rickie. 

"Unselfish people, as a rule, are deathly dull. They have no colour. They think of other people because it is easier. They give money becausethey are too stupid or too idle to spend it properly on themselves. That was the beauty of your mother--she gave away, but she also spent onherself, or tried to. "

The light faded out of the drawing-room, in spite of it being Septemberand only half-past six. From her low chair Agnes could see the trees bythe drive, black against a blackening sky. That drive was half a milelong, and she was praising its gravelled surface when Rickie called in avoice of alarm, "I say, when did our train arrive?"

"Four-six. "

"I said so. "

"It arrived at four-six on the time-table, " said Mr. Wonham. "I want toknow when it got to the station?"

"I tell you again it was punctual. I tell you I looked at my watch. Ican do no more. "

Agnes was amazed. Was Rickie mad? A minute ago and they were boring eachother over dogs. What had happened?

"Now, now! Quarrelling already?" asked Mrs. Failing. 

The footman, bringing a lamp, lit up two angry faces. 

"He says--"

"He says--"

"He says we ran over a child. "

"So you did. You ran over a child in the village at four-seven by mywatch. Your train was late. You couldn't have got to the station tillfour-ten. "

"I don't believe it. We had passed the village by four-seven. Agnes, hadn't we passed the village? It must have been an express that ran overthe child. "

"Now is it likely"--he appealed to the practical world--"is it likelythat the company would run a stopping train and then an express threeminutes after it?"

"A child--" said Rickie. "I can't believe that the train killed achild. " He thought of their journey. They were alone in the carriage. As the train slackened speed he had caught her for a moment in his arms. The rain beat on the windows, but they were in heaven. 

"You've got to believe it, " said the other, and proceeded to "rub itin. " His healthy, irritable face drew close to Rickie's. "Two childrenwere kicking and screaming on the Roman crossing. Your train, beinglate, came down on them. One of them was pulled off the line, but theother was caught. How will you get out of that?"

"And how will you get out of it?" cried Mrs. Failing, turning the tableson him. "Where's the child now? What has happened to its soul? You mustknow, Agnes, that this young gentleman is a philosopher. "

"Oh, drop all that, " said Mr. Wonham, suddenly collapsing. 

"Drop it? Where? On my nice carpet?"

"I hate philosophy, " remarked Agnes, trying to turn the subject, for shesaw that it made Rickie unhappy. 

"So do I. But I daren't say so before Stephen. He despises us women. "

"No, I don't, " said the victim, swaying to and fro on the window-sill, whither he had retreated. 

"Yes, he does. He won't even trouble to answer us. Stephen! Podge!Answer me. What has happened to the child's soul?"

He flung open the window and leant from them into the dusk. They heardhim mutter something about a bridge. 

"What did I tell you? He won't answer my question. "

The delightful moment was approaching when the boy would lose histemper: she knew it by a certain tremor in his heels. 

"There wants a bridge, " he exploded. "A bridge instead of all thisrotten talk and the level-crossing. It wouldn't break you to build atwo-arch bridge. Then the child's soul, as you call it--well, nothingwould have happened to the child at all. "

A gust of night air entered, accompanied by rain. The flowers in thevases rustled, and the flame of the lamp shot up and smoked the glass. Slightly irritated, she ordered him to close the window. 

XI

Cadover was not a large house. But it is the largest house with whichthis story has dealings, and must always be thought of with respect. Itwas built about the year 1800, and favoured the architecture of ancientRome--chiefly by means of five lank pilasters, which stretched from thetop of it to the bottom. Between the pilasters was the glass front door, to the right of them the drawing room windows, to the left of them thewindows of the dining-room, above them a triangular area, which thebetter-class servants knew as a "pendiment, " and which had in its middlea small round hole, according to the usage of Palladio. The classicalnote was also sustained by eight grey steps which led from the buildingdown into the drive, and by an attempt at a formal garden on theadjoining lawn. The lawn ended in a Ha-ha ("Ha! ha! who shall regardit?"), and thence the bare land sloped down into the village. The maingarden (walled) was to the left as one faced the house, while to theright was that laurel avenue, leading up to Mrs. Failing's arbour. 

It was a comfortable but not very attractive place, and, to a certaintype of mind, its situation was not attractive either. From thedistance it showed as a grey box, huddled against evergreens. Therewas no mystery about it. You saw it for miles. Its hill had none of thebeetling romance of Devonshire, none of the subtle contours that preludea cottage in Kent, but profferred its burden crudely, on a huge barepalm. "There's Cadover, " visitors would say. "How small it still looks. We shall be late for lunch. " And the view from the windows, thoughextensive, would not have been accepted by the Royal Academy. A valley, containing a stream, a road, a railway; over the valley fields of barleyand wurzel, divided by no pretty hedges, and passing into a great andformless down--this was the outlook, desolate at all times, and almostterrifying beneath a cloudy sky. The down was called "Cadbury Range"("Cocoa Squares" if you were young and funny), because high uponit--one cannot say "on the top, " there being scarcely any topsin Wiltshire--because high upon it there stood a double circle ofentrenchments. A bank of grass enclosed a ring of turnips, whichenclosed a second bank of grass, which enclosed more turnips, and inthe middle of the pattern grew one small tree. British? Roman? Saxon?Danish? The competent reader will decide. The Thompson family knew itto be far older than the Franco-German war. It was the property ofGovernment. It was full of gold and dead soldiers who had fought withthe soldiers on Castle Rings and been beaten. The road to Londinium, having forded the stream and crossed the valley road and the railway, passed up by these entrenchments. The road to London lay half a mile tothe right of them. 

To complete this survey one must mention the church and the farm, bothof which lay over the stream in Cadford. Between them they ruled thevillage, one claiming the souls of the labourers, the other theirbodies. If a man desired other religion or other employment he mustleave. The church lay up by the railway, the farm was down by the watermeadows. The vicar, a gentle charitable man scarcely realized his power, and never tried to abuse it. Mr. Wilbraham, the agent, was of anothermould. He knew his place, and kept others to theirs: all society seemedspread before him like a map. The line between the county and the local, the line between the labourer and the artisan--he knew them all, andstrengthened them with no uncertain touch. Everything with him wasgraduated--carefully graduated civility towards his superior, towardshis inferiors carefully graduated incivility. So--for he was athoughtful person--so alone, declared he, could things be kept together. 

Perhaps the Comic Muse, to whom so much is now attributed, had causedhis estate to be left to Mr. Failing. Mr. Failing was the author of somebrilliant books on socialism, --that was why his wife married him--andfor twenty-five years he reigned up at Cadover and tried to put histheories into practice. He believed that things could be kept togetherby accenting the similarities, not the differences of men. "We are allmuch more alike than we confess, " was one of his favourite speeches. Asa speech it sounded very well, and his wife had applauded; but when itresulted in hard work, evenings in the reading-rooms, mixed-parties, andlong unobtrusive talks with dull people, she got bored. In her piquantway she declared that she was not going to love her husband, andsucceeded. He took it quietly, but his brilliancy decreased. His healthgrew worse, and he knew that when he died there was no one to carry onhis work. He felt, besides, that he had done very little. Toil as hewould, he had not a practical mind, and could never dispense with Mr. Wilbraham. For all his tact, he would often stretch out the hand ofbrotherhood too soon, or withhold it when it would have been accepted. Most people misunderstood him, or only understood him when he was dead. In after years his reign became a golden age; but he counted a fewdisciples in his life-time, a few young labourers and tenant farmers, who swore tempestuously that he was not really a fool. This, he toldhimself, was as much as he deserved. 

Cadover was inherited by his widow. She tried to sell it; she tried tolet it; but she asked too much, and as it was neither a pretty place norfertile, it was left on her hands. With many a groan she settled downto banishment. Wiltshire people, she declared, were the stupidest inEngland. She told them so to their faces, which made them no brighter. And their county was worthy of them: no distinction in it--nostyle--simply land. 

But her wrath passed, or remained only as a graceful fretfulness. Shemade the house comfortable, and abandoned the farm to Mr. Wilbraham. With a good deal of care she selected a small circle of acquaintances, and had them to stop in the summer months. In the winter she would go totown and frequent the salons of the literary. As her lameness increasedshe moved about less, and at the time of her nephew's visit seldom leftthe place that had been forced upon her as a home. Just now shewas busy. A prominent politician had quoted her husband. The younggeneration asked, "Who is this Mr. Failing?" and the publishers wrote, "Now is the time. " She was collecting some essays and penning anintroductory memoir. 

Rickie admired his aunt, but did not care for her. She reminded him toomuch of his father. She had the same affliction, the same heartlessness, the same habit of taking life with a laugh--as if life is a pill! Healso felt that she had neglected him. He would not have asked much: asfor "prospects, " they never entered his head, but she was his only nearrelative, and a little kindness and hospitality during the lonely yearswould have made incalculable difference. Now that he was happier andcould bring her Agnes, she had asked him to stop at once. The sun as itrose next morning spoke to him of a new life. He too had a purpose anda value in the world at last. Leaning out of the window, he gazed at theearth washed clean and heard through the pure air the distant noises ofthe farm. 

But that day nothing was to remain divine but the weather. His aunt, forreasons of her own, decreed that he should go for a ride with the Wonhamboy. They were to look at Old Sarum, proceed thence to Salisbury, lunchthere, see the sights, call on a certain canon for tea, and return toCadover in the evening. The arrangement suited no one. He did not wantto ride, but to be with Agnes; nor did Agnes want to be parted from him, nor Stephen to go with him. But the clearer the wishes of her guestsbecame, the more determined was Mrs. Failing to disregard them. Shesmoothed away every difficulty, she converted every objection into areason, and she ordered the horses for half-past nine. 

"It is a bore, " he grumbled as he sat in their little privatesitting-room, breaking his finger-nails upon the coachman's gaiters. "Ican't ride. I shall fall off. We should have been so happy here. It'sjust like Aunt Emily. Can't you imagine her saying afterwards, 'Loversare absurd. I made a point of keeping them apart, ' and then everybodylaughing. "

With a pretty foretaste of the future, Agnes knelt before him and didthe gaiters up. "Who is this Mr. Wonham, by the bye?"

"I don't know. Some connection of Mr. Failing's, I think. "

"Does he live here?"

"He used to be at school or something. He seems to have grown into atiresome person. "

"I suppose that Mrs. Failing has adopted him. "

"I suppose so. I believe that she has been quite kind. I do hope she'llbe kind to you this morning. I hate leaving you with her. "

"Why, you say she likes me. "

"Yes, but that wouldn't prevent--you see she doesn't mind what she saysor what she repeats if it amuses her. If she thought it really funny, for instance, to break off our engagement, she'd try. "

"Dear boy, what a frightful remark! But it would be funnier for us tosee her trying. Whatever could she do?"

He kissed the hands that were still busy with the fastenings. "Nothing. I can't see one thing. We simply lie open to each other, you and I. There isn't one new corner in either of us that she could reveal. It's only that I always have in this house the most awful feeling ofinsecurity. "

"Why?"

"If any one says or does a foolish thing it's always here. All thefamily breezes have started here. It's a kind of focus for aimed andaimless scandal. You know, when my father and mother had their specialquarrel, my aunt was mixed up in it, --I never knew how or how much--butyou may be sure she didn't calm things down, unless she found thingsmore entertaining calm. "

"Rickie! Rickie!" cried the lady from the garden, "Your riding-master'simpatient. "

"We really oughtn't to talk of her like this here, " whispered Agnes. "It's a horrible habit. "

"The habit of the country, Agnes. Ugh, this gossip!" Suddenly he flunghis arms over her. "Dear--dear--let's beware of I don't know what--ofnothing at all perhaps. "

"Oh, buck up!" yelled the irritable Stephen. "Which am I toshorten--left stirrup or right?"

"Left!" shouted Agnes. 

"How many holes?"

They hurried down. On the way she said: "I'm glad of the warning. NowI'm prepared. Your aunt will get nothing out of me. "

Her betrothed tried to mount with the wrong foot according to hisinvariable custom. She also had to pick up his whip. At last theystarted, the boy showing off pretty consistently, and she was left alonewith her hostess. 

"Dido is quiet as a lamb, " said Mrs. Failing, "and Stephen is a goodfielder. What a blessing it is to have cleared out the men. What shallyou and I do this heavenly morning?"

"I'm game for anything. "

"Have you quite unpacked?"

"Yes. "

"Any letters to write?" No. 

"Then let's go to my arbour. No, we won't. It gets the morning sun, andit'll be too hot today. " Already she regretted clearing out the men. Onsuch a morning she would have liked to drive, but her third animal hadgone lame. She feared, too, that Miss Pembroke was going to bore her. However, they did go to the arbour. In languid tones she pointed out thevarious objects of interest. 

"There's the Cad, which goes into the something, which goes into theAvon. Cadbury Rings opposite, Cadchurch to the extreme left: you can'tsee it. You were there last night. It is famous for the drunken parsonand the railway-station. Then Cad Dauntsey. Then Cadford, that side ofthe stream, connected with Cadover, this. Observe the fertility of theWiltshire mind. "

"A terrible lot of Cads, " said Agnes brightly. 

Mrs. Failing divided her guests into those who made this joke and thosewho did not. The latter class was very small. 

"The vicar of Cadford--not the nice drunkard--declares the name isreally 'Chadford, ' and he worried on till I put up a window to St. Chadin our church. His Cambridge wife pronounces it 'Hyadford. ' I couldsmack them both. How do you like Podge? Ah! you jump; I meant you to. How do you like Podge Wonham?"

"Very nice, " said Agnes, laughing. 

"Nice! He is a hero. "

There was a long interval of silence. Each lady looked, without muchinterest, at the view. Mrs. Failing's attitude towards Nature wasseverely aesthetic--an attitude more sterile than the severelypractical. She applied the test of beauty to shadow and odour and sound;they never filled her with reverence or excitement; she never knew themas a resistless trinity that may intoxicate the worshipper with joy. Ifshe liked a ploughed field, it was only as a spot of colour--not also asa hint of the endless strength of the earth. And today she could approveof one cloud, but object to its fellow. As for Miss Pembroke, she wasnot approving or objecting at all. "A hero?" she queried, when theinterval had passed. Her voice was indifferent, as if she had beenthinking of other things. 

"A hero? Yes. Didn't you notice how heroic he was?"

"I don't think I did. "

"Not at dinner? Ah, Agnes, always look out for heroism at dinner. It istheir great time. They live up to the stiffness of their shirt fronts. Do you mean to say that you never noticed how he set down Rickie?"

"Oh, that about poetry!" said Agnes, laughing. "Rickie would not mind itfor a moment. But why do you single out that as heroic?"

"To snub people! to set them down! to be rude to them! to make them feelsmall! Surely that's the lifework of a hero?"

"I shouldn't have said that. And as a matter of fact Mr. Wonham waswrong over the poetry. I made Rickie look it up afterwards. "

"But of course. A hero always is wrong. "

"To me, " she persisted, rather gently, "a hero has always been a strongwonderful being, who champions--"

"Ah, wait till you are the dragon! I have been a dragon most of my life, I think. A dragon that wants nothing but a peaceful cave. Then incomes the strong, wonderful, delightful being, and gains a princessby piercing my hide. No, seriously, my dear Agnes, the chiefcharacteristics of a hero are infinite disregard for the feelings ofothers, plus general inability to understand them. "

"But surely Mr. Wonham--"

"Yes; aren't we being unkind to the poor boy. Ought we to go ontalking?"

Agnes waited, remembering the warnings of Rickie, and thinking thatanything she said might perhaps be repeated. 

"Though even if he was here he wouldn't understand what we are saying. "

"Wouldn't understand?"

Mrs. Failing gave the least flicker of an eye towards her companion. "Did you take him for clever?"

"I don't think I took him for anything. " She smiled. "I have beenthinking of other things, and another boy. "

"But do think for a moment of Stephen. I will describe how he spentyesterday. He rose at eight. From eight to eleven he sang. The song wascalled, 'Father's boots will soon fit Willie. ' He stopped once to say tothe footman, 'She'll never finish her book. She idles: 'She' being I. Ateleven he went out, and stood in the rain till four, but had the luckto see a child run over at the level-crossing. By half-past four he hadknocked the bottom out of Christianity. "

Agnes looked bewildered. 

"Aren't you impressed? I was. I told him that he was on no account tounsettle the vicar. Open that cupboard, one of those sixpenny bookstells Podge that he's made of hard little black things, anotherthat he's made of brown things, larger and squashy. There seems adiscrepancy, but anything is better for a thoughtful youth than to bemade in the Garden of Eden. Let us eliminate the poetic, at whatevercost to the probable. " When for a moment she spoke more gravely. "Herehe is at twenty, with nothing to hold on by. I don't know what's to bedone. I suppose it's my fault. But I've never had any bother over theChurch of England; have you?"

"Of course I go with my Church, " said Miss Pembroke, who hated thisstyle of conversation. "I don't know, I'm sure. I think you shouldconsult a man. "

"Would Rickie help me?"

"Rickie would do anything he can. " And Mrs. Failing noted the halfofficial way in which she vouched for her lover. "But of course Rickieis a little--complicated. I doubt whether Mr. Wonham would understandhim. He wants--doesn't he?--some one who's a little more assertive andmore accustomed to boys. Some one more like my brother. "

"Agnes!" she seized her by the arm. "Do you suppose that Mr. Pembrokewould undertake my Podge?"

She shook her head. "His time is so filled up. He gets a boarding-housenext term. Besides--after all I don't know what Herbert would do. "

"Morality. He would teach him morality. The Thirty-Nine Articlesmay come of themselves, but if you have no morals you come to grief. Morality is all I demand from Mr. Herbert Pembroke. He shall be excusedthe use of the globes. You know, of course, that Stephen's expelled froma public school? He stole. "

The school was not a public one, and the expulsion, or rather requestfor removal, had taken place when Stephen was fourteen. A violentspasm of dishonesty--such as often heralds the approach of manhood--hadovercome him. He stole everything, especially what was difficult tosteal, and hid the plunder beneath a loose plank in the passage. He wasbetrayed by the inclusion of a ham. This was the crisis of his career. His benefactress was just then rather bored with him. He had stoppedbeing a pretty boy, and she rather doubted whether she would see himthrough. But she was so raged with the letters of the schoolmaster, andso delighted with those of the criminal, that she had him back and gavehim a prize. 

"No, " said Agnes, "I didn't know. I should be happy to speak to Herbert, but, as I said, his time will be very full. But I know he has friendswho make a speciality of weakly or--or unusual boys. "

"My dear, I've tried it. Stephen kicked the weakly boys and robbedapples with the unusual ones. He was expelled again. "

Agnes began to find Mrs. Failing rather tiresome. Wherever you trod onher, she seemed to slip away from beneath your feet. Agnes liked to knowwhere she was and where other people were as well. She said: "My brotherthinks a great deal of home life. I daresay he'd think that Mr. Wonhamis best where he is--with you. You have been so kind to him. You"--shepaused--"have been to him both father and mother. "

"I'm too hot, " was Mrs. Failing's reply. It seemed that Miss Pembrokehad at last touched a topic on which she was reticent. She rang theelectric bell, --it was only to tell the footman to take the reprints toMr. Wonham's room, --and then murmuring something about work, proceededherself to the house. 

"Mrs. Failing--" said Agnes, who had not expected such a speedy end totheir chat. 

"Call me Aunt Emily. My dear?"

"Aunt Emily, what did you think of that story Rickie sent you?"

"It is bad, " said Mrs. Failing. "But. But. But. " Then she escaped, having told the truth, and yet leaving a pleasurable impression behindher. 

XII

The excursion to Salisbury was but a poor business--in fact, Rickienever got there. They were not out of the drive before Mr. Wonham begandoing acrobatics. He showed Rickie how very quickly he could turn roundin his saddle and sit with his face to Aeneas's tail. "I see, " saidRickie coldly, and became almost cross when they arrived in thiscondition at the gate behind the house, for he had to open it, and wasafraid of falling. As usual, he anchored just beyond the fastenings, andthen had to turn Dido, who seemed as long as a battleship. To his reliefa man came forward, and murmuring, "Worst gate in the parish, " pushed itwide and held it respectfully. "Thank you, " cried Rickie; "manythanks. " But Stephen, who was riding into the world back first, saidmajestically, "No, no; it doesn't count. You needn't think it does. Youmake it worse by touching your hat. Four hours and seven minutes! You'llsee me again. " The man answered nothing. 

"Eh, but I'll hurt him, " he chanted, as he swung into position. "Thatwas Flea. Eh, but he's forgotten my fists; eh, but I'll hurt him. "

"Why?" ventured Rickie. Last night, over cigarettes, he had been boredto death by the story of Flea. The boy had a little reminded him ofGerald--the Gerald of history, not the Gerald of romance. He was moregenial, but there was the same brutality, the same peevish insistence onthe pound of flesh. 

"Hurt him till he learns. "

"Learns what?"

"Learns, of course, " retorted Stephen. Neither of them was very civil. They did not dislike each other, but they each wanted to be somewhereelse--exactly the situation that Mrs. Failing had expected. 

"He behaved badly, " said Rickie, "because he is poorer than we are, andmore ignorant. Less money has been spent on teaching him to behave. "

"Well, I'll teach him for nothing. "

"Perhaps his fists are stronger than yours!"

"They aren't. I looked. "

After this conversation flagged. Rickie glanced back at Cadover, and thought of the insipid day that lay before him. Generally he wasattracted by fresh people, and Stephen was almost fresh: they had beento him symbols of the unknown, and all that they did was interesting. But now he cared for the unknown no longer. He knew. 

Mr. Wilbraham passed them in his dog-cart, and lifted his hat to hisemployer's nephew. Stephen he ignored: he could not find him on the map. 

"Good morning, " said Rickie. "What a lovely morning!"

"I say, " called the other, "another child dead!" Mr. Wilbraham, who hadseemed inclined to chat, whipped up his horse and left them. 

"There goes an out and outer, " said Stephen; and then, as if introducingan entirely new subject--"Don't you think Flea Thompson treated medisgracefully?"

"I suppose he did. But I'm scarcely the person to sympathize. " Theallusion fell flat, and he had to explain it. "I should have done thesame myself, --promised to be away two hours, and stopped four. "

"Stopped-oh--oh, I understand. You being in love, you mean?"

He smiled and nodded. 

"Oh, I've no objection to Flea loving. He says he can't help it. But aslong as my fists are stronger, he's got to keep it in line. "

"In line?"

"A man like that, when he's got a girl, thinks the rest can go to thedevil. He goes cutting his work and breaking his word. Wilbraham oughtto sack him. I promise you when I've a girl I'll keep her in line, andif she turns nasty, I'll get another. "

Rickie smiled and said no more. But he was sorry that any one shouldstart life with such a creed--all the more sorry because the creedcaricatured his own. He too believed that life should be in a line--aline of enormous length, full of countless interests and countlessfigures, all well beloved. But woman was not to be "kept" to this line. Rather did she advance it continually, like some triumphant general, making each unit still more interesting, still more lovable, than it hadbeen before. He loved Agnes, not only for herself, but because she waslighting up the human world. But he could scarcely explain this to aninexperienced animal, nor did he make the attempt. 

For a long time they proceeded in silence. The hill behind Cadoverwas in harvest, and the horses moved regretfully between the sheaves. Stephen had picked a grass leaf, and was blowing catcalls upon it. Heblew very well, and this morning all his soul went into the wail. For hewas ill. He was tortured with the feeling that he could not get awayand do--do something, instead of being civil to this anaemic prig. Fourhours in the rain was better than this: he had not wanted to fidget inthe rain. But now the air was like wine, and the stubble was smelling ofwet, and over his head white clouds trundled more slowly and more seldomthrough broadening tracts of blue. There never had been such a morning, and he shut up his eyes and called to it. And whenever he called, Rickieshut up his eyes and winced. 

At last the blade broke. "We don't go quick, do we" he remarked, andlooked on the weedy track for another. 

"I wish you wouldn't let me keep you. If you were alone you would begalloping or something of that sort. "

"I was told I must go your pace, " he said mournfully. "And you promisedMiss Pembroke not to hurry. "

"Well, I'll disobey. " But he could not rise above a gentle trot, andeven that nearly jerked him out of the saddle. 

"Sit like this, " said Stephen. "Can't you see like this?" Rickie lurchedforward, and broke his thumb nail on the horse's neck. It bled a little, and had to be bound up. 

"Thank you--awfully kind--no tighter, please--I'm simply spoiling yourday. "

"I can't think how a man can help riding. You've only to leave it to thehorse so!--so!--just as you leave it to water in swimming. "

Rickie left it to Dido, who stopped immediately. 

"I said LEAVE it. " His voice rose irritably. "I didn't say 'die. ' Ofcourse she stops if you die. First you sit her as if you're Sandowexercising, and then you sit like a corpse. Can't you tell her you'realive? That's all she wants. "

In trying to convey the information, Rickie dropped his whip. Stephenpicked it up and rammed it into the belt of his own Norfolk jacket. Hewas scarcely a fashionable horseman. He was not even graceful. But herode as a living man, though Rickie was too much bored to notice it. Nota muscle in him was idle, not a muscle working hard. When he returnedfrom the gallop his limbs were still unsatisfied and his manners stillirritable. He did not know that he was ill: he knew nothing abouthimself at all. 

"Like a howdah in the Zoo, " he grumbled. "Mother Failing will buyelephants. " And he proceeded to criticize his benefactress. Rickie, keenly alive to bad taste, tried to stop him, and gained instead acriticism of religion. Stephen overthrew the Mosaic cosmogony. Hepointed out the discrepancies in the Gospels. He levelled his witagainst the most beautiful spire in the world, now rising against thesouthern sky. Between whiles he went for a gallop. After a time Rickiestopped listening, and simply went his way. For Dido was a perfectmount, and as indifferent to the motions of Aeneas as if she wasstrolling in the Elysian fields. He had had a bad night, and the strongair made him sleepy. The wind blew from the Plain. Cadover and itsvalley had disappeared, and though they had not climbed much and couldnot see far, there was a sense of infinite space. The fields wereenormous, like fields on the Continent, and the brilliant sun showed uptheir colours well. The green of the turnips, the gold of the harvest, and the brown of the newly turned clods, were each contrasted withmorsels of grey down. But the general effect was pale, or rathersilvery, for Wiltshire is not a county of heavy tints. Beneath thesecolours lurked the unconquerable chalk, and wherever the soil was poorit emerged. The grassy track, so gay with scabious and bedstraw, wassnow-white at the bottom of its ruts. A dazzling amphitheatre gleamedin the flank of a distant hill, cut for some Olympian audience. Andhere and there, whatever the surface crop, the earth broke into littleembankments, little ditches, little mounds: there had been no lack ofdrama to solace the gods. 

In Cadover, the perilous house, Agnes had already parted from Mrs. Failing. His thoughts returned to her. Was she, the soul of truth, insafety? Was her purity vexed by the lies and selfishness? Would sheelude the caprice which had, he vaguely knew, caused suffering before?Ah, the frailty of joy! Ah, the myriads of longings that pass withoutfruition, and the turf grows over them! Better men, women as noble--theyhad died up here and their dust had been mingled, but only their dust. These are morbid thoughts, but who dare contradict them? There is muchgood luck in the world, but it is luck. We are none of us safe. Weare children, playing or quarreling on the line, and some of us haveRickie's temperament, or his experiences, and admit it. 

So he mused, that anxious little speck, and all the land seemed tocomment on his fears and on his love. 

Their path lay upward, over a great bald skull, half grass, halfstubble. It seemed each moment there would be a splendid view. The viewnever came, for none of the inclines were sharp enough, and theymoved over the skull for many minutes, scarcely shifting a landmark oraltering the blue fringe of the distance. The spire of Salisbury didalter, but very slightly, rising and falling like the mercury in athermometer. At the most it would be half hidden; at the least thetip would show behind the swelling barrier of earth. They passed twoelder-trees--a great event. The bare patch, said Stephen, was owing tothe gallows. Rickie nodded. He had lost all sense of incident. In thisgreat solitude--more solitary than any Alpine range--he and Agneswere floating alone and for ever, between the shapeless earth and theshapeless clouds. An immense silence seemed to move towards them. A larkstopped singing, and they were glad of it. They were approaching theThrone of God. The silence touched them; the earth and all dangerdissolved, but ere they quite vanished Rickie heard himself saying, "Isit exactly what we intended?"

"Yes, " said a man's voice; "it's the old plan. " They were in anothervalley. Its sides were thick with trees. Down it ran another streamand another road: it, too, sheltered a string of villages. But allwas richer, larger, and more beautiful--the valley of the Avon belowAmesbury. 

"I've been asleep!" said Rickie, in awestruck tones. 

"Never!" said the other facetiously. "Pleasant dreams?"

"Perhaps--I'm really tired of apologizing to you. How long have you beenholding me on?"

"All in the day's work. " He gave him back the reins. 

"Where's that round hill?"

"Gone where the good niggers go. I want a drink. "

This is Nature's joke in Wiltshire--her one joke. You toil on windyslopes, and feel very primeval. You are miles from your fellows, and lo!a little valley full of elms and cottages. Before Rickie had waked up toit, they had stopped by a thatched public-house, and Stephen was yellinglike a maniac for beer. 

There was no occasion to yell. He was not very thirsty, and they werequite ready to serve him. Nor need he have drunk in the saddle, with theair of a warrior who carries important dispatches and has not the timeto dismount. A real soldier, bound on a similar errand, rode up to theinn, and Stephen feared that he would yell louder, and was hostile. Butthey made friends and treated each other, and slanged the proprietor andragged the pretty girls; while Rickie, as each wave of vulgarity burstover him, sunk his head lower and lower, and wished that the earthwould swallow him up. He was only used to Cambridge, and to a very smallcorner of that. He and his friends there believed in free speech. But they spoke freely about generalities. They were scientific andphilosophic. They would have shrunk from the empirical freedom thatresults from a little beer. 

That was what annoyed him as he rode down the new valley with twochattering companions. He was more skilled than they were in theprinciples of human existence, but he was not so indecently familiarwith the examples. A sordid village scandal--such as Stephen describedas a huge joke--sprang from certain defects in human nature, with whichhe was theoretically acquainted. But the example! He blushed at it likea maiden lady, in spite of its having a parallel in a beautiful idyll ofTheocritus. Was experience going to be such a splendid thing after all?Were the outside of houses so very beautiful?

"That's spicy!" the soldier was saying. "Got any more like that?"

"I'se got a pome, " said Stephen, and drew a piece of paper from hispocket. The valley had broadened. Old Sarum rose before them, ugly andmajestic. 

"Write this yourself?" he asked, chuckling. 

"Rather, " said Stephen, lowering his head and kissing Aeneas between theears. 

"But who's old Em'ly?" Rickie winced and frowned. 

"Now you're asking. 

"Old Em'ly she limps, And as--"

"I am so tired, " said Rickie. Why should he stand it any longer?

He would go home to the woman he loved. "Do you mind if I give upSalisbury?"

"But we've seen nothing!" cried Stephen. 

"I shouldn't enjoy anything, I am so absurdly tired. "

"Left turn, then--all in the day's work. " He bit at his moustacheangrily. 

"Good gracious me, man!--of course I'm going back alone. I'm not goingto spoil your day. How could you think it of me?"

Stephen gave a loud sigh of relief. "If you do want to go home, here'syour whip. Don't fall off. Say to her you wanted it, or there might beructions. "

"Certainly. Thank you for your kind care of me. "

"'Old Em'ly she limps, And as--'"

Soon he was out of earshot. Soon they were lost to view. Soon they wereout of his thoughts. He forgot the coarseness and the drinking and theingratitude. A few months ago he would not have forgotten so quickly, and he might also have detected something else. But a lover is dogmatic. To him the world shall be beautiful and pure. When it is not, he ignoresit. 

"He's not tired, " said Stephen to the soldier; "he wants his girl. " Andthey winked at each other, and cracked jokes over the eternal comedy oflove. They asked each other if they'd let a girl spoil a morning's ride. They both exhibited a profound cynicism. Stephen, who was quite withoutballast, described the household at Cadover: he should say that Rickiewould find Miss Pembroke kissing the footman. 

"I say the footman's kissing old Em'ly. "

"Jolly day, " said Stephen. His voice was suddenly constrained. He wasnot sure whether he liked the soldier after all, nor whether he had beenwise in showing him his compositions. 

"'Old Em'ly she limps, And as--'"

"All right, Thomas. That'll do. "

"Old Em'ly--'"

"I wish you'd dry up, like a good fellow. This is the lady's horse, youknow, hang it, after all. "

"In-deed!"

"Don't you see--when a fellow's on a horse, he can't let anotherfellow--kind of--don't you know?"

The man did know. "There's sense in that. " he said approvingly. Peacewas restored, and they would have reached Salisbury if they had not hadsome more beer. It unloosed the soldier's fancies, and again he spoke ofold Em'ly, and recited the poem, with Aristophanic variations. 

"Jolly day, " repeated Stephen, with a straightening of the eyebrowsand a quick glance at the other's body. He then warned him againstthe variations. In consequence he was accused of being a member of theY. M. C. A. His blood boiled at this. He refuted the charge, and becamegreat friends with the soldier, for the third time. 

"Any objection to 'Saucy Mr. And Mrs. Tackleton'?"

"Rather not. "

The soldier sang "Saucy Mr. And Mrs. Tackleton. " It is really a workfor two voices, most of the sauciness disappearing when taken as a solo. Nor is Mrs. Tackleton's name Em'lv. 

"I call it a jolly rotten song, " said Stephen crossly. "I won't standbeing got at. "

"P'r'aps y'like therold song. Lishen. 

 "'Of all the gulls that arsshmart, There's none line pretty--Em'ly; For she's the darling of merart'"

"Now, that's wrong. " He rode up close to the singer. 

"Shright. "

"'Tisn't. "

"It's as my mother taught me. "

"I don't care. "

"I'll not alter from mother's way. "

Stephen was baffled. Then he said, "How does your mother make it rhyme?"

"Wot?"

"Squat. You're an ass, and I'm not. Poems want rhymes. 'Alley' comesnext line. "

He said "alley" was--welcome to come if it liked. 

"It can't. You want Sally. Sally--alley. Em'ly-alley doesn't do. "

"Emily-femily!" cried the soldier, with an inspiration that was not hiswhen sober. "My mother taught me femily. 

"'For she's the darling of merart, And she lives in my femily. '"

"Well, you'd best be careful, Thomas, and your mother too. "

"Your mother's no better than she should be, " said Thomas vaguely. 

"Do you think I haven't heard that before?" retorted the boy. The otherconcluded he might now say anything. So he might--the name of old Emilyexcepted. Stephen cared little about his benefactress's honour, but agreat deal about his own. He had made Mrs. Failing into a test. For themoment he would die for her, as a knight would die for a glove. He isnot to be distinguished from a hero. 

Old Sarum was passed. They approached the most beautiful spire inthe world. "Lord! another of these large churches!" said the soldier. Unfriendly to Gothic, he lifted both hands to his nose, and declaredthat old Em'ly was buried there. He lay in the mud. His horse trottedback towards Amesbury, Stephen had twisted him out of the saddle. 

"I've done him!" he yelled, though no one was there to hear. He rose upin his stirrups and shouted with joy. He flung his arms round Aeneas'sneck. The elderly horse understood, capered, and bolted. It was acentaur that dashed into Salisbury and scattered the people. Inthe stable he would not dismount. "I've done him!" he yelled to theostlers--apathetic men. Stretching upwards, he clung to a beam. Aeneasmoved on and he was left hanging. Greatly did he incommode them by hisexercises. He pulled up, he circled, he kicked the other customers. Atlast he fell to the earth, deliciously fatigued. His body worried him nolonger. 

He went, like the baby he was, to buy a white linen hat. There weresoldiers about, and he thought it would disguise him. Then he had alittle lunch to steady the beer. This day had turned out admirably. Allthe money that should have fed Rickie he could spend on himself. Insteadof toiling over the Cathedral and seeing the stuffed penguins, he couldstop the whole thing in the cattle market. There he met and made somefriends. He watched the cheap-jacks, and saw how necessary it was tohave a confident manner. He spoke confidently himself about lambs, andpeople listened. He spoke confidently about pigs, and they roared withlaughter. He must learn more about pigs. He witnessed a performance--nottoo namby-pamby--of Punch and Judy. "Hullo, Podge!" cried a naughtylittle girl. He tried to catch her, and failed. She was one of theCadford children. For Salisbury on market day, though it is notpicturesque, is certainly representative, and you read the names ofhalf the Wiltshire villages upon the carriers' carts. He found, in PennyFarthing Street, the cart from Wintersbridge. It would not start forseveral hours, but the passengers always used it as a club, and sat init every now and then during the day. No less than three ladies werethese now, staring at the shafts. One of them was Flea Thompson's girl. He asked her, quite politely, why her lover had broken faith with himin the rain. She was silent. He warned her of approaching vengeance. Shewas still silent, but another woman hoped that a gentleman would notbe hard on a poor person. Something in this annoyed him; it wasn't aquestion of gentility and poverty--it was a question of two men. Hedetermined to go back by Cadbury Rings where the shepherd would now be. 

He did. But this part must be treated lightly. He rode up to the culpritwith the air of a Saint George, spoke a few stern words from the saddle, tethered his steed to a hurdle, and took off his coat. "Are you ready?"he asked. 

"Yes, sir, " said Flea, and flung him on his back. 

"That's not fair, " he protested. 

The other did not reply, but flung him on his head. 

"How on earth did you learn that?"

"By trying often, " said Flea. 

Stephen sat on the ground, picking mud out of his forehead. "I meant itto be fists, " he said gloomily. 

"I know, sir. "

"It's jolly smart though, and--and I beg your pardon all round. " Itcost him a great deal to say this, but he was sure that it was the rightthing to say. He must acknowledge the better man. Whereas most people, if they provoke a fight and are flung, say, "You cannot rob me of mymoral victory. "

There was nothing further to be done. He mounted again, not exactlydepressed, but feeling that this delightful world is extraordinarilyunreliable. He had never expected to fling the soldier, or to beflung by Flea. "One nips or is nipped, " he thought, "and never knowsbeforehand. I should not be surprised if many people had more in themthan I suppose, while others were just the other way round. I haven'tseen that sort of thing in Ingersoll, but it's quite important. " Thenhis thoughts turned to a curious incident of long ago, when he had been"nipped"--as a little boy. He was trespassing in those woods, whenhe met in a narrow glade a flock of sheep. They had neither dog norshepherd, and advanced towards him silently. He was accustomed to sheep, but had never happened to meet them in a wood before, and disliked it. He retired, slowly at first, then fast; and the flock, in a dense mass, pressed after him. His terror increased. He turned and screamed at theirlong white faces; and still they came on, all stuck together, like somehorrible jell--. If once he got into them! Bellowing and screeching, herushed into the undergrowth, tore himself all over, and reached home inconvulsions. Mr. Failing, his only grown-up friend, was sympathetic, butquite stupid. "Pan ovium custos, " he sympathetic, as he pulled out thethorns. "Why not?" "Pan ovium custos. " Stephen learnt the meaning of thephrase at school, "A pan of eggs for custard. " He still remembered howthe other boys looked as he peeped at them between his legs, awaitingthe descending cane. 

So he returned, full of pleasant disconnected thoughts. He had had arare good time. He liked every one--even that poor little Elliot--andyet no one mattered. They were all out. On the landing he saw thehousemaid. He felt skittish and irresistible. Should he slip his armround her waist? Perhaps better not; she might box his ears. And hewanted to smoke on the roof before dinner. So he only said, "Please willyou stop the boy blacking my brown boots, " and she with downcast eyes, answered, "Yes, sir; I will indeed. "

His room was in the pediment. Classical architecture, like all things inthis world that attempt serenity, is bound to have its lapses into theundignified, and Cadover lapsed hopelessly when it came to Stephen'sroom. It gave him one round window, to see through which he must lieupon his stomach, one trapdoor opening upon the leads, three irongirders, three beams, six buttresses, no circling, unless you count thewalls, no walls unless you count the ceiling and in its embarrassmentpresented him with the gurgly cistern that supplied the bath water. Herehe lived, absolutely happy, and unaware that Mrs. Failing had poked himup here on purpose, to prevent him from growing too bumptious. Here heworked and sang and practised on the ocharoon. Here, in the crannies, hehad constructed shelves and cupboards and useless little drawers. He hadonly one picture--the Demeter of Onidos--and she hung straight from theroof like a joint of meat. Once she was in the drawing-room; butMrs. Failing had got tired of her, and decreed her removal and thisdegradation. Now she faced the sunrise; and when the moon rose its lightalso fell on her, and trembled, like light upon the sea. For she wasnever still, and if the draught increased she would twist on her string, and would sway and tap upon the rafters until Stephen woke up and saidwhat he thought of her. "Want your nose?" he would murmur. "Don't youwish you may get it" Then he drew the clothes over his ears, while abovehim, in the wind and the darkness, the goddess continued her motions. 

Today, as he entered, he trod on the pile of sixpenny reprints. Leightonhad brought them up. He looked at the portraits in their covers, andbegan to think that these people were not everything. What a fate, to look like Colonel Ingersoll, or to marry Mrs. Julia P. Chunk! TheDemeter turned towards him as he bathed, and in the cold water he sang--

 "They aren't beautiful, they aren't modest; I'd just as soon follow an old stone goddess, "

and sprang upward through the skylight on to the roof. Years ago, whena nurse was washing him, he had slipped from her soapy hands and got uphere. She implored him to remember that he was a little gentleman; buthe forgot the fact--if it was a fact--and not even the butler could gethim down. Mr. Failing, who was sitting alone in the garden too ill toread, heard a shout, "Am I an acroterium?" He looked up and saw a nakedchild poised on the summit of Cadover. "Yes, " he replied; "but they areunfashionable. Go in, " and the vision had remained with him as somethingpeculiarly gracious. He felt that nonsense and beauty have closeconnections, --closer connections than Art will allow, --and that bothwould remain when his own heaviness and his own ugliness had perished. Mrs. Failing found in his remains a sentence that puzzled her. "I seethe respectable mansion. I see the smug fortress of culture. The doorsare shut. The windows are shut. But on the roof the children go dancingfor ever. "

Stephen was a child no longer. He never stood on the pediment now, except for a bet. He never, or scarcely ever, poured water down thechimneys. When he caught the cat, he seldom dropped her into thehousekeeper's bedroom. But still, when the weather was fair, he liked tocome up after bathing, and get dry in the sun. Today he brought with hima towel, a pipe of tobacco, and Rickie's story. He must get it done sometime, and he was tired of the six-penny reprints. The sloping gablewas warm, and he lay back on it with closed eyes, gasping for pleasure. Starlings criticized him, snots fell on his clean body, and over him alittle cloud was tinged with the colours of evening. "Good! good!" hewhispered. "Good, oh good!" and opened the manuscript reluctantly. 

What a production! Who was this girl? Where did she go to? Why so muchtalk about trees? "I take it he wrote it when feeling bad, " he murmured, and let it fall into the gutter. It fell face downwards, and on the backhe saw a neat little resume in Miss Pembroke's handwriting, intended forsuch as him. "Allegory. Man = modern civilization (in bad sense). Girl =getting into touch with Nature. "

In touch with Nature! The girl was a tree! He lit his pipe and gazed atthe radiant earth. The foreground was hidden, but there was the villagewith its elms, and the Roman Road, and Cadbury Rings. There, too, werethose woods, and little beech copses, crowning a waste of down. Not tomention the air, or the sun, or water. Good, oh good!

In touch with Nature! What cant would the books think of next? His eyesclosed. He was sleepy. Good, oh good! Sighing into his pipe, he fellasleep. 

XIII

Glad as Agnes was when her lover returned for lunch, she was at thesame time rather dismayed: she knew that Mrs. Failing would not like herplans altered. And her dismay was justified. Their hostess was a littlestiff, and asked whether Stephen had been obnoxious. 

"Indeed he hasn't. He spent the whole time looking after me. "

"From which I conclude he was more obnoxious than usual. " Rickie praisedhim diligently. But his candid nature showed everything through. Hisaunt soon saw that they had not got on. She had expected this--almostplanned it. Nevertheless she resented it, and her resentment was to fallon him. 

The storm gathered slowly, and many other things went to swell it. Weakly people, if they are not careful, hate one another, and when theweakness is hereditary the temptation increases. Elliots had never goton among themselves. They talked of "The Family, " but they always turnedoutwards to the health and beauty that lie so promiscuously about theworld. Rickie's father had turned, for a time at all events, to hismother. Rickie himself was turning to Agnes. And Mrs. Failing now wasirritable, and unfair to the nephew who was lame like her horriblebrother and like herself. She thought him invertebrate and conventional. She was envious of his happiness. She did not trouble to understand hisart. She longed to shatter him, but knowing as she did that the humanthunderbolt often rebounds and strikes the wielder, she held her hand. 

Agnes watched the approaching clouds. Rickie had warned her; now shebegan to warn him. As the visit wore away she urged him to be pleasantto his aunt, and so convert it into a success. 

He replied, "Why need it be a success?"--a reply in the manner ofAnsell. 

She laughed. "Oh, that's so like you men--all theory! What about yourgreat theory of hating no one? As soon as it comes in useful you dropit. "

"I don't hate Aunt Emily. Honestly. But certainly I don't want to benear her or think about her. Don't you think there are two great thingsin life that we ought to aim at--truth and kindness? Let's have both ifwe can, but let's be sure of having one or the other. My aunt gives upboth for the sake of being funny. "

"And Stephen Wonham, " pursued Agnes. "There's another person youhate--or don't think about, if you prefer it put like that. "

"The truth is, I'm changing. I'm beginning to see that the world hasmany people in it who don't matter. I had time for them once. Not now. "There was only one gate to the kingdom of heaven now. 

Agnes surprised him by saying, "But the Wonham boy is evidently a partof your aunt's life. She laughs at him, but she is fond of him. "

"What's that to do with it?"

"You ought to be pleasant to him on account of it. "

"Why on earth?"

She flushed a little. "I'm old-fashioned. One ought to consider one'shostess, and fall in with her life. After we leave it's another thing. But while we take her hospitality I think it's our duty. "

Her good sense triumphed. Henceforth he tried to fall in with AuntEmily's life. Aunt Emily watched him trying. The storm broke, as stormssometimes do, on Sunday. 

Sunday church was a function at Cadover, though a strange one. Thepompous landau rolled up to the house at a quarter to eleven. Then Mrs. Failing said, "Why am I being hurried?" and after an interval descendedthe steps in her ordinary clothes. She regarded the church as a sort ofsitting-room, and refused even to wear a bonnet there. The village wasshocked, but at the same time a little proud; it would point out thecarriage to strangers and gossip about the pale smiling lady who sat init, always alone, always late, her hair always draped in an expensiveshawl. 

This Sunday, though late as usual, she was not alone. Miss Pembroke, en grande toilette, sat by her side. Rickie, looking plain and devout, perched opposite. And Stephen actually came too, murmuring that it wouldbe the Benedicite, which he had never minded. There was also the Litany, which drove him into the air again, much to Mrs. Failing's delight. Sheenjoyed this sort of thing. It amused her when her Protege left the pew, looking bored, athletic, and dishevelled, and groping most obviously forhis pipe. She liked to keep a thoroughbred pagan to shock people. "He'sgone to worship Nature, " she whispered. Rickie did not look up. "Don'tyou think he's charming?" He made no reply. 

"Charming, " whispered Agnes over his head. 

During the sermon she analysed her guests. MissPembroke--undistinguished, unimaginative, tolerable. Rickie--intolerable. "And how pedantic!" she mused. "He smells of theUniversity library. If he was stupid in the right way he would be adon. " She looked round the tiny church; at the whitewashed pillars, the humble pavement, the window full of magenta saints. There wasthe vicar's wife. And Mrs. Wilbraham's bonnet. Ugh! The rest of thecongregation were poor women, with flat, hopeless faces--she saw themSunday after Sunday, but did not know their names--diversified with afew reluctant plough-boys, and the vile little school children row uponrow. "Ugh! what a hole, " thought Mrs. Failing, whose Christianity wasthe type best described as "cathedral. " "What a hole for a culturedwoman! I don't think it has blunted my sensations, though; I stillsee its squalor as clearly as ever. And my nephew pretends he isworshipping. Pah! the hypocrite. " Above her the vicar spoke of thedanger of hurrying from one dissipation to another. She treasured hiswords, and continued: "I cannot stand smugness. It is the one, theunpardonable sin. Fresh air! The fresh air that has made Stephen Wonhamfresh and companionable and strong. Even if it kills, I will let in thefresh air. "

Thus reasoned Mrs. Failing, in the facile vein of Ibsenism. She imaginedherself to be a cold-eyed Scandinavian heroine. Really she was anEnglish old lady, who did not mind giving other people a chill providedit was not infectious. 

Agnes, on the way back, noted that her hostess was a little snappish. But one is so hungry after morning service, and either so hot or socold, that he would be a saint indeed who becomes a saint at once. Mrs. Failing, after asserting vindictively that it was impossible to makea living out of literature, was courteously left alone. Roast-beefand moselle might yet work miracles, and Agnes still hoped for theintroductions--the introductions to certain editors and publishers--onwhich her whole diplomacy was bent. Rickie would not push himself. Itwas his besetting sin. Well for him that he would have a wife, and aloving wife, who knew the value of enterprise. 

Unfortunately lunch was a quarter of an hour late, and during thatquarter of an hour the aunt and the nephew quarrelled. She had beeninveighing against the morning service, and he quietly and deliberatelyreplied, "If organized religion is anything--and it is something tome--it will not be wrecked by a harmonium and a dull sermon. "

Mrs. Failing frowned. "I envy you. It is a great thing to have no senseof beauty. "

"I think I have a sense of beauty, which leads me astray if I am notcareful. "

"But this is a great relief to me. I thought the present day young manwas an agnostic! Isn't agnosticism all the thing at Cambridge?"

"Nothing is the 'thing' at Cambridge. If a few men are agnostic there, it is for some grave reason, not because they are irritated with the waythe parson says his vowels. "

Agnes intervened. "Well, I side with Aunt Emily. I believe in ritual. "

"Don't, my dear, side with me. He will only say you have no sense ofreligion either. "

"Excuse me, " said Rickie, perhaps he too was a little hungry, --"I neversuggested such a thing. I never would suggest such a thing. Why cannotyou understand my position? I almost feel it is that you won't. "

"I try to understand your position night and day dear--what you mean, what you like, why you came to Cadover, and why you stop here when mypresence is so obviously unpleasing to you. "

"Luncheon is served, " said Leighton, but he said it too late. Theydiscussed the beef and the moselle in silence. The air was heavy andominous. Even the Wonham boy was affected by it, shivered at times, choked once, and hastened anew into the sun. He could not understandclever people. 

Agnes, in a brief anxious interview, advised the culprit to take asolitary walk. She would stop near Aunt Emily, and pave the way for anapology. 

"Don't worry too much. It doesn't really matter. "

"I suppose not, dear. But it seems a pity, considering we are so nearthe end of our visit. "

"Rudeness and Grossness matter, and I've shown both, and already I'msorry, and I hope she'll let me apologize. But from the selfish point ofview it doesn't matter a straw. She's no more to us than the Wonham boyor the boot boy. "

"Which way will you walk?"

"I think to that entrenchment. Look at it. " They were sitting on thesteps. He stretched out his hand to Cadsbury Rings, and then let it restfor a moment on her shoulder. "You're changing me, " he said gently. "Godbless you for it. "

He enjoyed his walk. Cadford was a charming village and for a time hehung over the bridge by the mill. So clear was the stream that it seemednot water at all, but some invisible quintessence in which the happyminnows and the weeds were vibrating. And he paused again at the Romancrossing, and thought for a moment of the unknown child. The line curvedsuddenly: certainly it was dangerous. Then he lifted his eyes to thedown. The entrenchment showed like the rim of a saucer, and overits narrow line peeped the summit of the central tree. It lookedinteresting. He hurried forward, with the wind behind him. 

The Rings were curious rather than impressive. Neither embankment wasover twelve feet high, and the grass on them had not the exquisitegreen of Old Sarum, but was grey and wiry. But Nature (if she arrangesanything) had arranged that from them, at all events, there should be aview. The whole system of the country lay spread before Rickie, and hegained an idea of it that he never got in his elaborate ride. He saw howall the water converges at Salisbury; how Salisbury lies in a shallowbasin, just at the change of the soil. He saw to the north the Plain, and the stream of the Cad flowing down from it, with a tributary thatbroke out suddenly, as the chalk streams do: one village had clusteredround the source and clothed itself with trees. He saw Old Sarum, andhints of the Avon valley, and the land above Stone Henge. And behind himhe saw the great wood beginning unobtrusively, as if the down too neededshaving; and into it the road to London slipped, covering the busheswith white dust. Chalk made the dust white, chalk made the water clear, chalk made the clean rolling outlines of the land, and favoured thegrass and the distant coronals of trees. Here is the heart of ourisland: the Chilterns, the North Downs, the South Downs radiate hence. The fibres of England unite in Wiltshire, and did we condescend toworship her, here we should erect our national shrine. 

People at that time were trying to think imperially, Rickie wondered howthey did it, for he could not imagine a place larger than England. And other people talked of Italy, the spiritual fatherland of us all. Perhaps Italy would prove marvellous. But at present he conceived it assomething exotic, to be admired and reverenced, but not to be loved likethese unostentatious fields. He drew out a book, it was natural for himto read when he was happy, and to read out loud, --and for a little timehis voice disturbed the silence of that glorious afternoon. The book wasShelley, and it opened at a passage that he had cherished greatly twoyears before, and marked as "very good. "

"I never was attached to that great sect Whose doctrine is that each oneshould select Out of the world a mistress or a friend, And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend To cold oblivion, --though it is the codeOf modern morals, and the beaten road Which those poor slaves with wearyfootsteps tread Who travel to their home among the dead By the broadhighway of the world, --and so With one sad friend, perhaps a jealousfoe, The dreariest and the longest journey go. "

It was "very good"--fine poetry, and, in a sense, true. Yet he wassurprised that he had ever selected it so vehemently. This afternoon itseemed a little inhuman. Half a mile off two lovers were keeping companywhere all the villagers could see them. They cared for no one else;they felt only the pressure of each other, and so progressed, silentand oblivious, across the land. He felt them to be nearer the truththan Shelley. Even if they suffered or quarrelled, they would have beennearer the truth. He wondered whether they were Henry Adams and JessicaThompson, both of this parish, whose banns had been asked for the secondtime in the church this morning. Why could he not marry on fifteenshillings a-week? And be looked at them with respect, and wished that hewas not a cumbersome gentleman. 

Presently he saw something less pleasant--his aunt's pony carriage. Ithad crossed the railway, and was advancing up the Roman road along bythe straw sacks. His impulse was to retreat, but someone waved to him. It was Agnes. She waved continually, as much as to say, "Wait for us. "Mrs. Failing herself raised the whip in a nonchalant way. Stephen Wonhamwas following on foot, some way behind. He put the Shelley back into hispocket and waited for them. When the carriage stopped by some hurdleshe went down from the embankment and helped them to dismount. He feltrather nervous. 

His aunt gave him one of her disquieting smiles, but said pleasantlyenough, "Aren't the Rings a little immense? Agnes and I came herebecause we wanted an antidote to the morning service. "

"Pang!" said the church bell suddenly; "pang! pang!" It sounded pettyand ludicrous. They all laughed. Rickie blushed, and Agnes, with aglance that said "apologize, " darted away to the entrenchment, as thoughunable to restrain her curiosity. 

"The pony won't move, " said Mrs. Failing. "Leave him for Stephen to tieup. Will you walk me to the tree in the middle? Booh! I'm tired. Give meyour arm--unless you're tired as well. "

"No. I came out partly in the hope of helping you. "

"How sweet of you. " She contrasted his blatant unselfishness with thehardness of Stephen. Stephen never came out to help you. But if you gothold of him he was some good. He didn't wobble and bend at the criticalmoment. Her fancy compared Rickie to the cracked church bell sendingforth its message of "Pang! pang!" to the countryside, and Stephen tothe young pagans who were said to lie under this field guarding theirpagan gold. 

"This place is full of ghosties, " she remarked; "have you seen any yet?"

"I've kept on the outer rim so far. "

"Let's go to the tree in the centre. "

"Here's the path. " The bank of grass where he had sat was broken by agap, through which chariots had entered, and farm carts entered now. Thetrack, following the ancient track, led straight through turnips to asimilar gap in the second circle, and thence continued, through moreturnips, to the central tree. 

"Pang!" said the bell, as they paused at the entrance. 

"You needn't unharness, " shouted Mrs. Failing, for Stephen wasapproaching the carriage. 

"Yes, I will, " he retorted. 

"You will, will you?" she murmured with a smile. "I wish your brotherwasn't quite so uppish. Let's get on. Doesn't that church distract you?"

"It's so faint here, " said Rickie. And it sounded fainter inside, thoughthe earthwork was neither thick nor tall; and the view, though nothidden, was greatly diminished. He was reminded for a minute of thatchalk pit near Madingley, whose ramparts excluded the familiar world. Agnes was here, as she had once been there. She stood on the fartherbarrier, waiting to receive them when they had traversed the heart ofthe camp. 

"Admire my mangel-wurzels, " said Mrs. Failing. "They are said to growso splendidly on account of the dead soldiers. Isn't it a sweet thought?Need I say it is your brother's?"

"Wonham's?" he suggested. It was the second time that she had made thelittle slip. She nodded, and he asked her what kind of ghosties hauntedthis curious field. 

"The D. , " was her prompt reply. "He leans against the tree in themiddle, especially on Sunday afternoons and all the worshippers risethrough the turnips and dance round him. "

"Oh, these were decent people, " he replied, looking downwards--"soldiersand shepherds. They have no ghosts. They worshipped Mars or Pan-Erdaperhaps; not the devil. "

"Pang!" went the church, and was silent, for the afternoon servicehad begun. They entered the second entrenchment, which was in height, breadth, and composition, similar to the first, and excluded still moreof the view. His aunt continued friendly. Agnes stood watching them. 

"Soldiers may seem decent in the past, " she continued, "but wait tillthey turn into Tommies from Bulford Camp, who rob the chickens. "

"I don't mind Bulford Camp, " said Rickie, looking, though in vain, forsigns of its snowy tents. "The men there are the sons of the men here, and have come back to the old country. War's horrible, yet one loves allcontinuity. And no one could mind a shepherd. "

"Indeed! What about your brother--a shepherd if ever there was? Look howhe bores you! Don't be so sentimental. "

"But--oh, you mean--"

"Your brother Stephen. "

He glanced at her nervously. He had never known her so queer before. Perhaps it was some literary allusion that he had not caught; but herface did not at that moment suggest literature. In the differentialtones that one uses to an old and infirm person he said "Stephen Wonhamisn't my brother, Aunt Emily. "

"My dear, you're that precise. One can't say 'half-brother' every time. "

They approached the central tree. 

"How you do puzzle me, " he said, dropping her arm and beginning tolaugh. "How could I have a half-brother?"

She made no answer. 

Then a horror leapt straight at him, and he beat it back and said, "I will not be frightened. " The tree in the centre revolved, the treedisappeared, and he saw a room--the room where his father had lived intown. "Gently, " he told himself, "gently. " Still laughing, he said, "I, with a brother-younger it's not possible. " The horror leapt again, andhe exclaimed, "It's a foul lie!"

"My dear, my dear!"

"It's a foul lie! He wasn't--I won't stand--"

"My dear, before you say several noble things, remember that it's worsefor him than for you--worse for your brother, for your half-brother, foryour younger brother. "

But he heard her no longer. He was gazing at the past, which he hadpraised so recently, which gaped ever wider, like an unhallowed grave. Turn where he would, it encircled him. It took visible form: it was thisdouble entrenchment of the Rings. His mouth went cold, and he knew thathe was going to faint among the dead. He started running, missed theexit, stumbled on the inner barrier, fell into darkness--

"Get his head down, " said a voice. "Get the blood back into him. That's all he wants. Leave him to me. Elliot!"--the blood wasreturning--"Elliot, wake up!"

He woke up. The earth he had dreaded lay close to his eyes, and seemedbeautiful. He saw the structure of the clods. A tiny beetle swung onthe grass blade. On his own neck a human hand pressed, guiding the bloodback to his brain. 

There broke from him a cry, not of horror but of acceptance. For oneshort moment he understood. "Stephen--" he began, and then he heard hisown name called: "Rickie! Rickie!" Agnes hurried from her post on themargin, and, as if understanding also, caught him to her breast. 

Stephen offered to help them further, but finding that he made thingsworse, he stepped aside to let them pass and then sauntered inwards. Thewhole field, with concentric circles, was visible, and the broad leavesof the turnips rustled in the gathering wind. Miss Pembroke and Elliotwere moving towards the Cadover entrance. Mrs. Failing stood watching inher turn on the opposite bank. He was not an inquisitive boy; but as heleant against the tree he wondered what it was all about, and whether hewould ever know. 

XIV

On the way back--at that very level-crossing where he had paused onhis upward route--Rickie stopped suddenly and told the girl why he hadfainted. Hitherto she had asked him in vain. His tone had gone from him, and he told her harshly and brutally, so that she started away witha horrified cry. Then his manner altered, and he exclaimed: "Will youmind? Are you going to mind?"

"Of course I mind, " she whispered. She turned from him, and saw up onthe sky-line two figures that seemed to be of enormous size. 

"They're watching us. They stand on the edge watching us. This country'sso open--you--you can't they watch us wherever we go. Of course youmind. "

They heard the rumble of the train, and she pulled herself together. "Come, dearest, we shall be run over next. We're saying things that haveno sense. " But on the way back he repeated: "They can still see us. Theycan see every inch of this road. They watch us for ever. " And when theyarrived at the steps there, sure enough, were still the two figuresgazing from the outer circle of the Rings. 

She made him go to his room at once: he was almost hysterical. Leightonbrought out some tea for her, and she sat drinking it on the littleterrace. Of course she minded. 

Again she was menaced by the abnormal. All had seemed so fair and sosimple, so in accordance with her ideas; and then, like a corpse, thishorror rose up to the surface. She saw the two figures descend and pausewhile one of them harnessed the pony; she saw them drive downward, andknew that before long she must face them and the world. She glanced ather engagement ring. 

When the carriage drove up Mrs. Failing dismounted, but did not speak. It was Stephen who inquired after Rickie. She, scarcely knowing thesound of her own voice, replied that he was a little tired. 

"Go and put up the pony, " said Mrs. Failing rather sharply. 

"Agnes, give me some tea. "

"It is rather strong, " said Agnes as the carriage drove off and leftthem alone. Then she noticed that Mrs. Failing herself was agitated. Herlips were trembling, and she saw the boy depart with manifest relief. 

"Do you know, " she said hurriedly, as if talking against time--"Do youknow what upset Rickie?"

"I do indeed know. "

"Has he told any one else?"

"I believe not. "

"Agnes--have I been a fool?"

"You have been very unkind, " said the girl, and her eyes filled withtears. 

For a moment Mrs. Failing was annoyed. "Unkind? I do not see that atall. I believe in looking facts in the face. Rickie must know his ghostssome time. Why not this afternoon?"

She rose with quiet dignity, but her tears came faster. "That is not so. You told him to hurt him. I cannot think what you did it for. I supposebecause he was rude to you after church. It is a mean, cowardly revenge. 

"What--what if it's a lie?"

"Then, Mrs. Failing, it is sickening of you. There is no other word. Sickening. I am sorry--a nobody like myself--to speak like this. HowCOULD you, oh, how could you demean yourself? Why, not even a poorperson--Her indignation was fine and genuine. But her tears fell nolonger. Nothing menaced her if they were not really brothers. 

"It is not a lie, my clear; sit down. I will swear so much solemnly. Itis not a lie, but--"

Agnes waited. 

"--we can call it a lie if we choose. "

"I am not so childish. You have said it, and we must all suffer. Youhave had your fun: I conclude you did it for fun. You cannot goback. He--" She pointed towards the stables, and could not finish hersentence. 

"I have not been a fool twice. "

Agnes did not understand. 

"My dense lady, can't you follow? I have not told Stephen one singleword, neither before nor now. "

There was a long silence. 

Indeed, Mrs. Failing was in an awkward position. 

Rickie had irritated her, and, in her desire to shock him, she hadimperilled her own peace. She had felt so unconventional upon thehillside, when she loosed the horror against him; but now it wasdarting at her as well. Suppose the scandal came out. Stephen, who wasabsolutely without delicacy, would tell it to the people as soon as tellthem the time. His paganism would be too assertive; it might even be inbad taste. After all, she had a prominent position in the neighbourhood;she was talked about, respected, looked up to. After all, she wasgrowing old. And therefore, though she had no true regard for Rickie, nor for Agnes, nor for Stephen, nor for Stephen's parents, in whosetragedy she had assisted, yet she did feel that if the scandal revivedit would disturb the harmony of Cadover, and therefore tried to retraceher steps. It is easy to say shocking things: it is so different to beconnected with anything shocking. Life and death were not involved, butcomfort and discomfort were. 

The silence was broken by the sound of feet on the gravel. Agnes saidhastily, "Is that really true--that he knows nothing?"

"You, Rickie, and I are the only people alive that know. He realizeswhat he is--with a precision that is sometimes alarming. Who he is, hedoesn't know and doesn't care. I suppose he would know when I'm dead. There are papers. "

"Aunt Emily, before he comes, may I say to you I'm sorry I was so rude?"

Mrs. Failing had not disliked her courage. "My dear, you may. We're alloff our hinges this Sunday. Sit down by me again. "

Agnes obeyed, and they awaited the arrival of Stephen. They were cleverenough to understand each other. The thing must be hushed up. The matronmust repair the consequences of her petulance. The girl must hide thestain in her future husband's family. Why not? Who was injured? Whatdoes a grown-up man want with a grown brother? Rickie upstairs, howgrateful he would be to them for saving him. 

"Stephen!"

"Yes. "

"I'm tired of you. Go and bathe in the sea. "

"All right. "

And the whole thing was settled. She liked no fuss, and so did he. Hesat down on the step to tighten his bootlaces. Then he would be ready. Mrs. Failing laid two or three sovereigns on the step above him. Agnestried to make conversation, and said, with averted eyes, that the seawas a long way off. 

"The sea's downhill. That's all I know about it. " He swept up the moneywith a word of pleasure: he was kept like a baby in such things. Then hestarted off, but slowly, for he meant to walk till the morning. 

"He will be gone days, " said Mrs. Failing. "The comedy is finished. Letus come in. "

She went to her room. The storm that she had raised had shatteredher. Yet, because it was stilled for a moment, she resumed her oldemancipated manner, and spoke of it as a comedy. 

As for Miss Pembroke, she pretended to be emancipated no longer. Peoplelike "Stephen Wonham" were social thunderbolts, to be shunned at allcosts, or at almost all costs. Her joy was now unfeigned, and shehurried upstairs to impart it to Rickie. 

"I don't think we are rewarded if we do right, but we are punished ifwe lie. It's the fashion to laugh at poetic justice, but I do believein half of it. Cast bitter bread upon the waters, and after many days itreally will come back to you. " These were the words of Mr. Failing. Theywere also the opinions of Stewart Ansell, another unpractical person. Rickie was trying to write to him when she entered with the good news. 

"Dear, we're saved! He doesn't know, and he never is to know. I can'ttell you how glad I am. All the time we saw them standing together upthere, she wasn't telling him at all. She was keeping him out of theway, in case you let it out. Oh, I like her! She may be unwise, but sheis nice, really. She said, 'I've been a fool but I haven't been a fooltwice. ' You must forgive her, Rickie. I've forgiven her, and she me; forat first I was so angry with her. Oh, my darling boy, I am so glad!"

He was shivering all over, and could not reply. At last he said, "Whyhasn't she told him?"

"Because she has come to her senses. "

"But she can't behave to people like that. She must tell him. "

"Because he must be told such a real thing. "

"Such a real thing?" the girl echoed, screwing up her forehead. "But--but you don't mean you're glad about it?"

His head bowed over the letter. "My God--no! But it's a real thing. Shemust tell him. I nearly told him myself--up there--when he made me lookat the ground, but you happened to prevent me. "

How Providence had watched over them!

"She won't tell him. I know that much. "

"Then, Agnes, darling"--he drew her to the table "we must talk togethera little. If she won't, then we ought to. "

"WE tell him?" cried the girl, white with horror. "Tell him now, wheneverything has been comfortably arranged?"

"You see, darling"--he took hold of her hand--"what one must do is tothink the thing out and settle what's right, I'm still all trembling andstupid. I see it mixed up with other things. I want you to help me. It seems to me that here and there in life we meet with a person orincident that is symbolical. It's nothing in itself, yet for the momentit stands for some eternal principle. We accept it, at whatever costs, and we have accepted life. But if we are frightened and reject it, themoment, so to speak, passes; the symbol is never offered again. Is thisnonsense? Once before a symbol was offered to me--I shall not tell youhow; but I did accept it, and cherished it through much anxiety andrepulsion, and in the end I am rewarded. There will be no reward thistime. I think, from such a man--the son of such a man. But I want to dowhat is right. "

"Because doing right is its own reward, " said Agnes anxiously. 

"I do not think that. I have seen few examples of it. Doing right issimply doing right. "

"I think that all you say is wonderfully clever; but since you ask me, it IS nonsense, dear Rickie, absolutely. "

"Thank you, " he said humbly, and began to stroke her hand. "But all mydisgust; my indignation with my father, my love for--" He broke off; hecould not bear to mention the name of his mother. "I was trying to say, I oughtn't to follow these impulses too much. There are others things. Truth. Our duty to acknowledge each man accurately, however vile heis. And apart from ideals" (here she had won the battle), "and leavingideals aside, I couldn't meet him and keep silent. It isn't in me. Ishould blurt it out. "

"But you won't meet him!" she cried. "It's all been arranged. We'vesent him to the sea. Isn't it splendid? He's gone. My own boy won'tbe fantastic, will he?" Then she fought the fantasy on its own ground. "And, bye the bye, what you call the 'symbolic moment' is over. You hadit up by the Rings. You tried to tell him, I interrupted you. It's notyour fault. You did all you could. "

She thought this excellent logic, and was surprised that he looked sogloomy. "So he's gone to the sea. For the present that does settle it. Has Aunt Emily talked about him yet?"

"No. Ask her tomorrow if you wish to know. Ask her kindly. It would beso dreadful if you did not part friends, and--"

"What's that?"

It was Stephen calling up from the drive. He had come back. Agnes threwout her hand in despair. 

"Elliot!" the voice called. 

They were facing each other, silent and motionless. Then Rickie advancedto the window. The girl darted in front of him. He thought he had neverseen her so beautiful. She was stopping his advance quite frankly, withwidespread arms. 

"Elliot!"

He moved forward--into what? He pretended to himself he would rather seehis brother before he answered; that it was easier to acknowledge himthus. But at the back of his soul he knew that the woman had conquered, and that he was moving forward to acknowledge her. "If he calls meagain--" he thought. 

"Elliot!"

"Well, if he calls me once again, I will answer him, vile as he is. "

He did not call again. 

Stephen had really come back for some tobacco, but as he passed underthe windows he thought of the poor fellow who had been "nipped" (nothingserious, said Mrs. Failing), and determined to shout good-bye to him. And once or twice, as he followed the river into the darkness, hewondered what it was like to be so weak, --not to ride, not to swim, notto care for anything but books and a girl. 

They embraced passionately. The danger had brought them very near toeach other. They both needed a home to confront the menacing tumultuousworld. And what weary years of work, of waiting, lay between them andthat home! Still holding her fast, he said, "I was writing to Ansellwhen you came in. "

"Do you owe him a letter?"

"No. " He paused. "I was writing to tell him about this. He would helpus. He always picks out the important point. "

"Darling, I don't like to say anything, and I know that Mr. Ansellwould keep a secret, but haven't we picked out the important point forourselves?"

He released her and tore the letter up. 

XV

The sense of purity is a puzzling and at times a fearful thing. It seemsso noble, and it starts as one with morality. But it is a dangerousguide, and can lead us away not only from what is gracious, but alsofrom what is good. Agnes, in this tangle, had followed it blindly, partly because she was a woman, and it meant more to her than itcan ever mean to a man; partly because, though dangerous, it is alsoobvious, and makes no demand upon the intellect. She could not feel thatStephen had full human rights. He was illicit, abnormal, worse than aman diseased. And Rickie remembering whose son he was, gradually adoptedher opinion. He, too, came to be glad that his brother had passed fromhim untried, that the symbolic moment had been rejected. Stephen was thefruit of sin; therefore he was sinful, He, too, became a sexual snob. 

And now he must hear the unsavoury details. That evening they sat in thewalled garden. Agues, according to arrangement, left him alone with hisaunt. He asked her, and was not answered. 

"You are shocked, " she said in a hard, mocking voice, "It is very niceof you to be shocked, and I do not wish to grieve you further. We willnot allude to it again. Let us all go on just as we are. The comedy isfinished. "

He could not tolerate this. His nerves were shattered, and all that wasgood in him revolted as well. To the horror of Agnes, who was withinearshot, he replied, "You used to puzzle me, Aunt Emily, but Iunderstand you at last. You have forgotten what other people are like. Continual selfishness leads to that. I am sure of it. I see now how youlook at the world. 'Nice of me to be shocked!' I want to go tomorrow, ifI may. "

"Certainly, dear. The morning trains are the best. " And so thedisastrous visit ended. 

As he walked back to the house he met a certain poor woman, whose childStephen had rescued at the level-crossing, and who had decided, aftersome delay, that she must thank the kind gentleman in person. "He hasgot some brute courage, " thought Rickie, "and it was decent of him notto boast about it. " But he had labelled the boy as "Bad, " and it wasconvenient to revert to his good qualities as seldom as possible. Hepreferred to brood over his coarseness, his caddish ingratitude, hisirreligion. Out of these he constructed a repulsive figure, forgettinghow slovenly his own perceptions had been during the past week, howdogmatic and intolerant his attitude to all that was not Love. 

During the packing he was obliged to go up to the attic to find theDryad manuscript which had never been returned. Leighton came too, andfor about half an hour they hunted in the flickering light of a candle. It was a strange, ghostly place, and Rickie was quite startled when apicture swung towards him, and he saw the Demeter of Cnidus, shimmeringand grey. Leighton suggested the roof. Mr. Stephen sometimes leftthings on the roof. So they climbed out of the skylight--the night wasperfectly still--and continued the search among the gables. Enormousstars hung overhead, and the roof was bounded by chasms, impenetrableand black. "It doesn't matter, " said Rickie, suddenly convinced of thefutility of all that he did. "Oh, let us look properly, " said Leighton, a kindly, pliable man, who had tried to shirk coming, but who wasgenuinely sympathetic now that he had come. They were rewarded: themanuscript lay in a gutter, charred and smudged. 

The rest of the year was spent by Rickie partly in bed, --he had acurious breakdown, --partly in the attempt to get his little storiespublished. He had written eight or nine, and hoped they would make upa book, and that the book might be called "Pan Pipes. " He was veryenergetic over this; he liked to work, for some imperceptible bloom hadpassed from the world, and he no longer found such acute pleasure inpeople. Mrs. Failing's old publishers, to whom the book was submitted, replied that, greatly as they found themselves interested, they did notsee their way to making an offer at present. They were very polite, andsingled out for special praise "Andante Pastorale, " which Rickie hadthought too sentimental, but which Agnes had persuaded him to include. The stories were sent to another publisher, who considered them for sixweeks, and then returned them. A fragment of red cotton, Placed by Agnesbetween the leaves, had not shifted its position. 

"Can't you try something longer, Rickie?" she said; "I believe we're onthe wrong track. Try an out--and--out love-story. "

"My notion just now, " he replied, "is to leave the passions on thefringe. " She nodded, and tapped for the waiter: they had met in aLondon restaurant. "I can't soar; I can only indicate. That's wherethe musicians have the pull, for music has wings, and when she says'Tristan' and he says 'Isolde, ' you are on the heights at once. What dopeople mean when they call love music artificial?"

"I know what they mean, though I can't exactly explain. Or couldn'tyou make your stories more obvious? I don't see any harm in that. UncleWillie floundered hopelessly. He doesn't read much, and he got muddled. I had to explain, and then he was delighted. Of course, to write down tothe public would be quite another thing and horrible. You have certainideas, and you must express them. But couldn't you express them moreclearly?"

"You see--" He got no further than "you see. "

"The soul and the body. The soul's what matters, " said Agnes, and tappedfor the waiter again. He looked at her admiringly, but felt that she wasnot a perfect critic. Perhaps she was too perfect to be a critic. Actuallife might seem to her so real that she could not detect the union ofshadow and adamant that men call poetry. He would even go further andacknowledge that she was not as clever as himself--and he was stupidenough! She did not like discussing anything or reading solid books, andshe was a little angry with such women as did. It pleased him to makethese concessions, for they touched nothing in her that he valued. Helooked round the restaurant, which was in Soho and decided that she wasincomparable. 

"At half-past two I call on the editor of the 'Holborn. ' He's got astray story to look at, and he's written about it. "

"Oh, Rickie! Rickie! Why didn't you put on a boiled shirt!"

He laughed, and teased her. "'The soul's what matters. We literarypeople don't care about dress. "

"Well, you ought to care. And I believe you do. Can't you change?"

"Too far. " He had rooms in South Kensington. "And I've forgot mycard-case. There's for you!"

She shook her head. "Naughty, naughty boy! Whatever will you do?"

"Send in my name, or ask for a bit of paper and write it. Hullo! that'sTilliard!"

Tilliard blushed, partly on account of the faux pas he had made lastJune, partly on account of the restaurant. He explained how he came tobe pigging in Soho: it was so frightfully convenient and so frightfullycheap. 

"Just why Rickie brings me, " said Miss Pembroke. 

"And I suppose you're here to study life?" said Tilliard, sitting down. 

"I don't know, " said Rickie, gazing round at the waiters and the guests. 

"Doesn't one want to see a good deal of life for writing? There's lifeof a sort in Soho, --Un peu de faisan, s'il vows plait. "

Agnes also grabbed at the waiter, and paid. She always did the paying, Rickie muddled with his purse. 

"I'm cramming, " pursued Tilliard, "and so naturally I come into contactwith very little at present. But later on I hope to see things. " Heblushed a little, for he was talking for Rickie's edification. "It ismost frightfully important not to get a narrow or academic outlook, don't you think? A person like Ansell, who goes from Cambridge, home--home, Cambridge--it must tell on him in time. "

"But Mr. Ansell is a philosopher. "

"A very kinky one, " said Tilliard abruptly. "Not my idea of aphilosopher. How goes his dissertation?"

"He never answers my letters, " replied Rickie. "He never would. I'veheard nothing since June. "

"It's a pity he sends in this year. There are so many good people in. He'd have afar better chance if he waited. "

"So I said, but he wouldn't wait. He's so keen about this particularsubject. "

"What is it?" asked Agnes. 

"About things being real, wasn't it, Tilliard?"

"That's near enough. "

"Well, good luck to him!" said the girl. "And good luck to you, Mr. Tilliard! Later on, I hope, we'll meet again. "

They parted. Tilliard liked her, though he did not feel that she wasquite in his couche sociale. His sister, for instance, would never havebeen lured into a Soho restaurant--except for the experience of thething. Tilliard's couche sociale permitted experiences. Provided hisheart did not go out to the poor and the unorthodox, he might stare atthem as much as he liked. It was seeing life. 

Agnes put her lover safely into an omnibus at Cambridge Circus. Sheshouted after him that his tie was rising over his collar, but hedid not hear her. For a moment she felt depressed, and pictured quiteaccurately the effect that his appearance would have on the editor. Theeditor was a tall neat man of forty, slow of speech, slow of soul, andextraordinarily kind. He and Rickie sat over a fire, with an enormoustable behind them whereon stood many books waiting to be reviewed. 

"I'm sorry, " he said, and paused. 

Rickie smiled feebly. 

"Your story does not convince. " He tapped it. "I have read it with verygreat pleasure. It convinces in parts, but it does not convince as awhole; and stories, don't you think, ought to convince as a whole?"

"They ought indeed, " said Rickie, and plunged into self-depreciation. But the editor checked him. 

"No--no. Please don't talk like that. I can't bear to hear any one talkagainst imagination. There are countless openings for imagination, --forthe mysterious, for the supernatural, for all the things you are tryingto do, and which, I hope, you will succeed in doing. I'm not OBJECTINGto imagination; on the contrary, I'd advise you to cultivate it, toaccent it. Write a really good ghost story and we'd take it at once. Or"--he suggested it as an alternative to imagination--"or you might getinside life. It's worth doing. "

"Life?" echoed Rickie anxiously. 

He looked round the pleasant room, as if life might be fluttering therelike an imprisoned bird. Then he looked at the editor: perhaps he wassitting inside life at this very moment. "See life, Mr. Elliot, and thensend us another story. " He held out his hand. "I am sorry I have to say'No, thank you'; it's so much nicer to say, 'Yes, please. '" He laid hishand on the young man's sleeve, and added, "Well, the interview's notbeen so alarming after all, has it?"

"I don't think that either of us is a very alarming person, " was notRickie's reply. It was what he thought out afterwards in the omnibus. His reply was "Ow, " delivered with a slight giggle. 

As he rumbled westward, his face was drawn, and his eyes moved quicklyto the right and left, as if he would discover something in the squalidfashionable streets some bird on the wing, some radiant archway, theface of some god beneath a beaver hat. He loved, he was loved, he hadseen death and other things; but the heart of all things was hidden. There was a password and he could not learn it, nor could the kindeditor of the "Holborn" teach him. He sighed, and then sighed morepiteously. For had he not known the password once--known it andforgotten it already? But at this point his fortunes become intimatelyconnected with those of Mr. Pembroke. 

PART 2 -- SAWSTON

XVI

In three years Mr. Pembroke had done much to solidify the day-boysat Sawston School. If they were not solid, they were at all eventscurdling, and his activities might reasonably turn elsewhere. He hadserved the school for many years, and it was really time he should beentrusted with a boarding-house. The headmaster, an impulsive man whodarted about like a minnow and gave his mother a great deal of trouble, agreed with him, and also agreed with Mrs. Jackson when she said thatMr. Jackson had served the school for many years and that it was reallytime he should be entrusted with a boarding-house. Consequently, whenDunwood House fell vacant the headmaster found himself in rather adifficult position. 

Dunwood House was the largest and most lucrative of the boarding-houses. It stood almost opposite the school buildings. Originally it had beena villa residence--a red-brick villa, covered with creepers and crownedwith terracotta dragons. Mr. Annison, founder of its glory, had livedhere, and had had one or two boys to live with him. Times changed. Thefame of the bishops blazed brighter, the school increased, the one ortwo boys became a dozen, and an addition was made to Dunwood House thatmore than doubled its size. A huge new building, replete with everyconvenience, was stuck on to its right flank. Dormitories, cubicles, studies, a preparation-room, a dining-room, parquet floors, hot-airpipes--no expense was spared, and the twelve boys roamed over it likeprinces. Baize doors communicated on every floor with Mr. Annison'spart, and he, an anxious gentleman, would stroll backwards and forwards, a little depressed at the hygienic splendours, and conscious of somevanished intimacy. Somehow he had known his boys better when they hadall muddled together as one family, and algebras lay strewn upon thedrawing room chairs. As the house filled, his interest in it decreased. When he retired--which he did the same summer that Rickie leftCambridge--it had already passed the summit of excellence and wasbeginning to decline. Its numbers were still satisfactory, and for alittle time it would subsist on its past reputation. But that mysteriousasset the tone had lowered, and it was therefore of great importancethat Mr. Annison's successor should be a first-class man. Mr. Coates, who came next in seniority, was passed over, and rightly. The choice laybetween Mr. Pembroke and Mr. Jackson, the one an organizer, the other ahumanist. Mr. Jackson was master of the Sixth, and--with the exceptionof the headmaster, who was too busy to impart knowledge--the onlyfirst-class intellect in the school. But he could not or rather wouldnot, keep order. He told his form that if it chose to listen to him itwould learn; if it didn't, it wouldn't. One half listened. The otherhalf made paper frogs, and bored holes in the raised map of Italy withtheir penknives. When the penknives gritted he punished them with undueseverity, and then forgot to make them show the punishments up. Yet outof this chaos two facts emerged. Half the boys got scholarships atthe University, and some of them--including several of the paper-frogsort--remained friends with him throughout their lives. Moreover, he wasrich, and had a competent wife. His claim to Dunwood House was strongerthan one would have supposed. 

The qualifications of Mr. Pembroke have already been indicated. Theyprevailed--but under conditions. If things went wrong, he must promiseto resign. 

"In the first place, " said the headmaster, "you are doing so splendidlywith the day-boys. Your attitude towards the parents is magnificent. I--don't know how to replace you there. Whereas, of course, the parentsof a boarder--"

"Of course, " said Mr. Pembroke. 

The parent of a boarder, who only had to remove his son if he wasdiscontented with the school, was naturally in a more independentposition than the parent who had brought all his goods and chattels toSawston, and was renting a house there. 

"Now the parents of boarders--this is my second point--practicallydemand that the house-master should have a wife. "

"A most unreasonable demand, " said Mr. Pembroke. 

"To my mind also a bright motherly matron is quite sufficient. But thatis what they demand. And that is why--do you see?--we HAVE to regardyour appointment as experimental. Possibly Miss Pembroke will be ableto help you. Or I don't know whether if ever--" He left the sentenceunfinished. Two days later Mr. Pembroke proposed to Mrs. Orr. 

He had always intended to marry when he could afford it; and once hehad been in love, violently in love, but had laid the passion aside, andtold it to wait till a more convenient season. This was, of course, theproper thing to do, and prudence should have been rewarded. But when, after the lapse of fifteen years, he went, as it were, to his spirituallarder and took down Love from the top shelf to offer him to Mrs. Orr, he was rather dismayed. Something had happened. Perhaps the god hadflown; perhaps he had been eaten by the rats. At all events, he was notthere. 

Mr. Pembroke was conscientious and romantic, and knew that marriagewithout love is intolerable. On the other hand, he could not admitthat love had vanished from him. To admit this, would argue that he haddeteriorated. 

Whereas he knew for a fact that he had improved, year by year. Each yearbe grew more moral, more efficient, more learned, more genial. So howcould he fail to be more loving? He did not speak to himself as follows, because he never spoke to himself; but the following notions moved inthe recesses of his mind: "It is not the fire of youth. But I am notsure that I approve of the fire of youth. Look at my sister! Once shehas suffered, twice she has been most imprudent, and put me to greatinconvenience besides, for if she was stopping with me she would havedone the housekeeping. I rather suspect that it is a nobler, riperemotion that I am laying at the feet of Mrs. Orr. " It never took himlong to get muddled, or to reverse cause and effect. In a short time hebelieved that he had been pining for years, and only waiting for thisgood fortune to ask the lady to share it with him. 

Mrs. Orr was quiet, clever, kindly, capable, and amusing and they wereold acquaintances. Altogether it was not surprising that he should askher to be his wife, nor very surprising that she should refuse. Butshe refused with a violence that alarmed them both. He left her housedeclaring that he had been insulted, and she, as soon as he left, passedfrom disgust into tears. 

He was much annoyed. There was a certain Miss Herriton who, though farinferior to Mrs. Orr, would have done instead of her. But now it wasimpossible. He could not go offering himself about Sawston. Havingengaged a matron who had the reputation for being bright and motherly, he moved into Dunwood House and opened the Michaelmas term. Everythingwent wrong. The cook left; the boys had a disease called roseola; Agnes, who was still drunk with her engagement, was of no assistance, but keptflying up to London to push Rickie's fortunes; and, to crown everything, the matron was too bright and not motherly enough: she neglected thelittle boys and was overattentive to the big ones. She left abruptly, and the voice of Mrs. Jackson arose, prophesying disaster. 

Should he avert it by taking orders? Parents do not demand that ahouse-master should be a clergyman, yet it reassures them when he is. And he would have to take orders some time, if he hoped for a schoolof his own. His religious convictions were ready to hand, but he spentseveral uncomfortable days hunting up his religious enthusiasms. Itwas not unlike his attempt to marry Mrs. Orr. But his piety was moregenuine, and this time he never came to the point. His sense of decencyforbade him hurrying into a Church that he reverenced. Moreover, hethought of another solution: Agnes must marry Rickie in the Christmasholidays, and they must come, both of them, to Sawston, she ashousekeeper, he as assistant-master. The girl was a good worker whenonce she was settled down; and as for Rickie, he could easily be fittedin somewhere in the school. He was not a good classic, but good enoughto take the Lower Fifth. He was no athlete, but boys might profitablynote that he was a perfect gentleman all the same. He had no experience, but he would gain it. He had no decision, but he could simulate it. "Above all, " thought Mr. Pembroke, "it will be something regular forhim to do. " Of course this was not "above all. " Dunwood House held thatposition. But Mr. Pembroke soon came to think that it was, and believedthat he was planning for Rickie, just as he had believed he was piningfor Mrs. Orr. 

Agnes, when she got back from the lunch in Soho, was told of the plan. She refused to give any opinion until she had seen her lover. A telegramwas sent to him, and next morning he arrived. He was very susceptible tothe weather, and perhaps it was unfortunate that the morning was foggy. His train had been stopped outside Sawston Station, and there he hadsat for half an hour, listening to the unreal noises that came from theline, and watching the shadowy figures that worked there. The gas wasalight in the great drawing-room, and in its depressing rays he andAgnes greeted each other, and discussed the most momentous question oftheir lives. They wanted to be married: there was no doubt of that. They wanted it, both of them, dreadfully. But should they marry on theseterms?

"I'd never thought of such a thing, you see. When the scholasticagencies sent me circulars after the Tripos, I tore them up at once. "

"There are the holidays, " said Agnes. "You would have three months inthe year to yourself, and you could do your writing then. "

"But who'll read what I've written?" and he told her about the editor ofthe "Holborn. "

She became extremely grave. At the bottom of her heart she had alwaysmistrusted the little stories, and now people who knew agreed with her. How could Rickie, or any one, make a living by pretending that Greekgods were alive, or that young ladies could vanish into trees? Asparkling society tale, full of verve and pathos, would have beenanother thing, and the editor might have been convinced by it. 

"But what does he mean?" Rickie was saying. "What does he mean by life?"

"I know what he means, but I can't exactly explain. You ought to seelife, Rickie. I think he's right there. And Mr. Tilliard was right whenhe said one oughtn't to be academic. "

He stood in the twilight that fell from the window, she in the twilightof the gas. "I wonder what Ansell would say, " he murmured. 

"Oh, poor Mr. Ansell!"

He was somewhat surprised. Why was Ansell poor? It was the first timethe epithet had been applied to him. 

"But to change the conversation, " said Agnes. 

"If we did marry, we might get to Italy at Easter and escape thishorrible fog. "

"Yes. Perhaps there--" Perhaps life would be there. He thought of Renan, who declares that on the Acropolis at Athens beauty and wisdom do exist, really exist, as external powers. He did not aspire to beauty or wisdom, but he prayed to be delivered from the shadow of unreality that hadbegun to darken the world. For it was as if some power had pronouncedagainst him--as if, by some heedless action, he had offended an Olympiangod. Like many another, he wondered whether the god might be appeased bywork--hard uncongenial work. Perhaps he had not worked hard enough, or had enjoyed his work too much, and for that reason the shadow wasfalling. 

"--And above all, a schoolmaster has wonderful opportunities for doinggood; one mustn't forget that. "

To do good! For what other reason are we here? Let us give up ourrefined sensations, and our comforts, and our art, if thereby we canmake other people happier and better. The woman he loved had urged himto do good! With a vehemence that surprised her, he exclaimed, "I'll doit. "

"Think it over, " she cautioned, though she was greatly pleased. 

"No; I think over things too much. "

The room grew brighter. A boy's laughter floated in, and it seemed tohim that people were as important and vivid as they had been six monthsbefore. Then he was at Cambridge, idling in the parsley meadows, andweaving perishable garlands out of flowers. Now he was at Sawston, preparing to work a beneficent machine. No man works for nothing, andRickie trusted that to him also benefits might accrue; that his woundmight heal as he laboured, and his eyes recapture the Holy Grail. 

XVII

In practical matters Mr. Pembroke was often a generous man. He offeredRickie a good salary, and insisted on paying Agnes as well. And as hehoused them for nothing, and as Rickie would also have a salary from theschool, the money question disappeared--if not forever, at all eventsfor the present. 

"I can work you in, " he said. "Leave all that to me, and in a few daysyou shall hear from the headmaster. He shall create a vacancy. And oncein, we stand or fall together. I am resolved on that. "

Rickie did not like the idea of being "worked in, " but he was determinedto raise no difficulties. It is so easy to be refined and high-mindedwhen we have nothing to do. But the active, useful man cannot be equallyparticular. Rickie's programme involved a change in values as well as achange of occupation. 

"Adopt a frankly intellectual attitude, " Mr. Pembroke continued. "I donot advise you at present even to profess any interest in athletics ororganization. When the headmaster writes, he will probably ask whetheryou are an all-round man. Boldly say no. A bold 'no' is at times thebest. Take your stand upon classics and general culture. "

Classics! A second in the Tripos. General culture. A smattering ofEnglish Literature, and less than a smattering of French. 

"That is how we begin. Then we get you a little post--say that oflibrarian. And so on, until you are indispensable. "

Rickie laughed; the headmaster wrote, the reply was satisfactory, and indue course the new life began. 

Sawston was already familiar to him. But he knew it as an amateur, andunder an official gaze it grouped itself afresh. The school, a blandGothic building, now showed as a fortress of learning, whose outworkswere the boarding-houses. Those straggling roads were full of the housesof the parents of the day-boys. These shops were in bounds, those out. How often had he passed Dunwood House! He had once confused it with itsrival, Cedar View. Now he was to live there--perhaps for many years. On the left of the entrance a large saffron drawing-room, full of cosycorners and dumpy chairs: here the parents would be received. On theright of the entrance a study, which he shared with Herbert: herethe boys would be caned--he hoped not often. In the hall a framedcertificate praising the drains, the bust of Hermes, and a carvedteak monkey holding out a salver. Some of the furniture had come fromShelthorpe, some had been bought from Mr. Annison, some of it was new. But throughout he recognized a certain decision of arrangement. Nothingin the house was accidental, or there merely for its own sake. Hecontrasted it with his room at Cambridge, which had been a jumble ofthings that he loved dearly and of things that he did not love at all. Now these also had come to Dunwood House, and had been distributed whereeach was seemly--Sir Percival to the drawing-room, the photograph ofStockholm to the passage, his chair, his inkpot, and the portrait of hismother to the study. And then he contrasted it with the Ansells' house, to which their resolute ill-taste had given unity. He was extremelysensitive to the inside of a house, holding it an organism thatexpressed the thoughts, conscious and subconscious, of its inmates. He was equally sensitive to places. He would compare Cambridge withSawston, and either with a third type of existence, to which, for wantof a better name, he gave the name of "Wiltshire. "

It must not be thought that he is going to waste his time. Thesecontrasts and comparisons never took him long, and he never indulgedin them until the serious business of the day was over. And, as timepassed, he never indulged in them at all. The school returned at theend of January, before he had been settled in a week. His healthhad improved, but not greatly, and he was nervous at the prospect ofconfronting the assembled house. All day long cabs had been drivingup, full of boys in bowler hats too big for them; and Agnes had beensuperintending the numbering of the said hats, and the placing of themin cupboards, since they would not be wanted till the end of the term. Each boy had, or should have had, a bag, so that he need not unpack hisbox till the morrow, One boy had only a brown-paper parcel, tied withhairy string, and Rickie heard the firm pleasant voice say, "But you'llbring a bag next term, " and the submissive, "Yes, Mrs. Elliot, " of thereply. In the passage he ran against the head boy, who was alarminglylike an undergraduate. They looked at each other suspiciously, andparted. Two minutes later he ran into another boy, and then intoanother, and began to wonder whether they were doing it on purpose, andif so, whether he ought to mind. As the day wore on, the noises grewlouder-trampings of feet, breakdowns, jolly little squawks--andthe cubicles were assigned, and the bags unpacked, and the bathingarrangements posted up, and Herbert kept on saying, "All this isinformal--all this is informal. We shall meet the house at eightfifteen. "

And so, at eight ten, Rickie put on his cap and gown, --hitherto symbolsof pupilage, now to be symbols of dignity, --the very cap and gown thatWiddrington had so recently hung upon the college fountain. Herbert, similarly attired, was waiting for him in their private dining-room, where also sat Agnes, ravenously devouring scrambled eggs. "But you'llwear your hoods, " she cried. Herbert considered, and them said she wasquite right. He fetched his white silk, Rickie the fragment of rabbit'swool that marks the degree of B. A. Thus attired, they proceededthrough the baize door. They were a little late, and the boys, whowere marshalled in the preparation room, were getting uproarious. One, forgetting how far his voice carried, shouted, "Cave! Here comes theWhelk. " And another young devil yelled, "The Whelk's brought a pet withhim!"

"You mustn't mind, " said Herbert kindly. "We masters make a point ofnever minding nicknames--unless, of course, they are applied openly, inwhich case a thousand lines is not too much. " Rickie assented, and theyentered the preparation room just as the prefects had established order. 

Here Herbert took his seat on a high-legged chair, while Rickie, like aqueen-consort, sat near him on a chair with somewhat shorter legs. Eachchair had a desk attached to it, and Herbert flung up the lid of his, and then looked round the preparation room with a quick frown, as ifthe contents had surprised him. So impressed was Rickie that he peepedsideways, but could only see a little blotting-paper in the desk. Thenhe noticed that the boys were impressed too. Their chatter ceased. Theyattended. 

The room was almost full. The prefects, instead of lolling disdainfullyin the back row, were ranged like councillors beneath the centralthrone. This was an innovation of Mr. Pembroke's. Carruthers, the headboy, sat in the middle, with his arm round Lloyd. It was Lloyd who hadmade the matron too bright: he nearly lost his colours in consequence. These two were grown up. Beside them sat Tewson, a saintly child inthe spectacles, who had risen to this height by reason of his immenselearning. He, like the others, was a school prefect. The house prefects, an inferior brand, were beyond, and behind came the indistinguishablemany. The faces all looked alike as yet--except the face of one boy, whowas inclined to cry. 

"School, " said Mr. Pembroke, slowly closing the lid of thedesk, --"school is the world in miniature. " Then he paused, as a man wellmay who has made such a remark. It is not, however, the intention ofthis work to quote an opening address. Rickie, at all events, refused tobe critical: Herbert's experience was far greater than his, and he musttake his tone from him. Nor could any one criticize the exhortationsto be patriotic, athletic, learned, and religious, that flowed likea four-part fugue from Mr. Pembroke's mouth. He was a practisedspeaker--that is to say, he held his audience's attention. He told themthat this term, the second of his reign, was THE term for Dunwood House;that it behooved every boy to labour during it for his house's honour, and, through the house, for the honour of the school. Taking a widerrange, he spoke of England, or rather of Great Britain, and of hercontinental foes. Portraits of empire-builders hung on the wall, and hepointed to them. He quoted imperial poets. He showed how patriotism hadbroadened since the days of Shakespeare, who, for all his genius, couldonly write of his country as--

"This fortress built by nature for herself Against infection and thehand of war, This hazy breed of men, this little world, This preciousstone set in the silver sea. "

And it seemed that only a short ladder lay between the preparation roomand the Anglo-Saxon hegemony of the globe. Then he paused, and in thesilence came "sob, sob, sob, " from a little boy, who was regretting avilla in Guildford and his mother's half acre of garden. 

The proceeding terminated with the broader patriotism of the schoolanthem, recently composed by the organist. Words and tune were still amatter for taste, and it was Mr. Pembroke (and he only because he hadthe music) who gave the right intonation to

 "Perish each laggard! Let it not be said That Sawston such within her walls hath bred. "

"Come, come, " he said pleasantly, as they ended with harmonies in thestyle of Richard Strauss. "This will never do. We must grapple with theanthem this term--you're as tuneful as--as day-boys!"

Hearty laughter, and then the whole house filed past them and shookhands. 

"But how did it impress you?" Herbert asked, as soon as they were backin their own part. Agnes had provided them with a tray of food: themeals were still anyhow, and she had to fly at once to see after theboys. 

"I liked the look of them. "

"I meant rather, how did the house impress you as a house?"

"I don't think I thought, " said Rickie rather nervously. "It is not easyto catch the spirit of a thing at once. I only saw a roomful of boys. "

"My dear Rickie, don't be so diffident. You are perfectly right. Youonly did see a roomful of boys. As yet there's nothing else to see. Thehouse, like the school, lacks tradition. Look at Winchester. Look atthe traditional rivalry between Eton and Harrow. Tradition is ofincalculable importance, if a school is to have any status. Why shouldSawston be without?"

"Yes. Tradition is of incalculable value. And I envy those schools thathave a natural connection with the past. Of course Sawston has a past, though not of the kind that you quite want. The sons of poor tradesmenwent to it at first. So wouldn't its traditions be more likely to lingerin the Commercial School?" he concluded nervously. 

"You have a great deal to learn--a very great deal. Listen to me. Whyhas Sawston no traditions?" His round, rather foolish, face assumed theexpression of a conspirator. Bending over the mutton, he whispered, "Ican tell you why. Owing to the day-boys. How can traditions flourish insuch soil? Picture the day-boy's life--at home for meals, at home forpreparation, at home for sleep, running home with every fancied wrong. There are day-boys in your class, and, mark my words, they will give youten times as much trouble as the boarders, late, slovenly, stopping awayat the slightest pretext. And then the letters from the parents! 'Whyhas my boy not been moved this term?' 'Why has my boy been moved thisterm?' 'I am a dissenter, and do not wish my boy to subscribe to theschool mission. ' 'Can you let my boy off early to water the garden?'Remember that I have been a day-boy house-master, and tried to infusesome esprit de corps into them. It is practically impossible. They comeas units, and units they remain. Worse. They infect the boarders. Theirpestilential, critical, discontented attitude is spreading over theschool. If I had my own way--"

He stopped somewhat abruptly. 

"Was that why you laughed at their singing?"

"Not at all. Not at all. It is not my habit to set one section of theschool against the other. "

After a little they went the rounds. The boys were in bed now. "Good-night!" called Herbert, standing in the corridor of the cubicles, and from behind each of the green curtains came the sound of a voicereplying, "Good-night, sir!" "Good-night, " he observed into eachdormitory. 

Then he went to the switch in the passage and plunged the whole houseinto darkness. Rickie lingered behind him, strangely impressed. In themorning those boys had been scattered over England, leading their ownlives. Now, for three months, they must change everything--see newfaces, accept new ideals. They, like himself, must enter a beneficentmachine, and learn the value of esprit de corps. Good luck attendthem--good luck and a happy release. For his heart would have themnot in these cubicles and dormitories, but each in his own dear home, amongst faces and things that he knew. 

Next morning, after chapel, he made the acquaintance of his class. Towards that he felt very differently. Esprit de corps was not expectedof it. It was simply two dozen boys who were gathered together for thepurpose of learning Latin. His duties and difficulties would not liehere. He was not required to provide it with an atmosphere. The schemeof work was already mapped out, and he started gaily upon familiarwords--

"Pan, ovium custos, tua si tibi Maenala curae Adsis, O Tegaee, favens. "

"Do you think that beautiful?" he asked, and received the honest answer, "No, sir; I don't think I do. " He met Herbert in high spirits in thequadrangle during the interval. But Herbert thought his enthusiasmrather amateurish, and cautioned him. 

"You must take care they don't get out of hand. I approve of a livelyteacher, but discipline must be established first. "

"I felt myself a learner, not a teacher. If I'm wrong over a point, ordon't know, I mean to tell them at once. " Herbert shook his head. 

"It's different if I was really a scholar. But I can't pose as one, canI? I know much more than the boys, but I know very little. Surely thehonest thing is to be myself to them. Let them accept or refuse me asthat. That's the only attitude we shall any of us profit by in the end. "

Mr. Pembroke was silent. Then he observed, "There is, as you say, ahigher attitude and a lower attitude. Yet here, as so often, cannot wefind a golden mean between them?"

"What's that?" said a dreamy voice. They turned and saw a tall, spectacled man, who greeted the newcomer kindly, and took hold of hisarm. "What's that about the golden mean?"

"Mr. Jackson--Mr. Elliot: Mr. Elliot--Mr. Jackson, " said Herbert, whodid not seem quite pleased. "Rickie, have you a moment to spare me?"

But the humanist spoke to the young man about the golden mean andthe pinchbeck mean, adding, "You know the Greeks aren't broad churchclergymen. They really aren't, in spite of much conflicting evidence. Boys will regard Sophocles as a kind of enlightened bishop, andsomething tells me that they are wrong. "

"Mr. Jackson is a classical enthusiast, " said Herbert. "He makes thepast live. I want to talk to you about the humdrum present. "

"And I am warning him against the humdrum past. That's another point, Mr. Elliot. Impress on your class that many Greeks and most Romans werefrightfully stupid, and if they disbelieve you, read Ctesiphon withthem, or Valerius Flaccus. Whatever is that noise?"

"It comes from your class-room, I think, " snapped the other master. 

"So it does. Ah, yes. I expect they are putting your little Tewson intothe waste-paper basket. "

"I always lock my class-room in the interval--"

"Yes?"

"--and carry the key in my pocket. "

"Ah. But, Mr. Elliot, I am a cousin of Widdrington's. He wrote to meabout you. I am so glad. Will you, first of all, come to supper nextSunday?"

"I am afraid, " put in Herbert, "that we poor housemasters must denyourselves festivities in term time. "

"But mayn't he come once, just once?"

"May, my dear Jackson! My brother-in-law is not a baby. He decides forhimself. "

Rickie naturally refused. As soon as they were out of hearing, Herbertsaid, "This is a little unfortunate. Who is Mr. Widdrington?"

"I knew him at Cambridge. "

"Let me explain how we stand, " he continued, after a pause. 

"Jackson is the worst of the reactionaries here, while I--why should Iconceal it?--have thrown in my lot with the party of progress. You willsee how we suffer from him at the masters' meetings. He has no talentfor organization, and yet he is always inflicting his ideas on others. It was like his impertinence to dictate to you what authors you shouldread, and meanwhile the sixth-form room like a bear-garden, and a schoolprefect being put into the waste-paper basket. My good Rickie, there'snothing to smile at. How is the school to go on with a man like that?It would be a case of 'quick march, ' if it was not for his brilliantintellect. That's why I say it's a little unfortunate. You will havevery little in common, you and he. "

Rickie did not answer. He was very fond of Widdrington, who was aquaint, sensitive person. And he could not help being attracted byMr. Jackson, whose welcome contrasted pleasantly with the officialbreeziness of his other colleagues. He wondered, too, whether it is sovery reactionary to contemplate the antique. 

"It is true that I vote Conservative, " pursued Mr. Pembroke, apparentlyconfronting some objector. "But why? Because the Conservatives, ratherthan the Liberals, stand for progress. One must not be misled bycatch-words. "

"Didn't you want to ask me something?"

"Ah, yes. You found a boy in your form called Varden?"

"Varden? Yes; there is. "

"Drop on him heavily. He has broken the statutes of the school. He isattending as a day-boy. The statutes provide that a boy must reside withhis parents or guardians. He does neither. It must be stopped. You musttell the headmaster. "

"Where does the boy live?"

"At a certain Mrs. Orr's, who has no connection with the school of anykind. It must be stopped. He must either enter a boarding-house or go. "

"But why should I tell?" said Rickie. He remembered the boy, anunattractive person with protruding ears, "It is the business of hishouse-master. "

"House-master--exactly. Here we come back again. Who is now theday-boys' house-master? Jackson once again--as if anything was Jackson'sbusiness! I handed the house back last term in a most flourishingcondition. It has already gone to rack and ruin for the second time. Toreturn to Varden. I have unearthed a put-up job. Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Orr are friends. Do you see? It all works round. "

"I see. It does--or might. "

"The headmaster will never sanction it when it's put to him plainly. "

"But why should I put it?" said Rickie, twisting the ribbons of his gownround his fingers. 

"Because you're the boy's form-master. "

"Is that a reason?"

"Of course it is. "

"I only wondered whether--" He did not like to say that he wonderedwhether he need do it his first morning. 

"By some means or other you must find out--of course you know already, but you must find out from the boy. I know--I have it! Where's hishealth certificate?"

"He had forgotten it. "

"Just like them. Well, when he brings it, it will be signed by Mrs. Orr, and you must look at it and say, 'Orr--Orr--Mrs. Orr?' or something tothat effect, and then the whole thing will come naturally out. "

The bell rang, and they went in for the hour of school that concludedthe morning. Varden brought his health certificate--a pompous documentasserting that he had not suffered from roseola or kindred ailments inthe holidays--and for a long time Rickie sat with it before him, spread open upon his desk. He did not quite like the job. It suggestedintrigue, and he had come to Sawston not to intrigue but to labour. Doubtless Herbert was right, and Mr. Jackson and Mrs. Orr were wrong. But why could they not have it out among themselves? Then he thought, "I am a coward, and that's why I'm raising these objections, " called theboy up to him, and it did all come out naturally, more or less. HithertoVarden had lived with his mother; but she had left Sawston at Christmas, and now he would live with Mrs. Orr. "Mr. Jackson, sir, said it would beall right. "

"Yes, yes, " said Rickie; "quite so. " He remembered Herbert's dictum:"Masters must present a united front. If they do not--the deluge. " Hesent the boy back to his seat, and after school took the compromisinghealth certificate to the headmaster. The headmaster was at that timeeasily excited by a breach of the constitution. "Parents or guardians, "he reputed--"parents or guardians, " and flew with those words on hislips to Mr. Jackson. To say that Rickie was a cat's-paw is to put it toostrongly. Herbert was strictly honourable, and never pushed him into anillegal or really dangerous position; but there is no doubt that onthis and on many other occasions he had to do things that he would nototherwise have done. There was always some diplomatic corner that hadto be turned, always something that he had to say or not to say. As theterm wore on he lost his independence--almost without knowing it. He hadmuch to learn about boys, and he learnt not by direct observation--forwhich he believed he was unfitted--but by sedulous imitation of the moreexperienced masters. Originally he had intended to be friends with hispupils, and Mr. Pembroke commended the intention highly; but you cannotbe friends either with boy or man unless you give yourself away inthe process, and Mr. Pembroke did not commend this. He, for "personalintercourse, " substituted the safer "personal influence, " and gave hisjunior hints on the setting of kindly traps, in which the boy does givehimself away and reveals his shy delicate thoughts, while the master, intact, commends or corrects them. Originally Rickie had meant to helpboys in the anxieties that they undergo when changing into men: atCambridge he had numbered this among life's duties. But here is asubject in which we must inevitably speak as one human being to another, not as one who has authority or the shadow of authority, and for thisreason the elder school-master could suggest nothing but a few formulae. Formulae, like kindly traps, were not in Rickie's line, so he abandonedthese subjects altogether and confined himself to working hard at whatwas easy. In the house he did as Herbert did, and referred all doubtfulsubjects to him. In his form, oddly enough, he became a martinet. Itis so much simpler to be severe. He grasped the school regulations, and insisted on prompt obedience to them. He adopted the doctrine ofcollective responsibility. When one boy was late, he punished the wholeform. "I can't help it, " he would say, as if he was a power of nature. As a teacher he was rather dull. He curbed his own enthusiasms, findingthat they distracted his attention, and that while he throbbed to themusic of Virgil the boys in the back row were getting unruly. But on thewhole he liked his form work: he knew why he was there, and Herbert didnot overshadow him so completely. 

What was amiss with Herbert? He had known that something was amiss, and had entered into partnership with open eyes. The man was kind andunselfish; more than that he was truly charitable, and it was a realpleasure to him to give--pleasure to others. Certainly he might talk toomuch about it afterwards; but it was the doing, not the talking, that hereally valued, and benefactors of this sort are not too common. He was, moreover, diligent and conscientious: his heart was in his work, andhis adherence to the Church of England no mere matter of form. He wascapable of affection: he was usually courteous and tolerant. Then whatwas amiss? Why, in spite of all these qualities, should Rickie feel thatthere was something wrong with him--nay, that he was wrong as a whole, and that if the Spirit of Humanity should ever hold a judgment he wouldassuredly be classed among the goats? The answer at first sight appeareda graceless one--it was that Herbert was stupid. Not stupid in theordinary sense--he had a business-like brain, and acquired knowledgeeasily--but stupid in the important sense: his whole life was colouredby a contempt of the intellect. That he had a tolerable intellect of hisown was not the point: it is in what we value, not in what we have, thatthe test of us resides. Now, Rickie's intellect was not remarkable. Hecame to his worthier results rather by imagination and instinct than bylogic. An argument confused him, and he could with difficulty follow iteven on paper. But he saw in this no reason for satisfaction, and triedto make such use of his brain as he could, just as a weak athlete mightlovingly exercise his body. Like a weak athlete, too, he loved to watchthe exploits, or rather the efforts, of others--their efforts not somuch to acquire knowledge as to dispel a little of the darkness by whichwe and all our acquisitions are surrounded. Cambridge had taught himthis, and he knew, if for no other reason, that his time there had notbeen in vain. And Herbert's contempt for such efforts revolted him. Hesaw that for all his fine talk about a spiritual life he had but onetest for things--success: success for the body in this life or for thesoul in the life to come. And for this reason Humanity, and perhaps suchother tribunals as there may be, would assuredly reject him. 

XVIII

Meanwhile he was a husband. Perhaps his union should have beenemphasized before. The crown of life had been attained, the vagueyearnings, the misread impulses, had found accomplishment at last. Neveragain must he feel lonely, or as one who stands out of the broad highwayof the world and fears, like poor Shelley, to undertake the longestjourney. So he reasoned, and at first took the accomplishment forgranted. But as the term passed he knew that behind the yearning thereremained a yearning, behind the drawn veil a veil that he could notdraw. His wedding had been no mighty landmark: he would often wonderwhether such and such a speech or incident came after it or before. Since that meeting in the Soho restaurant there had been so much todo--clothes to buy, presents to thank for, a brief visit to a TrainingCollege, a honeymoon as brief. In such a bustle, what spiritual unioncould take place? Surely the dust would settle soon: in Italy, atEaster, he might perceive the infinities of love. But love had shown himits infinities already. Neither by marriage nor by any other device canmen insure themselves a vision; and Rickie's had been granted him threeyears before, when he had seen his wife and a dead man clasped in eachother's arms. She was never to be so real to him again. 

She ran about the house looking handsomer than ever. Her cheerfulvoice gave orders to the servants. As he sat in the study correctingcompositions, she would dart in and give him a kiss. "Dear girl--" hewould murmur, with a glance at the rings on her hand. The tone of theirmarriage life was soon set. It was to be a frank good-fellowship, andbefore long he found it difficult to speak in a deeper key. 

One evening he made the effort. There had been more beauty than wasusual at Sawston. The air was pure and quiet. Tomorrow the fog mightbe here, but today one said, "It is like the country. " Arm in arm theystrolled in the side-garden, stopping at times to notice the crocuses, or to wonder when the daffodils would flower. Suddenly he tightened hispressure, and said, "Darling, why don't you still wear ear-rings?"

"Ear-rings?" She laughed. "My taste has improved, perhaps. "

So after all they never mentioned Gerald's name. But he hoped it wasstill dear to her. He did not want her to forget the greatest moment inher life. His love desired not ownership but confidence, and to a loveso pure it does not seem terrible to come second. 

He valued emotion--not for itself, but because it is the only final pathto intimacy. She, ever robust and practical, always discouraged him. She was not cold; she would willingly embrace him. But she hated beingupset, and would laugh or thrust him off when his voice grew serious. In this she reminded him of his mother. But his mother--he had neverconcealed it from himself--had glories to which his wife would neverattain: glories that had unfolded against a life of horror--a life evenmore horrible than he had guessed. He thought of her often during theseearlier months. Did she bless his union, so different to her own? Didshe love his wife? He tried to speak of her to Agnes, but again she wasreluctant. And perhaps it was this aversion to acknowledge the dead, whose images alone have immortality, that made her own image somewhattransient, so that when he left her no mystic influence remained, andonly by an effort could he realize that God had united them forever. 

They conversed and differed healthily upon other topics. A rifle corpswas to be formed: she hoped that the boys would have proper uniforms, instead of shooting in their old clothes, as Mr. Jackson had suggested. There was Tewson; could nothing be done about him? He would slink awayfrom the other prefects and go with boys of his own age. There wasLloyd: he would not learn the school anthem, saying that it hurt histhroat. And above all there was Varden, who, to Rickie's bewilderment, was now a member of Dunwood House. 

"He had to go somewhere, " said Agnes. "Lucky for his mother that we hada vacancy. "

"Yes--but when I meet Mrs. Orr--I can't help feeling ashamed. "

"Oh, Mrs. Orr! Who cares for her? Her teeth are drawn. If she choosesto insinuate that we planned it, let her. Hers was rank dishonesty. Sheattempted to set up a boarding-house. "

Mrs. Orr, who was quite rich, had attempted no such thing. She had takenthe boy out of charity, and without a thought of being unconstitutional. But in had come this officious "Limpet" and upset the headmaster, and she was scolded, and Mrs. Varden was scolded, and Mr. Jackson wasscolded, and the boy was scolded and placed with Mr. Pembroke, whom sherevered less than any man in the world. Naturally enough, she consideredit a further attempt of the authorities to snub the day-boys, for whoseadvantage the school had been founded. She and Mrs. Jackson discussedthe subject at their tea-parties, and the latter lady was sure thatno good, no good of any kind, would come to Dunwood House from suchill-gotten plunder. 

"We say, 'Let them talk, '" persisted Rickie, "but I never did likeletting people talk. We are right and they are wrong, but I wish thething could have been done more quietly. The headmaster does get soexcited. He has given a gang of foolish people their opportunity. Idon't like being branded as the day-boy's foe, when I think how much Iwould have given to be a day-boy myself. My father found me a nuisance, and put me through the mill, and I can never forget it particularly theevenings. "

"There's very little bullying here, " said Agnes. 

"There was very little bullying at my school. There was simply theatmosphere of unkindness, which no discipline can dispel. It's not whatpeople do to you, but what they mean, that hurts. "

"I don't understand. "

"Physical pain doesn't hurt--at least not what I call hurt--if a manhits you by accident or play. But just a little tap, when you know itcomes from hatred, is too terrible. Boys do hate each other: I rememberit, and see it again. They can make strong isolated friendships, but ofgeneral good-fellowship they haven't a notion. "

"All I know is there's very little bullying here. "

"You see, the notion of good-fellowship develops late: you can just seeits beginning here among the prefects: up at Cambridge it flourishesamazingly. That's why I pity people who don't go up to Cambridge: notbecause a University is smart, but because those are the magic years, and--with luck--you see up there what you couldn't see before and mayn'tever see again. 

"Aren't these the magic years?" the lady demanded. 

He laughed and hit at her. "I'm getting somewhat involved. But hear me, O Agnes, for I am practical. I approve of our public schools. Long maythey, flourish. But I do not approve of the boarding-house system. Itisn't an inevitable adjunct--"

"Good gracious me!" she shrieked. "Have you gone mad?"

"Silence, madam. Don't betray me to Herbert, or I'll give us the sack. But seriously, what is the good of, throwing boys so much together?Isn't it building their lives on a wrong basis? They don't understandeach other. I wish they did, but they don't. They don't realize thathuman beings are simply marvellous. When they do, the whole of lifechanges, and you get the true thing. But don't pretend you've got itbefore you have. Patriotism and esprit de corps are all very well, butmasters a little forget that they must grow from sentiment. They cannotcreate one. Cannot-cannot--cannot. I never cared a straw for Englanduntil I cared for Englishmen, and boys can't love the school when theyhate each other. Ladies and gentlemen, I will now conclude my address. And most of it is copied out of Mr. Ansell. "

The truth is, he was suddenly ashamed. He had been carried away on theflood of his old emotions. Cambridge and all that it meant had stoodbefore him passionately clear, and beside it stood his mother and thesweet family life which nurses up a boy until he can salute his equals. He was ashamed, for he remembered his new resolution--to work withoutcriticizing, to throw himself vigorously into the machine, not to mindif he was pinched now and then by the elaborate wheels. 

"Mr. Ansell!" cried his wife, laughing somewhat shrilly. "Aha! Now Iunderstand. It's just the kind of thing poor Mr. Ansell would say. Well, I'm brutal. I believe it does Varden good to have his ears pulled nowand then, and I don't care whether they pull them in play or not. Boysought to rough it, or they never grow up into men, and your mother wouldhave agreed with me. Oh yes; and you're all wrong about patriotism. Itcan, can, create a sentiment. "

She was unusually precise, and had followed his thoughts with anattention that was also unusual. He wondered whether she was not right, and regretted that she proceeded to say, "My dear boy, you mustn't talkthese heresies inside Dunwood House! You sound just like one of thatreactionary Jackson set, who want to fling the school back a hundredyears and have nothing but day-boys all dressed anyhow. "

"The Jackson set have their points. "

"You'd better join it. "

"The Dunwood House set has its points. " For Rickie suffered from thePrimal Curse, which is not--as the Authorized Version suggests--theknowledge of good and evil, but the knowledge of good-and-evil. 

"Then stick to the Dunwood House set. "

"I do, and shall. " Again he was ashamed. Why would he see the otherside of things? He rebuked his soul, not unsuccessfully, and then theyreturned to the subject of Varden. 

"I'm certain he suffers, " said he, for she would do nothing but laugh. "Each boy who passes pulls his ears--very funny, no doubt; but every daythey stick out more and get redder, and this afternoon, when he didn'tknow he was being watched, he was holding his head and moaning. I hatethe look about his eyes. "

"I hate the whole boy. Nasty weedy thing. "

"Well, I'm a nasty weedy thing, if it comes to that. "

"No, you aren't, " she cried, kissing him. But he led her back tothe subject. Could nothing be suggested? He drew up some newrules--alterations in the times of going to bed, and so on--the effectof which would be to provide fewer opportunities for the pulling ofVarden's ears. The rules were submitted to Herbert, who sympathizedwith weakliness more than did his sister, and gave them his carefulconsideration. But unfortunately they collided with other rules, andon a closer examination he found that they also ran contrary to thefundamentals on which the government of Dunwood House was based. Sonothing was done. Agnes was rather pleased, and took to teasing herhusband about Varden. At last he asked her to stop. He felt uneasy aboutthe boy--almost superstitious. His first morning's work had broughtsixty pounds a year to their hotel. 

XIX

They did not get to Italy at Easter. Herbert had the offer of someprivate pupils, and needed Rickie's help. It seemed unreasonableto leave England when money was to be made in it, so they went toIlfracombe instead. They spent three weeks among the natural advantagesand unnatural disadvantages of that resort. It was out of the season, and they encamped in a huge hotel, which took them at a reduction. By adisastrous chance the Jacksons were down there too, and a good deal ofconstrained civility had to pass between the two families. Constrainedit was not in Mr. Jackson's case. At all times he was ready to talk, andas long as they kept off the school it was pleasant enough. But he wasvery indiscreet, and feminine tact had often to intervene. "Go away, dear ladies, " he would then observe. "You think you see life because yousee the chasms in it. Yet all the chasms are full of female skeletons. "The ladies smiled anxiously. To Rickie he was friendly and evenintimate. They had long talks on the deserted Capstone, while theirwives sat reading in the Winter Garden and Mr. Pembroke kept an eye uponthe tutored youths. "Once I had tutored youths, " said Mr. Jackson, "but I lost them all by letting them paddle with my nieces. It is soimpossible to remember what is proper. " And sooner or later their talkgravitated towards his central passion--the Fragments of Sophocles. Someday ("never, " said Herbert) he would edit them. At present they weremerely in his blood. With the zeal of a scholar and the imagination ofa poet he reconstructed lost dramas--Niobe, Phaedra, Philoctetes againstTroy, whose names, but for an accident, would have thrilled the world. "Is it worth it?" he cried. "Had we better be planting potatoes?" Andthen: "We had; but this is the second best. "

Agnes did not approve of these colloquies. Mr. Jackson was not abuffoon, but he behaved like one, which is what matters; and from theWinter Garden she could see people laughing at him, and at her husband, who got excited too. She hinted once or twice, but no notice was taken, and at last she said rather sharply, "Now, you're not to, Rickie. Iwon't have it. "

"He's a type that suits me. He knows people I know, or would like tohave known. He was a friend of Tony Failing's. It is so hard to realizethat a man connected with one was great. Uncle Tony seems to have been. He loved poetry and music and pictures, and everything tempted him tolive in a kind of cultured paradise, with the door shut upon squalor. But to have more decent people in the world--he sacrificed everythingto that. He would have 'smashed the whole beauty-shop' if it would helphim. I really couldn't go as far as that. I don't think one need go asfar--pictures might have to be smashed, but not music or poetry; surelythey help--and Jackson doesn't think so either. "

"Well, I won't have it, and that's enough. " She laughed, for her voicehad a little been that of the professional scold. "You see we must hangtogether. He's in the reactionary camp. "

"He doesn't know it. He doesn't know that he is in any camp at all. "

"His wife is, which comes to the same. "

"Still, it's the holidays--" He and Mr. Jackson had drifted apart inthe term, chiefly owing to the affair of Varden. "We were to have theholidays to ourselves, you know. " And following some line of thought, he continued, "He cheers one up. He does believe in poetry. Smart, sentimental books do seem absolutely absurd to him, and gods and fairiesfar nearer to reality. He tries to express all modern life in the termsof Greek mythology, because the Greeks looked very straight at things, and Demeter or Aphrodite are thinner veils than 'The survival of thefittest', or 'A marriage has been arranged, ' and other draperies ofmodern journalese. "

"And do you know what that means?"

"It means that poetry, not prose, lies at the core. "

"No. I can tell you what it means--balder-dash. "

His mouth fell. She was sweeping away the cobwebs with a vengeance. "Ihope you're wrong, " he replied, "for those are the lines on which I'vebeen writing, however badly, for the last two years. "

"But you write stories, not poems. "

He looked at his watch. "Lessons again. One never has a moment's peace. "

"Poor Rickie. You shall have a real holiday in the summer. " And shecalled after him to say, "Remember, dear, about Mr. Jackson. Don't gotalking so much to him. "

Rather arbitrary. Her tone had been a little arbitrary of late. But whatdid it matter? Mr. Jackson was not a friend, and he must risk the chanceof offending Widdrington. After the lesson he wrote to Ansell, whom hehad not seen since June, asking him to come down to Ilfracombe, if onlyfor a day. On reading the letter over, its tone displeased him. It wasquite pathetic: it sounded like a cry from prison. "I can't send himsuch nonsense, " he thought, and wrote again. But phrase it as he wouldthe letter always suggested that he was unhappy. "What's wrong?" hewondered. "I could write anything I wanted to him once. " So he scrawled"Come!" on a post-card. But even this seemed too serious. The post-cardfollowed the letters, and Agnes found them all in the waste-paperbasket. 

Then she said, "I've been thinking--oughtn't you to ask Mr. Ansell over?A breath of sea air would do the poor thing good. "

There was no difficulty now. He wrote at once, "My dear Stewart, We bothso much wish you could come over. " But the invitation was refused. Alittle uneasy he wrote again, using the dialect of their past intimacy. The effect of this letter was not pathetic but jaunty, and he felta keen regret as soon as it slipped into the box. It was a relief toreceive no reply. 

He brooded a good deal over this painful yet intangible episode. Wasthe pain all of his own creating? or had it been produced by somethingexternal? And he got the answer that brooding always gives--it was both. He was morbid, and had been so since his visit to Cadover--quicker toregister discomfort than joy. But, none the less, Ansell was definitelybrutal, and Agnes definitely jealous. Brutality he could understand, alien as it was to himself. Jealousy, equally alien, was a hardermatter. Let husband and wife be as sun and moon, or as moon and sun. Shall they therefore not give greeting to the stars? He was willing togrant that the love that inspired her might be higher than his own. Yetdid it not exclude them both from much that is gracious? That dream ofhis when he rode on the Wiltshire expanses--a curious dream: the larksilent, the earth dissolving. And he awoke from it into a valley full ofmen. 

She was jealous in many ways--sometimes in an open humorous fashion, sometimes more subtly, never content till "we" had extended ourpatronage, and, if possible, our pity. She began to patronize and pityAnsell, and most sincerely trusted that he would get his fellowship. Otherwise what was the poor fellow to do? Ridiculous as it may seem, shewas even jealous of Nature. One day her husband escaped from Ilfracombeto Morthoe, and came back ecstatic over its fangs of slate, piercing anoily sea. "Sounds like an hippopotamus, " she said peevishly. And whenthey returned to Sawston through the Virgilian counties, she dislikedhim looking out of the windows, for all the world as if Nature was somedangerous woman. 

He resumed his duties with a feeling that he had never left them. Againhe confronted the assembled house. This term was again the term; schoolstill the world in miniature. The music of the four-part fugue enteredinto him more deeply, and he began to hum its little phrases. The sameroutine, the same diplomacies, the same old sense of only half knowingboys or men--he returned to it all: and all that changed was the cloudof unreality, which ever brooded a little more densely than before. Hespoke to his wife about this, he spoke to her about everything, and shewas alarmed, and wanted him to see a doctor. But he explained that itwas nothing of any practical importance, nothing that interfered withhis work or his appetite, nothing more than a feeling that the cow wasnot really there. She laughed, and "how is the cow today?" soon passedinto a domestic joke. 

XX

Ansell was in his favourite haunt--the reading-room of the BritishMuseum. In that book-encircled space he always could find peace. Heloved to see the volumes rising tier above tier into the misty dome. Heloved the chairs that glide so noiselessly, and the radiating desks, and the central area, where the catalogue shelves curve, round thesuperintendent's throne. There he knew that his life was not ignoble. Itwas worth while to grow old and dusty seeking for truth though truth isunattainable, restating questions that have been stated at the beginningof the world. Failure would await him, but not disillusionment. It wasworth while reading books, and writing a book or two which few wouldread, and no one, perhaps, endorse. He was not a hero, and he knew it. His father and sister, by their steady goodness, had made this lifepossible. But, all the same, it was not the life of a spoilt child. 

In the next chair to him sat Widdrington, engaged in his historicalresearch. His desk was edged with enormous volumes, and every fewmoments an assistant brought him more. They rose like a wall againstAnsell. Towards the end of the morning a gap was made, and through itthey held the following conversation. 

"I've been stopping with my cousin at Sawston. "

"M'm. "

"It was quite exciting. The air rang with battle. About two-thirds ofthe masters have lost their heads, and are trying to produce a gimcrackcopy of Eton. Last term, you know, with a great deal of puffing andblowing, they fixed the numbers of the school. This term they want tocreate a new boarding-house. "

"They are very welcome. "

"But the more boarding-houses they create, the less room they leave forday-boys. The local mothers are frantic, and so is my queer cousin. I never knew him so excited over sub-Hellenic things. There was anindignation meeting at his house. He is supposed to look after theday-boys' interests, but no one thought he would--least of all thepeople who gave him the post. The speeches were most eloquent. They argued that the school was founded for day-boys, and that it'sintolerable to handicap them. One poor lady cried, 'Here's my Harold inthe school, and my Toddie coming on. As likely as not I shall be toldthere is no vacancy for him. Then what am I to do? If I go, what's tobecome of Harold; and if I stop, what's to become of Toddie?' I mustsay I was touched. Family life is more real than national life--at leastI've ordered all these books to prove it is--and I fancy that the bustof Euripides agreed with me, and was sorry for the hot-faced mothers. Jackson will do what he can. He didn't quite like to state thenaked truth-which is, that boardinghouses pay. He explained it to meafterwards: they are the only, future open to a stupid master. It's easyenough to be a beak when you're young and athletic, and can offer thelatest University smattering. The difficulty is to keep your place whenyou get old and stiff, and younger smatterers are pushing up behindyou. Crawl into a boarding-house and you're safe. A master's life isfrightfully tragic. Jackson's fairly right himself, because he has gota first-class intellect. But I met a poor brute who was hired as anathlete. He has missed his shot at a boarding-house, and there's nothingin the world for him to do but to trundle down the hill. "

Ansell yawned. 

"I saw Rickie too. Once I dined there. "

Another yawn. 

"My cousin thinks Mrs. Elliot one of the most horrible women he hasever seen. He calls her 'Medusa in Arcady. ' She's so pleasant, too. Butcertainly it was a very stony meal. "

"What kind of stoniness"

"No one stopped talking for a moment. "

"That's the real kind, " said Ansell moodily. "The only kind. "

"Well, I, " he continued, "am inclined to compare her to an electriclight. Click! she's on. Click! she's off. No waste. No flicker. "

"I wish she'd fuse. "

"She'll never fuse--unless anything was to happen at the main. "

"What do you mean by the main?" said Ansell, who always pursued ametaphor relentlessly. 

Widdrington did not know what he meant, and suggested that Ansell shouldvisit Sawston to see whether one could know. 

"It is no good me going. I should not find Mrs. Elliot: she has no realexistence. "

"Rickie has. "

"I very much doubt it. I had two letters from Ilfracombe last April, and I very much doubt that the man who wrote them can exist. " Bendingdownwards he began to adorn the manuscript of his dissertation with asquare, and inside that a circle, and inside that another square. It washis second dissertation: the first had failed. 

"I think he exists: he is so unhappy. "

Ansell nodded. "How did you know he was unhappy?"

"Because he was always talking. " After a pause he added, "What cleveryoung men we are!"

"Aren't we? I expect we shall get asked in marriage soon. I say, Widdrington, shall we--?"

"Accept? Of course. It is not young manly to say no. "

"I meant shall we ever do a more tremendous thing, --fuse Mrs. Elliot. "

"No, " said Widdrington promptly. "We shall never do that in all ourlives. " He added, "I think you might go down to Sawston, though. "

"I have already refused or ignored three invitations. "

"So I gathered. "

"What's the good of it?" said Ansell through his teeth. "I will not putup with little things. I would rather be rude than to listen to twaddlefrom a man I've known. 

"You might go down to Sawston, just for a night, to see him. "

"I saw him last month--at least, so Tilliard informs me. He says that weall three lunched together, that Rickie paid, and that the conversationwas most interesting. "

"Well, I contend that he does exist, and that if you go--oh, I can't beclever any longer. You really must go, man. I'm certain he's miserableand lonely. Dunwood House reeks of commerce and snobbery and all thethings he hated most. He doesn't do anything. He doesn't make anyfriends. He is so odd, too. In this day-boy row that has just startedhe's gone for my cousin. Would you believe it? Quite spitefully. It madequite a difficulty when I wanted to dine. It isn't like him either thesentiments or the behaviour. I'm sure he's not himself. Pembroke used tolook after the day-boys, and so he can't very well take the lead againstthem, and perhaps Rickie's doing his dirty work--and has overdone it, asdecent people generally do. He's even altering to talk to. Yet he's notbeen married a year. Pembroke and that wife simply run him. I don't seewhy they should, and no more do you; and that's why I want you to go toSawston, if only for one night. "

Ansell shook his head, and looked up at the dome as other men look atthe sky. In it the great arc lamps sputtered and flared, for the monthwas again November. Then he lowered his eyes from the cold violetradiance to the books. 

"No, Widdrington; no. We don't go to see people because they are happyor unhappy. We go when we can talk to them. I cannot talk to Rickie, therefore I will not waste my time at Sawston. "

"I think you're right, " said Widdrington softly. "But we are bloodlessbrutes. I wonder whether-If we were different people--something might bedone to save him. That is the curse of being a little intellectual. Youand our sort have always seen too clearly. We stand aside--and meanwhilehe turns into stone. Two philosophic youths repining in the BritishMuseum! What have we done? What shall we ever do? Just drift andcriticize, while people who know what they want snatch it away from usand laugh. "

"Perhaps you are that sort. I'm not. When the moment comes I shall hitout like any ploughboy. Don't believe those lies about intellectualpeople. They're only written to soothe the majority. Do you suppose, with the world as it is, that it's an easy matter to keep quiet? Doyou suppose that I didn't want to rescue him from that ghastly woman?Action! Nothing's easier than action; as fools testify. But I want toact rightly. "

"The superintendent is looking at us. I must get back to my work. "

"You think this all nonsense, " said Ansell, detaining him. "Pleaseremember that if I do act, you are bound to help me. "

Widdrington looked a little grave. He was no anarchist. A few plaintivecries against Mrs. Elliot were all that he prepared to emit. 

"There's no mystery, " continued Ansell. "I haven't the shadow of a planin my head. I know not only Rickie but the whole of his history: youremember the day near Madingley. Nothing in either helps me: I'm justwatching. "

"But what for?"

"For the Spirit of Life. "

Widdrington was surprised. It was a phrase unknown to their philosophy. They had trespassed into poetry. 

"You can't fight Medusa with anything else. If you ask me what theSpirit of Life is, or to what it is attached, I can't tell you. I onlytell you, watch for it. Myself I've found it in books. Some people findit out of doors or in each other. Never mind. It's the same spirit, andI trust myself to know it anywhere, and to use it rightly. "

But at this point the superintendent sent a message. 

Widdrington then suggested a stroll in the galleries. It was foggy: theyneeded fresh air. He loved and admired his friend, but today he couldnot grasp him. The world as Ansell saw it seemed such a fantastic place, governed by brand-new laws. What more could one do than to see Rickieas often as possible, to invite his confidence, to offer him spiritualsupport? And Mrs. Elliot--what power could "fuse" a respectable woman?

Ansell consented to the stroll, but, as usual, only breathed depression. The comfort of books deserted him among those marble goddesses and gods. The eye of an artist finds pleasure in texture and poise, but he couldonly think of the vanished incense and deserted temples beside anunfurrowed sea. 

"Let us go, " he said. "I do not like carved stones. "

"You are too particular, " said Widdrington. "You are always expectingto meet living people. One never does. I am content with the Parthenonfrieze. " And he moved along a few yards of it, while Ansell followed, conscious only of its pathos. 

"There's Tilliard, " he observed. "Shall we kill him?"

"Please, " said Widdrington, and as he spoke Tilliard joined them. Hebrought them news. That morning he had heard from Rickie: Mrs. Elliotwas expecting a child. 

"A child?" said Ansell, suddenly bewildered. 

"Oh, I forgot, " interposed Widdrington. "My cousin did tell me. "

"You forgot! Well, after all, I forgot that it might be, We are indeedyoung men. " He leant against the pedestal of Ilissus and rememberedtheir talk about the Spirit of Life. In his ignorance of what a childmeans he wondered whether the opportunity he sought lay here. 

"I am very glad, " said Tilliard, not without intention. "A child willdraw them even closer together. I like to see young people wrapped up intheir child. "

"I suppose I must be getting back to my dissertation, " said Ansell. He left the Parthenon to pass by the monuments of our more reticentbeliefs--the temple of the Ephesian Artemis, the statue of the CnidianDemeter. Honest, he knew that here were powers he could not cope with, nor, as yet, understand. 

XXI

The mists that had gathered round Rickie seemed to be breaking. He hadfound light neither in work for which he was unfitted nor in a woman whohad ceased to respect him, and whom he was ceasing to love. Though hecalled himself fickle and took all the blame of their marriage on hisown shoulders, there remained in Agnes certain terrible faults of heartand head, and no self-reproach would diminish them. The glamour ofwedlock had faded; indeed, he saw now that it had faded even beforewedlock, and that during the final months he had shut his eyes andpretended it was still there. But now the mists were breaking. 

That November the supreme event approached. He saw it with Nature'seyes. It dawned on him, as on Ansell, that personal love and marriageonly cover one side of the shield, and that on the other is graven theepic of birth. In the midst of lessons he would grow dreamy, as one whospies a new symbol for the universe, a fresh circle within the square. Within the square shall be a circle, within the circle another square, until the visual eye is baffled. Here is meaning of a kind. His motherhad forgotten herself in him. He would forget himself in his son. 

He was at his duties when the news arrived--taking preparation. Boys aremarvellous creatures. Perhaps they will sink below the brutes; perhapsthey will attain to a woman's tenderness. Though they despised Rickie, and had suffered under Agnes's meanness, their one thought this term wasto be gentle and to give no trouble. 

"Rickie--one moment--"

His face grew ashen. He followed Herbert into the passage, closingthe door of the preparation room behind him. "Oh, is she safe?" hewhispered. 

"Yes, yes, " said Herbert; but there sounded in his answer a sombrehostile note. 

"Our boy?"

"Girl--a girl, dear Rickie; a little daughter. She--she is in many waysa healthy child. She will live--oh yes. " A flash of horror passed overhis face. He hurried into the preparation room, lifted the lid of hisdesk, glanced mechanically at the boys, and came out again. 

Mrs. Lewin appeared through the door that led into their own part of thehouse. 

"Both going on well!" she cried; but her voice also was grave, exasperated. 

"What is it?" he gasped. "It's something you daren't tell me. "

"Only this"--stuttered Herbert. "You mustn't mind when you see--she'slame. "

Mrs. Lewin disappeared. "Lame! but not as lame as I am?"

"Oh, my dear boy, worse. Don't--oh, be a man in this. Come away from thepreparation room. Remember she'll live--in many ways healthy--only justthis one defect. "

The horror of that week never passed away from him. To the end of hislife he remembered the excuses--the consolations that the child wouldlive; suffered very little, if at all; would walk with crutches; wouldcertainly live. God was more merciful. A window was opened too wide on adraughty day--after a short, painless illness his daughter died. Butthe lesson he had learnt so glibly at Cambridge should be heeded now; nochild should ever be born to him again. 

XXII

That same term there took place at Dunwood House another event. Withtheir private tragedy it seemed to have no connection; but in timeRickie perceived it as a bitter comment. Its developments wereunforeseen and lasting. It was perhaps the most terrible thing he had tobear. 

Varden had now been a boarder for ten months. His health had broken inthe previous term, --partly, it is to be feared, as the result of theindifferent food--and during the summer holidays he was attacked by aseries of agonizing earaches. His mother, a feeble person, wished tokeep him at home, but Herbert dissuaded her. Soon after the death of thechild there arose at Dunwood House one of those waves of hostility ofwhich no boy knows the origin nor any master can calculate the course. Varden had never been popular--there was no reason why he should be--buthe had never been seriously bullied hitherto. One evening nearly thewhole house set on him. The prefects absented themselves, the biggerboys stood round and the lesser boys, to whom power was delegated, flunghim down, and rubbed his face under the desks, and wrenched at his ears. The noise penetrated the baize doors, and Herbert swept through andpunished the whole house, including Varden, whom it would not do toleave out. The poor man was horrified. He approved of a little healthyroughness, but this was pure brutalization. What had come over his boys?Were they not gentlemen's sons? He would not admit that if you herdtogether human beings before they can understand each other the greatgod Pan is angry, and will in the end evade your regulations and drivethem mad. That night the victim was screaming with pain, and the doctornext day spoke of an operation. The suspense lasted a whole week. Comment was made in the local papers, and the reputation not only of thehouse but of the school was imperilled. "If only I had known, " repeatedHerbert--"if only I had known I would have arranged it all differently. He should have had a cubicle. " The boy did not die, but he left Sawston, never to return. 

The day before his departure Rickie sat with him some time, and tried totalk in a way that was not pedantic. In his own sorrow, which he couldshare with no one, least of all with his wife, he was still alive to thesorrows of others. He still fought against apathy, though he was losingthe battle. 

"Don't lose heart, " he told him. "The world isn't all going to be likethis. There are temptations and trials, of course, but nothing at all ofthe kind you have had here. "

"But school is the world in miniature, is it not, sir?" asked theboy, hoping to please one master by echoing what had been told him byanother. He was always on the lookout for sympathy--: it was one of thethings that had contributed to his downfall. 

"I never noticed that myself. I was unhappy at school, and in the worldpeople can be very happy. "

Varden sighed and rolled about his eyes. "Are the fellows sorry for whatthey did to me?" he asked in an affected voice. "I am sure I forgivethem from the bottom of my heart. We ought to forgive our enemies, oughtn't we, sir?"

"But they aren't your enemies. If you meet in five years' time you mayfind each other splendid fellows. "

The boy would not admit this. He had been reading some revivalisticliterature. "We ought to forgive our enemies, " he repeated; "and howeverwicked they are, we ought not to wish them evil. When I was ill, anddeath seemed nearest, I had many kind letters on this subject. "

Rickie knew about these "many kind letters. " Varden had induced thesilly nurse to write to people--people of all sorts, people that hescarcely knew or did not know at all--detailing his misfortune, andasking for spiritual aid and sympathy. 

"I am sorry for them, " he pursued. "I would not like to be like them. "

Rickie sighed. He saw that a year at Dunwood House had produced asanctimonious prig. "Don't think about them, Varden. Think aboutanything beautiful--say, music. You like music. Be happy. It's yourduty. You can't be good until you've had a little happiness. Thenperhaps you will think less about forgiving people and more about lovingthem. "

"I love them already, sir. " And Rickie, in desperation, asked if hemight look at the many kind letters. 

Permission was gladly given. A neat bundle was produced, and for abouttwenty minutes the master perused it, while the invalid kept watch onhis face. Rooks cawed out in the playing-fields, and close under thewindow there was the sound of delightful, good-tempered laughter. A boyis no devil, whatever boys may be. The letters were chilly productions, somewhat clerical in tone, by whomsoever written. Varden, because he wasill at the time, had been taken seriously. The writers declared thathis illness was fulfilling some mysterious purpose: suffering engenderedspiritual growth: he was showing signs of this already. They consentedto pray for him, some majestically, others shyly. But they all consentedwith one exception, who worded his refusal as follows:--

Dear A. C. Varden, --

I ought to say that I never remember seeing you. I am sorry that you areill, and hope you are wrong about it. Why did you not write before, forI could have helped you then? When they pulled your ear, you ought tohave gone like this (here was a rough sketch). I could not undertakepraying, but would think of you instead, if that would do. I amtwenty-two in April, built rather heavy, ordinary broad face, with eyes, etc. I write all this because you have mixed me with some one else, forI am not married, and do not want to be. I cannot think of you always, but will promise a quarter of an hour daily (say 7. 00-7. 15 A. M. ), andmight come to see you when you are better--that is, if you are a kid, and you read like one. I have been otter-hunting--

Yours sincerely, Stephen Wonham

XXIII

Riekie went straight from Varden to his wife, who lay on the sofa in herbedroom. There was now a wide gulf between them. She, like the world shehad created for him, was unreal. 

"Agnes, darling, " he began, stroking her hand, "such an awkward littlething has happened. "

"What is it, dear? Just wait till I've added up this hook. "

She had got over the tragedy: she got over everything. 

When she was at leisure he told her. Hitherto they had seldom mentionedStephen. He was classed among the unprofitable dead. 

She was more sympathetic than he expected. "Dear Rickie, " she murmuredwith averted eyes. "How tiresome for you. "

"I wish that Varden had stopped with Mrs. Orr. "

"Well, he leaves us for good tomorrow. "

"Yes, yes. And I made him answer the letter and apologize. They hadnever met. It was some confusion with a man in the Church Army, livingat a place called Codford. I asked the nurse. It is all explained. "

"There the matter ends. "

"I suppose so--if matters ever end. "

"If, by ill-luck, the person does call. I will just see him and say thatthe boy has gone. "

"You, or I. I have got over all nonsense by this time. He's absolutelynothing to me now. " He took up the tradesman's book and played with itidly. On its crimson cover was stamped a grotesque sheep. How stale andstupid their life had become!

"Don't talk like that, though, " she said uneasily. "Think how disastrousit would be if you made a slip in speaking to him. "

"Would it? It would have been disastrous once. But I expect, as a matterof fact, that Aunt Emily has made the slip already. "

His wife was displeased. "You need not talk in that cynical way. Icredit Aunt Emily with better feeling. When I was there she did mentionthe matter, but only once. She, and I, and all who have any sense ofdecency, know better than to make slips, or to think of making them. "

Agnes kept up what she called "the family connection. " She had been oncealone to Cadover, and also corresponded with Mrs. Failing. She had nevertold Rickie anything about her visit nor had he ever asked her. But, from this moment, the whole subject was reopened. 

"Most certainly he knows nothing, " she continued. "Why, he does not evenrealize that Varden lives in our house! We are perfectly safe--unlessAunt Emily were to die. Perhaps then--but we are perfectly safe for thepresent. "

"When she did mention the matter, what did she say?"

"We had a long talk, " said Agnes quietly. "She told me nothingnew--nothing new about the past, I mean. But we had a long talk aboutthe present. I think" and her voice grew displeased again--"that youhave been both wrong and foolish in refusing to make up your quarrelwith Aunt Emily. "

"Wrong and wise, I should say. "

"It isn't to be expected that she--so much older and so sensitive--canmake the first step. But I know she'd he glad to see you. "

"As far as I can remember that final scene in the garden, I accused herof 'forgetting what other people were like. ' She'll never pardon me forsaying that. "

Agnes was silent. To her the phrase was meaningless. Yet Rickie wascorrect: Mrs. Failing had resented it more than anything. 

"At all events, " she suggested, "you might go and see her. "

"No, dear. Thank you, no. "

"She is, after all--" She was going to say "your father's sister, " butthe expression was scarcely a happy one, and she turned it into, "Sheis, after all, growing old and lonely. "

"So are we all!" he cried, with a lapse of tone that was nowcharacteristic in him. 

"She oughtn't to be so isolated from her proper relatives. "

There was a moment's silence. Still playing with the book, he remarked, "You forget, she's got her favourite nephew. "

A bright red flush spread over her cheeks. "What is the matter with youthis afternoon?" she asked. "I should think you'd better go for a walk. "

"Before I go, tell me what is the matter with you. " He also flushed. "Why do you want me to make it up with my aunt?"

"Because it's right and proper. "

"So? Or because she is old?"

"I don't understand, " she retorted. But her eyes dropped. His suddensuspicion was true: she was legacy hunting. 

"Agnes, dear Agnes, " he began with passing tenderness, "how can youthink of such things? You behave like a poor person. We don't want anymoney from Aunt Emily, or from any one else. It isn't virtue that makesme say it: we are not tempted in that way: we have as much as we wantalready. "

"For the present, " she answered, still looking aside. 

"There isn't any future, " he cried in a gust of despair. 

"Rickie, what do you mean?"

What did he mean? He meant that the relations between them werefixed--that there would never be an influx of interest, nor even ofpassion. To the end of life they would go on beating time, and this wasenough for her. She was content with the daily round, the common task, performed indifferently. But he had dreamt of another helpmate, and ofother things. 

"We don't want money--why, we don't even spend any on travelling. I'veinvested all my salary and more. As far as human foresight goes, weshall never want money. " And his thoughts went out to the tiny grave. "You spoke of 'right and proper, ' but the right and proper thing for myaunt to do is to leave every penny she's got to Stephen. "

Her lip quivered, and for one moment he thought that she was going tocry. "What am I to do with you?" she said. "You talk like a person inpoetry. "

"I'll put it in prose. He's lived with her for twenty years, and heought to be paid for it. "

Poor Agnes! Indeed, what was she to do? The first moment she set footin Cadover she had thought, "Oh, here is money. We must try and get it. "Being a lady, she never mentioned the thought to her husband, butshe concluded that it would occur to him too. And now, though it hadoccurred to him at last, he would not even write his aunt a little note. 

He was to try her yet further. While they argued this point he flashedout with, "I ought to have told him that day when he called up to ourroom. There's where I went wrong first. "

"Rickie!"

"In those days I was sentimental. I minded. For two pins I'd write tohim this afternoon. Why shouldn't he know he's my brother? What's allthis ridiculous mystery?"

She became incoherent. 

"But WHY not? A reason why he shouldn't know. "

"A reason why he SHOULD know, " she retorted. "I never heard suchrubbish! Give me a reason why he should know. "

"Because the lie we acted has ruined our lives. "

She looked in bewilderment at the well-appointed room. 

"It's been like a poison we won't acknowledge. How many times have youthought of my brother? I've thought of him every day--not in love; don'tmisunderstand; only as a medicine I shirked. Down in what they callthe subconscious self he has been hurting me. " His voice broke. "Oh, mydarling, we acted a lie then, and this letter reminds us of it and givesus one more chance. I have to say 'we' lied. I should be lying again ifI took quite all the blame. Let us ask God's forgiveness together. Thenlet us write, as coldly as you please, to Stephen, and tell him he is myfather's son. "

Her reply need not be quoted. It was the last time he attemptedintimacy. And the remainder of their conversation, though long andstormy, is also best forgotten. 

Thus the first effect of Varden's letter was to make them quarrel. Theyhad not openly disagreed before. In the evening he kissed her and said, "How absurd I was to get angry about things that happened last year. Iwill certainly not write to the person. " She returned the kiss. But heknew that they had destroyed the habit of reverence, and would quarrelagain. On his rounds he looked in at Varden and asked nonchalantly forthe letter. He carried it off to his room. It was unwise of him, forhis nerves were already unstrung, and the man he had tried to bury wasstirring ominously. In the silence he examined the handwriting till hefelt that a living creature was with him, whereas he, because his childhad died, was dead. He perceived more clearly the cruelty of Nature, towhom our refinement and piety are but as bubbles, hurrying downwards onthe turbid waters. They break, and the stream continues. His father, asa final insult, had brought into the world a man unlike all the rest ofthem, a man dowered with coarse kindliness and rustic strength, a kindof cynical ploughboy, against whom their own misery and weakness mightstand more vividly relieved. "Born an Elliot--born a gentleman. " Sothe vile phrase ran. But here was an Elliot whose badness was not evengentlemanly. For that Stephen was bad inherently he never doubted for amoment and he would have children: he, not Rickie, would contribute tothe stream; he, through his remote posterity, might mingled with theunknown sea. 

Thus musing he lay down to sleep, feeling diseased in body and soul. Itwas no wonder that the night was the most terrible he had ever known. Herevisited Cambridge, and his name was a grey ghost over the door. Thenthere recurred the voice of a gentle shadowy woman, Mrs. Aberdeen, "Itdoesn't seem hardly right. " Those had been her words, her only complaintagainst the mysteries of change and death. She bowed her head andlaboured to make her "gentlemen" comfortable. She was labouring still. As he lay in bed he asked God to grant him her wisdom; that he mightkeep sorrow within due bounds; that he might abstain from extreme hatredand envy of Stephen. It was seldom that he prayed so definitely, orventured to obtrude his private wishes. Religion was to him a service, amystic communion with good; not a means of getting what he wanted on theearth. But tonight, through suffering, he was humbled, and became likeMrs. Aberdeen. Hour after hour he awaited sleep and tried to endure thefaces that frothed in the gloom--his aunt's, his father's, and, worstof all, the triumphant face of his brother. Once he struck at it, andawoke, having hurt his hand on the wall. Then he prayed hysterically forpardon and rest. 

Yet again did he awake, and from a more mysterious dream. He heard hismother crying. She was crying quite distinctly in the darkened room. He whispered, "Never mind, my darling, never mind, " and a voice echoed, "Never mind--come away--let them die out--let them die out. " He lit acandle, and the room was empty. Then, hurrying to the window, he sawabove mean houses the frosty glories of Orion. 

Henceforward he deteriorates. Let those who censure him suggest whathe should do. He has lost the work that he loved, his friends, and hischild. He remained conscientious and decent, but the spiritual part ofhim proceeded towards ruin. 

XXIV

The coming months, though full of degradation and anxiety, were to bringhim nothing so terrible as that night. It was the crisis of thisagony. He was an outcast and a failure. But he was not again forced tocontemplate these facts so clearly. Varden left in the morning, carryingthe fatal letter with him. The whole house was relieved. The good angelwas with the boys again, or else (as Herbert preferred to think) theyhad learnt a lesson, and were more humane in consequence. At all events, the disastrous term concluded quietly. 

In the Christmas holidays the two masters made an abortive attempt tovisit Italy, and at Easter there was talk of a cruise in the Aegean. Herbert actually went, and enjoyed Athens and Delphi. The Elliots paid afew visits together in England. They returned to Sawston about ten daysbefore school opened, to find that Widdrington was again stoppingwith the Jacksons. Intercourse was painful, for the two families werescarcely on speaking terms; nor did the triumphant scaffoldings ofthe new boarding-house make things easier. (The party of progress hadcarried the day. ) Widdrington was by nature touchy, but on this occasionhe refused to take offence, and often dropped in to see them. His mannerwas friendly but critical. They agreed he was a nuisance. Then Agnesleft, very abruptly, to see Mrs. Failing, and while she was away Rickiehad a little stealthy intercourse. 

Her absence, convenient as it was, puzzled him. Mrs. Silt, half goose, half stormy-petrel, had recently paid a flying visit to Cadover, andthence had flown, without an invitation, to Sawston. Generally she wasnot a welcome guest. On this occasion Agnes had welcomed her, and--soRickie thought--had made her promise not to tell him something that sheknew. The ladies had talked mysteriously. "Mr. Silt would be one withyou there, " said Mrs. Silt. Could there be any connection between thetwo visits?

Agnes's letters told him nothing: they never did. She was too clumsyor too cautious to express herself on paper. A drive to Stonehenge;an anthem in the Cathedral; Aunt Emily's love. And when he met her atWaterloo he learnt nothing (if there was anything to learn) from herface. 

"How did you enjoy yourself?"

"Thoroughly. "

"Were you and she alone?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes other people. "

"Will Uncle Tony's Essays be published?"

Here she was more communicative. The book was at last in proof. AuntEmily had written a charming introduction; but she was so idle, shenever finished things off. 

They got into an omnibus for the Army and Navy Stores: she wanted to dosome shopping before going down to Sawston. 

"Did you read any of the Essays?"

"Every one. Delightful. Couldn't put them down. Now and then he spoiltthem by statistics--but you should read his descriptions of Nature. Heagrees with you: says the hills and trees are alive! Aunt Emily calledyou his spiritual heir, which I thought nice of her. We both so lamentedthat you have stopped writing. " She quoted fragments of the Essays asthey went up in the Stores' lift. 

"What else did you talk about?"

"I've told you all my news. Now for yours. Let's have tea first. "

They sat down in the corridor amid ladies in every stage offatigue--haggard ladies, scarlet ladies, ladies with parcels thattwisted from every finger like joints of meat. Gentlemen were scarcer, but all were of the sub-fashionable type, to which Rickie himself nowbelonged. 

"I haven't done anything, " he said feebly. "Ate, read, been rude totradespeople, talked to Widdrington. Herbert arrived this morning. Hehas brought a most beautiful photograph of the Parthenon. "

"Mr. Widdrington?"

"Yes. "

"What did you talk about?"

She might have heard every word. It was only the feeling of pleasurethat he wished to conceal. Even when we love people, we desire to keepsome corner secret from them, however small: it is a human right: it ispersonality. She began to cross-question him, but they were interrupted. A young lady at an adjacent table suddenly rose and cried, "Yes, it isyou. I thought so from your walk. " It was Maud Ansell. 

"Oh, do come and join us!" he cried. "Let me introduce my wife. " Maudbowed quite stiffly, but Agnes, taking it for ill-breeding, was notoffended. 

"Then I will come!" she continued in shrill, pleasant tones, adroitlypoising her tea things on either hand, and transferring them to theElliots' table. "Why haven't you ever come to us, pray?"

"I think you didn't ask me!"

"You weren't to be asked. " She sprawled forward with a wagging finger. But her eyes had the honesty of her brother's. "Don't you remember theday you left us? Father said, 'Now, Mr. Elliot--' Or did he call you'Elliot'? How one does forget. Anyhow, father said you weren't to waitfor an invitation, and you said, 'No, I won't. ' Ours is a fair-sizedhouse, "--she turned somewhat haughtily to Agnes, --"and the second spareroom, on account of a harp that hangs on the wall, is always reservedfor Stewart's friends. "

"How is Mr. Ansell, your brother?" Maud's face fell. "Hadn't you heard?"she said in awe-struck tones. 

"No. "

"He hasn't got his fellowship. It's the second time he's failed. That means he will never get one. He will never be a don, nor live inCambridge and that, as we had hoped. "

"Oh, poor, poor fellow!" said Mrs. Elliot with a remorse that wassincere, though her congratulations would not have been. "I am so verysorry. "

But Maud turned to Rickie. "Mr. Elliot, you might know. Tell me. What iswrong with Stewart's philosophy? What ought he to put in, or to alter, so as to succeed?"

Agnes, who knew better than this, smiled. 

"I don't know, " said Rickie sadly. They were none of them so clever, after all. 

"Hegel, " she continued vindictively. "They say he's read too much Hegel. But they never tell him what to read instead. Their own stuffy books, I suppose. Look here--no, that's the 'Windsor. '" After a little gropingshe produced a copy of "Mind, " and handed it round as if it was ageological specimen. "Inside that there's a paragraph written aboutsomething Stewart's written about before, and there it says he's readtoo much Hegel, and it seems now that that's been the trouble allalong. " Her voice trembled. "I call it most unfair, and the fellowship'sgone to a man who has counted the petals on an anemone. "

Rickie had no inclination to smile. 

"I wish Stewart had tried Oxford instead. "

"I don't wish it!"

"You say that, " she continued hotly, "and then you never come to seehim, though you knew you were not to wait for an invitation. "

"If it comes to that, Miss Ansell, " retorted Rickie, in the laughingtones that one adopts on such occasions, "Stewart won't come to me, though he has had an invitation. "

"Yes, " chimed in Agnes, "we ask Mr. Ansell again and again, and he willhave none of us. "

Maud looked at her with a flashing eye. "My brother is a very peculiarperson, and we ladies can't understand him. But I know one thing, andthat's that he has a reason all round for what he does. Look here, Imust be getting on. Waiter! Wai-ai-aiter! Bill, please. Separately, ofcourse. Call the Army and Navy cheap! I know better!"

"How does the drapery department compare?" said Agnes sweetly. 

The girl gave a sharp choking sound, gathered up her parcels, and leftthem. Rickie was too much disgusted with his wife to speak. 

"Appalling person!" she gasped. "It was naughty of me, but I couldn'thelp it. What a dreadful fate for a clever man! To fail in lifecompletely, and then to be thrown back on a family like that!"

"Maud is a snob and a Philistine. But, in her case, something emerges. "

She glanced at him, but proceeded in her suavest tones, "Do let us makeone great united attempt to get Mr. Ansell to Sawston. "

"No. "

"What a changeable friend you are! When we were engaged you were alwaystalking about him. "

"Would you finish your tea, and then we will buy the linoleum for thecubicles. "

But she returned to the subject again, not only on that day butthroughout the term. Could nothing be done for poor Mr. Ansell? Itseemed that she could not rest until all that he had once held dear washumiliated. In this she strayed outside her nature: she was unpractical. And those who stray outside their nature invite disaster. Rickie, goadedby her, wrote to his friend again. The letter was in all ways unlikehis old self. Ansell did not answer it. But he did write to Mr. Jackson, with whom he was not acquainted. 

"Dear Mr. Jackson, --

"I understand from Widdrington that you have a large house. I would liketo tell you how convenient it would be for me to come and stop in it. June suits me best. --

"Yours truly, "Stewart Ansell"

To which Mr. Jackson replied that not only in June but during the wholeyear his house was at the disposal of Mr. Ansell and of any one whoresembled him. 

But Agnes continued her life, cheerfully beating time. She, too, knewthat her marriage was a failure, and in her spare moments regrettedit. She wished that her husband was handsomer, more successful, moredictatorial. But she would think, "No, no; one mustn't grumble. It can'tbe helped. " Ansell was wrong in sup-posing she might ever leave Rickie. Spiritual apathy prevented her. Nor would she ever be tempted by ajollier man. Here criticism would willingly alter its tone. For Agnesalso has her tragedy. She belonged to the type--not necessarily anelevated one--that loves once and once only. Her love for Gerald hadnot been a noble passion: no imagination transfigured it. But such as itwas, it sprang to embrace him, and he carried it away with him when hedied. Les amours gui suivrent sont moins involuntaires: by an effort ofthe will she had warmed herself for Rickie. 

She is not conscious of her tragedy, and therefore only the gods needweep at it. But it is fair to remember that hitherto she moves as onefrom whom the inner life has been withdrawn. 

XXV

"I am afraid, " said Agnes, unfolding a letter that she had received inthe morning, "that things go far from satisfactorily at Cadover. "

The three were alone at supper. It was the June of Rickie's second yearat Sawston. 

"Indeed?" said Herbert, who took a friendly interest. "In what way?

"Do you remember us talking of Stephen--Stephen Wonham, who by an oddcoincidence--"

"Yes. Who wrote last year to that miserable failure Varden. I do. "

"It is about him. "

"I did not like the tone of his letter. "

Agnes had made her first move. She waited for her husband to reply toit. But he, though full of a painful curiosity, would not speak. Shemoved again. 

"I don't think, Herbert, that Aunt Emily, much as I like her, is thekind of person to bring a young man up. At all events the results havebeen disastrous this time. "

"What has happened?"

"A tangle of things. " She lowered her voice. "Drink. "

"Dear! Really! Was Mrs. Failing fond of him?"

"She used to be. She let him live at Cadover ever since he was a littleboy. Naturally that cannot continue. "

Rickie never spoke. 

"And now he has taken to be violent and rude, " she went on. 

"In short, a beggar on horseback. Who is he? Has he got relatives?"

"She has always been both father and mother to him. Now it must all cometo an end. I blame her--and she blames herself--for not being severeenough. He has grown up without fixed principles. He has always followedhis inclinations, and one knows the result of that. "

Herbert assented. "To me Mrs. Failing's course is perfectly plain. Shehas a certain responsibility. She must pay the youth's passage to one ofthe colonies, start him handsomely in some business, and then break offall communications. "

"How funny! It is exactly what she is going to do. "

"I shall then consider that she has behaved in a thoroughly honourablemanner. " He held out his plate for gooseberries. "His letter to Vardenwas neither helpful nor sympathetic, and, if written at all, it oughtto have been both. I am not in the least surprised to learn that he hasturned out badly. When you write next, would you tell her how sorry Iam?"

"Indeed I will. Two years ago, when she was already a little anxious, she did so wish you could undertake him. 

"I could not alter a grown man. " But in his heart he thought he could, and smiled at his sister amiably. "Terrible, isn't it?" he remarked toRickie. Rickie, who was trying not to mind anything, assented. And anonlooker would have supposed them a dispassionate trio, who were sorryboth for Mrs. Failing and for the beggar who would bestride her horses'backs no longer. A new topic was introduced by the arrival of theevening post. 

Herbert took up all the letters, as he often did. 

"Jackson?" he exclaimed. "What does the fellow want?" He read, and histone was mollified, "'Dear Mr. Pembroke, --Could you, Mrs. Elliot, andMr. Elliot come to supper with us on Saturday next? I should not merelybe pleased, I should be grateful. My wife is writing formally to Mrs. Elliot'--(Here, Agnes, take your letter), --but I venture to write aswell, and to add my more uncouth entreaties. '--An olive-branch. It istime! But (ridiculous person!) does he think that we can leave the Housedeserted and all go out pleasuring in term time?--Rickie, a letter foryou. "

"Mine's the formal invitation, " said Agnes. "How very odd! Mr. Ansellwill be there. Surely we asked him here! Did you know he knew theJacksons?"

"This makes refusal very difficult, " said Herbert, who was anxious toaccept. "At all events, Rickie ought to go. "

"I do not want to go, " said Rickie, slowly opening his own letter. "AsAgnes says, Ansell has refused to come to us. I cannot put myself outfor him. "

"Who's yours from?" she demanded. 

"Mrs. Silt, " replied Herbert, who had seen the handwriting. "I trustshe does not want to pay us a visit this term, with the examinationsimpending and all the machinery at full pressure. Though, Rickie, youwill have to accept the Jacksons' invitation. "

"I cannot possibly go. I have been too rude; with Widdrington we alwaysmeet here. I'll stop with the boys--" His voice caught suddenly. He hadopened Mrs. Silt's letter. 

"The Silts are not ill, I hope?"

"No. But, I say, "--he looked at his wife, --"I do think this is going toofar. Really, Agnes. "

"What has happened?"

"It is going too far, " he repeated. He was nerving himself for anotherbattle. "I cannot stand this sort of thing. There are limits. "

He laid the letter down. It was Herbert who picked it up, and read:"Aunt Emily has just written to us. We are so glad that her troubles areover, in spite of the expense. It never does to live apart from one'sown relatives so much as she has done up to now. He goes next Saturdayto Canada. What you told her about him just turned the scale. She hasasked us--"

"No, it's too much, " he interrupted. "What I told her--told her abouthim--no, I will have it out at last. Agnes!"

"Yes?" said his wife, raising her eyes from Mrs. Jackson's formalinvitation. 

"It's you--it's you. I never mentioned him to her. Why, I've never seenher or written to her since. I accuse you. "

Then Herbert overbore him, and he collapsed. He was asked what he meant. Why was he so excited? Of what did he accuse his wife. Each time hespoke more feebly, and before long the brother and sister were laughingat him. He felt bewildered, like a boy who knows that he is right butcannot put his case correctly. He repeated, "I've never mentioned him toher. It's a libel. Never in my life. " And they cried, "My dear Rickie, what an absurd fuss!" Then his brain cleared. His eye fell on the letterthat his wife had received from his aunt, and he reopened the battle. 

"Agnes, give me that letter, if you please. "

"Mrs. Jackson's?"

"My aunt's. "

She put her hand on it, and looked at him doubtfully. She saw that shehad failed to bully him. 

"My aunt's letter, " he repeated, rising to his feet and bending over thetable towards her. 

"Why, dear?"

"Yes, why indeed?" echoed Herbert. He too had bullied Rickie, but from apurer motive: he had tried to stamp out a dissension between husband andwife. It was not the first time he had intervened. 

"The letter. For this reason: it will show me what you have done. Ibelieve you have ruined Stephen. You have worked at it for two years. You have put words into my mouth to 'turn the scale' against him. Hegoes to Canada--and all the world thinks it is owing to me. As I saidbefore--I advise you to stop smiling--you have gone a little too far. "

They were all on their feet now, standing round the little table. Agnessaid nothing, but the fingers of her delicate hand tightened upon theletter. When her husband snatched at it she resisted, and with theeffect of a harlequinade everything went on the floor--lamb, mintsauce, gooseberries, lemonade, whisky. At once they were swamped indomesticities. She rang the bell for the servant, cries arose, dusterswere brought, broken crockery (a wedding present) picked up from thecarpet; while he stood wrathfully at the window, regarding the obscuredsun's decline. 

"I MUST see her letter, " he repeated, when the agitation was over. Hewas too angry to be diverted from his purpose. Only slight emotions arethwarted by an interlude of farce. 

"I've had enough of this quarrelling, " she retorted. "You know that theSilts are inaccurate. I think you might have given me the benefit ofthe doubt. If you will know--have you forgotten that ride you took withhim?"

"I--" he was again bewildered. "The ride where I dreamt--"

"The ride where you turned back because you could not listen to adisgraceful poem?"

"I don't understand. "

"The poem was Aunt Emily. He read it to you and a stray soldier. Afterwards you told me. You said, 'Really it is shocking, hisingratitude. She ought to know about it' She does know, and I should beglad of an apology. "

He had said something of the sort in a fit of irritation. Mrs. Silt wasright--he had helped to turn the scale. 

"Whatever I said, you knew what I meant. You knew I'd sooner cut mytongue out than have it used against him. Even then. " He sighed. Had heruined his brother? A curious tenderness came over him, and passed whenhe remembered his own dead child. "We have ruined him, then. Have youany objection to 'we'? We have disinherited him. "

"I decide against you, " interposed Herbert. "I have now heard bothsides of this deplorable affair. You are talking most criminal nonsense. 'Disinherit!' Sentimental twaddle. It's been clear to me from the firstthat Mrs. Failing has been imposed upon by the Wonham man, a person withno legal claim on her, and any one who exposes him performs a publicduty--"

"--And gets money. "

"Money?" He was always uneasy at the word. "Who mentioned money?"

"Just understand me, Herbert, and of what it is that I accuse my wife. "Tears came into his eyes. "It is not that I like the Wonham man, orthink that he isn't a drunkard and worse. He's too awful in every way. But he ought to have my aunt's money, because he's lived all his lifewith her, and is her nephew as much as I am. You see, my father wentwrong. " He stopped, amazed at himself. How easy it had been to say! Hewas withering up: the power to care about this stupid secret had died. 

When Herbert understood, his first thought was for Dunwood House. 

"Why have I never been told?" was his first remark. 

"We settled to tell no one, " said Agnes. "Rickie, in his anxiety toprove me a liar, has broken his promise. "

"I ought to have been told, " said Herbert, his anger increasing. "Had Iknown, I could have averted this deplorable scene. "

"Let me conclude it, " said Rickie, again collapsing and leaving thedining-room. His impulse was to go straight to Cadover and make abusiness-like statement of the position to Stephen. Then the man wouldbe armed, and perhaps fight the two women successfully, But he resistedthe impulse. Why should he help one power of evil against another? Letthem go intertwined to destruction. To enrich his brother would be asbad as enriching himself. If their aunt's money ever did come to him, he would refuse to accept it. That was the easiest and most dignifiedcourse. He troubled himself no longer with justice or pity, and the nextday he asked his wife's pardon for his behaviour. 

In the dining-room the conversation continued. Agnes, without muchdifficulty, gained her brother as an ally. She acknowledged that she hadbeen wrong in not telling him, and he then declared that she had beenright on every other point. She slurred a little over the incident ofher treachery, for Herbert was sometimes clearsighted over details, though easily muddled in a general survey. Mrs. Failing had had plentyof direct causes of complaint, and she dwelt on these. She dealt, too, on the very handsome way in which the young man, "though he knewnothing, had never asked to know, " was being treated by his aunt. 

"'Handsome' is the word, " said Herbert. "I hope not indulgently. He doesnot deserve indulgence. "

And she knew that he, like herself, could remember money, and that itlent an acknowledged halo to her cause. 

"It is not a savoury subject, " he continued, with sudden stiffness. "Iunderstand why Rickie is so hysterical. My impulse"--he laid his hand onher shoulder--"is to abandon it at once. But if I am to be of any useto you, I must hear it all. There are moments when we must look facts inthe face. "

She did not shrink from the subject as much as he thought, as much asshe herself could have wished. Two years before, it had filled her witha physical loathing. But by now she had accustomed herself to it. 

"I am afraid, Bertie boy, there is nothing else to bear, I have tried tofind out again and again, but Aunt Emily will not tell me. I suppose itis natural. She wants to shield the Elliot name. She only told us in afit of temper; then we all agreed to keep it to ourselves; then Rickieagain mismanaged her, and ever since she has refused to let us know anydetails. "

"A most unsatisfactory position. " "So I feel. " She sat down again witha sigh. Mrs. Failing had been a great trial to her orderly mind. "She isan odd woman. She is always laughing. She actually finds it amusing thatwe know no more. "

"They are an odd family. "

"They are indeed. "

Herbert, with unusual sweetness, bent down and kissed her. 

She thanked him. 

Their tenderness soon passed. They exchanged it with averted eyes. Itembarrassed them. There are moments for all of us when we seem obligedto speak in a new unprofitable tongue. One might fancy a seraph, vexedwith our normal language, who touches the pious to blasphemy, the blasphemous to piety. The seraph passes, and we proceedunaltered--conscious, however, that we have not been ourselves, and thatwe may fail in this function yet again. So Agnes and Herbert, as theyproceeded to discuss the Jackson's supper-party, had an uneasy memory ofspiritual deserts, spiritual streams. 

XXVI

Poor Mr. Ansell was actually sitting in the garden of Dunwood House. Itwas Sunday morning. The air was full of roasting beef. The sound ofa manly hymn, taken very fast, floated over the road from the schoolchapel. He frowned, for he was reading a book, the Essays of AnthonyEustace Failing. 

He was here on account of this book--at least so he told himself. It hadjust been published, and the Jacksons were sure that Mr. Elliot wouldhave a copy. For a book one may go anywhere. It would not have beenlogical to enter Dunwood House for the purpose of seeing Rickie, whenRickie had not come to supper yesterday to see him. He was at Sawston toassure himself of his friend's grave. With quiet eyes he had intendedto view the sods, with unfaltering fingers to inscribe the epitaph. Loveremained. But in high matters he was practical. He knew that it would beuseless to reveal it. 

"Morning!" said a voice behind him. 

He saw no reason to reply to this superfluous statement, and went onwith his reading. 

"Morning!" said the voice again. 

As for the Essays, the thought was somewhat old-fashioned, and he pickedmany holes in it; nor was he anything but bored by the prospect of thebrotherhood of man. However, Mr. Failing stuck to his guns, such as theywere, and fired from them several good remarks. Very notable was hisdistinction between coarseness and vulgarity (coarseness, revealingsomething; vulgarity, concealing something), and his avowed preferencefor coarseness. Vulgarity, to him, had been the primal curse, the shoddyreticence that prevents man opening his heart to man, the powerthat makes against equality. From it sprang all the things thathe hated--class shibboleths, ladies, lidies, the game laws, theConservative party--all the things that accent the divergencies ratherthan the similarities in human nature. Whereas coarseness--But at thispoint Herbert Pembroke had scrawled with a blue pencil: "Childish. Onereads no further. "

"Morning!" repeated the voice. 

Ansell read further, for here was the book of a man who had tried, however unsuccessfully, to practice what he preached. Mrs. Failing, inher Introduction, described with delicate irony his difficulties as alandlord; but she did not record the love in which his name was held. Nor could her irony touch him when he cried: "Attain the practicalthrough the unpractical. There is no other road. " Ansell was inclined tothink that the unpractical is its own reward, but he respected those whoattempted to journey beyond it. We must all of us go over the mountains. There is certainly no other road. 

"Nice morning!" said the voice. 

It was not a nice morning, so Ansell felt bound to speak. He answered:"No. Why?" A clod of earth immediately struck him on the back. He turnedround indignantly, for he hated physical rudeness. A square man of ruddyaspect was pacing the gravel path, his hands deep in his pockets. He wasvery angry. Then he saw that the clod of earth nourished a blue lobelia, and that a wound of corresponding size appeared on the pie-shaped bed. He was not so angry. "I expect they will mind it, " he reflected. Lastnight, at the Jacksons', Agnes had displayed a brisk pity that madehim wish to wring her neck. Maude had not exaggerated. Mr. Pembroke hadpatronized through a sorrowful voice and large round eyes. Till hemet these people he had never been told that his career was a failure. Apparently it was. They would never have been civil to him if it hadbeen a success, if they or theirs had anything to fear from him. 

In many ways Ansell was a conceited man; but he was never proud of beingright. He had foreseen Rickie's catastrophe from the first, but derivedfrom this no consolation. In many ways he was pedantic; but hispedantry lay close to the vineyards of life--far closer than that fetichExperience of the innumerable tea-cups. He had a great many facts tolearn, and before he died he learnt a suitable quantity. But he neverforgot that the holiness of the heart's imagination can alone classifythese facts--can alone decide which is an exception, which an example. "How unpractical it all is!" That was his comment on Dunwood House. "How unbusiness-like! They live together without love. They work withoutconviction. They seek money without requiring it. They die, and nothingwill have happened, either for themselves or for others. " It is acomment that the academic mind will often make when first confrontedwith the world. 

But he was becoming illogical. The clod of earth had disturbed him. Brushing the dirt off his back, he returned to the book. What a curiousaffair was the essay on "Gaps"! Solitude, star-crowned, pacing thefields of England, has a dialogue with Seclusion. He, poor little man, lives in the choicest scenery--among rocks, forests, emerald lawns, azure lakes. To keep people out he has built round his domain a highwall, on which is graven his motto--"Procul este profani. " But he cannotenjoy himself. His only pleasure is in mocking the absent Profane. Theyare in his mind night and day. Their blemishes and stupidities form thesubject of his great poem, "In the Heart of Nature. " Then Solitude tellshim that so it always will be until he makes a gap in the wall, andpermits his seclusion to be the sport of circumstance. He obeys. TheProfane invade him; but for short intervals they wander elsewhere, andduring those intervals the heart of Nature is revealed to him. 

This dialogue had really been suggested to Mr. Failing by a talk withhis brother-in-law. It also touched Ansell. He looked at the man whohad thrown the clod, and was now pacing with obvious youth and impudenceupon the lawn. "Shall I improve my soul at his expense?" he thought. "Isuppose I had better. " In friendly tones he remarked, "Were you waitingfor Mr. Pembroke?"

"No, " said the young man. "Why?"

Ansell, after a moment's admiration, flung the Essays at him. They hithim in the back. The next moment he lay on his own back in the lobeliapie. 

"But it hurts!" he gasped, in the tones of a puzzled civilization. "Whatyou do hurts!" For the young man was nicking him over the shins with therim of the book cover. "Little brute-ee--ow!"

"Then say Pax!"

Something revolted in Ansell. Why should he say Pax? Freeing his hand, he caught the little brute under the chin, and was again knocked intothe lobelias by a blow on the mouth. 

"Say Pax!" he repeated, pressing the philosopher's skull into the mould;and he added, with an anxiety that was somehow not offensive, "I doadvise you. You'd really better. "

Ansell swallowed a little blood. He tried to move, and he could not. He looked carefully into the young man's eyes and into the palm of hisright hand, which at present swung unclenched, and he said "Pax!"

"Shake hands!" said the other, helping him up. There was nothing Ansellloathed so much as the hearty Britisher; but he shook hands, and theystared at each other awkwardly. With civil murmurs they picked thelittle blue flowers off each other's clothes. Ansell was trying toremember why they had quarrelled, and the young man was wondering why hehad not guarded his chin properly. In the distance a hymn swung off--

"Fight the good. Fight with. All thy. Might. "

They would be across from the chapel soon. 

"Your book, sir?"

"Thank you, sir--yes. "

"Why!" cried the young man--"why, it's 'What We Want'! At least thebinding's exactly the same. "

"It's called 'Essays, '" said Ansell. 

"Then that's it. Mrs. Failing, you see, she wouldn't call it that, because three W's, you see, in a row, she said, are vulgar, and soundlike Tolstoy, if you've heard of him. "

Ansell confessed to an acquaintance, and then said, "Do you think 'WhatWe Want' vulgar?" He was not at all interested, but he desired to escapefrom the atmosphere of pugilistic courtesy, more painful to him thanblows themselves. 

"It IS the same book, " said the other--"same title, same binding. " Heweighed it like a brick in his muddy hands. 

"Open it to see if the inside corresponds, " said Ansell, swallowing alaugh and a little more blood with it. 

With a liberal allowance of thumb-marks, he turned the pages over andread, "'the rural silence that is not a poet's luxury but a practicalneed for all men. ' Yes, it is the same book. " Smiling pleasantly overthe discovery, he handed it back to the owner. 

"And is it true?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is it true that rural silence is a practical need?"

"Don't ask me!"

"Have you ever tried it?"

"What?"

"Rural silence. "

"A field with no noise in it, I suppose you mean. I don't understand. "

Ansell smiled, but a slight fire in the man's eye checked him. Afterall, this was a person who could knock one down. Moreover, there was noreason why he should be teased. He had it in him to retort "No. Why?"He was not stupid in essentials. He was irritable--in Ansell's eyes afrequent sign of grace. Sitting down on the upturned seat, he remarked, "I like the book in many ways. I don't think 'What We Want' would havebeen a vulgar title. But I don't intend to spoil myself on the chance ofmending the world, which is what the creed amounts to. Nor am I keen onrural silences. "

"Curse!" he said thoughtfully, sucking at an empty pipe. 

"Tobacco?"

"Please. "

"Rickie's is invariably--filthy. "

"Who says I know Rickie?"

"Well, you know his aunt. It's a possible link. Be gentle with Rickie. Don't knock him down if he doesn't think it's a nice morning. "

The other was silent. 

"Do you know him well?"

"Kind of. " He was not inclined to talk. The wish to smoke was veryviolent in him, and Ansell noticed how he gazed at the wreaths thatascended from bowl and stem, and how, when the stem was in his mouth, he bit it. He gave the idea of an animal with just enough soul tocontemplate its own bliss. United with refinement, such a type wascommon in Greece. It is not common today, and Ansell was surprised tofind it in a friend of Rickie's. Rickie, if he could even "kind of know"such a creature, must be stirring in his grave. 

"Do you know his wife too?"

"Oh yes. In a way I know Agnes. But thank you for this tobacco. Lastnight I nearly died. I have no money. "

"Take the whole pouch--do. "

After a moment's hesitation he did. "Fight the good" had scarcely ended, so quickly had their intimacy grown. 

"I suppose you're a friend of Rickie's?"

Ansell was tempted to reply, "I don't know him at all. " But it seemedno moment for the severer truths, so he said, "I knew him well atCambridge, but I have seen very little of him since. "

"Is it true that his baby was lame?"

"I believe so. "

His teeth closed on his pipe. Chapel was over. The organist was prancingthrough the voluntary, and the first ripple of boys had already reachedDunwood House. In a few minutes the masters would be here too, andAnsell, who was becoming interested, hurried the conversation forward. 

"Have you come far?"

"From Wiltshire. Do you know Wiltshire?" And for the first time therecame into his face the shadow of a sentiment, the passing tribute tosome mystery. "It's a good country. I live in one of the finest valleysout of Salisbury Plain. I mean, I lived. "

"Have you been dismissed from Cadover, without a penny in your pocket?"

He was alarmed at this. Such knowledge seemed simply diabolical. Ansellexplained that if his boots were chalky, if his clothes had obviouslybeen slept in, if he knew Mrs. Failing, if he knew Wiltshire, and ifhe could buy no tobacco--then the deduction was possible. "You do justattend, " he murmured. 

The house was filling with boys, and Ansell saw, to his regret, the headof Agnes over the thuyia hedge that separated the small front gardenfrom the side lawn where he was sitting. After a few minutes it wasfollowed by the heads of Rickie and Mr. Pembroke. All the heads wereturned the other way. But they would find his card in the hall, and ifthe man had left any message they would find that too. "What are you?"he demanded. "Who are you--your name--I don't care about that. But itinterests me to class people, and up to now I have failed with you. "

"I--" He stopped. Ansell reflected that there are worse answers. "Ireally don't know what I am. Used to think I was something special, butstrikes me now I feel much like other chaps. Used to look down on thelabourers. Used to take for granted I was a gentleman, but really Idon't know where I do belong. "

"One belongs to the place one sleeps in and to the people one eatswith. "

"As often as not I sleep out of doors and eat by myself, so that doesn'tget you any further. "

A silence, akin to poetry, invaded Ansell. Was it only a pose to likethis man, or was he really wonderful? He was not romantic, for Romanceis a figure with outstretched hands, yearning for the unattainable. Certain figures of the Greeks, to whom we continually return, suggestedhim a little. One expected nothing of him--no purity of phrase norswift edged thought. Yet the conviction grew that he had been backsomewhere--back to some table of the gods, spread in a field where thereis no noise, and that he belonged for ever to the guests with whom hehad eaten. Meanwhile he was simple and frank, and what he could tell hewould tell to any one. He had not the suburban reticence. Ansell askedhim, "Why did Mrs. Failing turn you out of Cadover? I should like tohear that too. "

"Because she was tired of me. Because, again, I couldn't keep quiet overthe farm hands. I ask you, is it right?" He became incoherent. Ansellcaught, "And they grow old--they don't play games--it ends they can'tplay. " An illustration emerged. "Take a kitten--if you fool about withher, she goes on playing well into a cat. "

"But Mrs. Failing minded no mice being caught. "

"Mice?" said the young man blankly. "What I was going to say is, thatsome one was jealous of my being at Cadover. I'll mention no names, butI fancy it was Mrs. Silt. I'm sorry for her if it was. Anyhow, she setMrs. Failing against me. It came on the top of other things--and out Iwent. "

"What did Mrs. Silt, whose name I don't mention, say?"

He looked guilty. "I don't know. Easy enough to find something to say. The point is that she said something. You know, Mr. --I don't know yourname, mine's Wonham, but I'm more grateful than I can put it overthis tobacco. I mean, you ought to know there is another side to thisquarrel. It's wrong, but it's there. "

Ansell told him not to be uneasy: he lad already guessed that theremight be another side. But he could not make out why Mr. Wonham shouldhave come straight from the aunt to the nephew. They were now sittingon the upturned seat. "What We Want, " a good deal shattered, lay betweenthem. 

"On account of above-mentioned reasons, there was a row. I don'tknow--you can guess the style of thing. She wanted to treat me to thecolonies, and had up the parson to talk soft-sawder and make out thata boundless continent was the place for a lad like me. I said, 'I can'trun up to the Rings without getting tired, nor gallop a horse outof this view without tiring it, so what is the point of a boundlesscontinent?' Then I saw that she was frightened of me, and bluffed a bitmore, and in the end I was nipped. She caught me--just like her! whenI had nothing on but flannels, and was coming into the house, havinglicked the Cadchurch team. She stood up in the doorway between thosestone pilasters and said, 'No! Never again!' and behind her wasWilbraham, whom I tried to turn out, and the gardener, and poor oldLeighton, who hates being hurt. She said, 'There's a hundred pounds foryou at the London bank, and as much more in December. Go!' I said, 'Keepyour--money, and tell me whose son I am. ' I didn't care really. I onlysaid it on the off-chance of hurting her. Sure enough, she caught onto the doorhandle (being lame) and said, 'I can't--I promised--I don'treally want to, ' and Wilbraham did stare. Then--she's very queer--sheburst out laughing, and went for the packet after all, and we heard herlaugh through the window as she got it. She rolled it at me downthe steps, and she says, 'A leaf out of the eternal comedy for you, Stephen, ' or something of that sort. I opened it as I walked down thedrive, she laughing always and catching on to the handle of the frontdoor. Of course it wasn't comic at all. But down in the village therewere both cricket teams, already a little tight, and the mad plumbershouting 'Rights of Man!' They knew I was turned out. We did have a row, and kept it up too. They daren't touch Wilbraham's windows, but thereisn't much glass left up at Cadover. When you start, it's worth goingon, but in the end I had to cut. They subscribed a bob here and a bobthere, and these are Flea Thompson's Sundays. I sent a line to Leightonnot to forward my own things: I don't fancy them. They aren't reallymine. " He did not mention his great symbolic act, performed, it is to befeared, when he was rather drunk and the friendly policeman was lookingthe other way. He had cast all his flannels into the little millpond, and then waded himself through the dark cold water to the new clotheson the other side. Some one had flung his pipe and his packet after him. The packet had fallen short. For this reason it was wet when he handedit to Ansell, and ink that had been dry for twenty-three years had begunto run again. 

"I wondered if you're right about the hundred pounds, " said Ansellgravely. "It is pleasant to be proud, but it is unpleasant to die in thenight through not having any tobacco. "

"But I'm not proud. Look how I've taken your pouch! The hundred poundswas--well, can't you see yourself, it was quite different? It was, so tospeak, inconvenient for me to take the hundred pounds. Or look again howI took a shilling from a boy who earns nine bob a-week! Proves prettyconclusively I'm not proud. "

Ansell saw it was useless to argue. He perceived, beneath the slatternlyuse of words, the man, buttoned up in them, just as his body wasbuttoned up in a shoddy suit, --and he wondered more than ever that sucha man should know the Elliots. He looked at the face, which was frank, proud, and beautiful, if truth is beauty. Of mercy or tact such a faceknew little. It might be coarse, but it had in it nothing vulgar orwantonly cruel. "May I read these papers?" he said. 

"Of course. Oh yes; didn't I say? I'm Rickie's half-brother, come hereto tell him the news. He doesn't know. There it is, put shortly foryou. I was saying, though, that I bolted in the dark, slept in therifle-butts above Salisbury, the sheds where they keep the cardboardmen, you know, never locked up as they ought to be. I turned the wholeplace upside down to teach them. "

"Here is your packet again, " said Ansell. "Thank you. How interesting!"He rose from the seat and turned towards Dunwood House. He looked atthe bow-windows, the cheap picturesque gables, the terracotta dragonsclawing a dirty sky. He listened to the clink of plates and to the voiceof Mr. Pembroke taking one of his innumerable roll-calls. He looked atthe bed of lobelias. How interesting! What else was there to say?

"One must be the son of some one, " remarked Stephen. And that was allhe had to say. To him those names on the moistened paper were mereantiquities. He was neither proud of them nor ashamed. A man must haveparents, or he cannot enter the delightful world. A man, if he hasa brother, may reasonably visit him, for they may have interests incommon. He continued his narrative, how in the night he had heard theclocks, how at daybreak, instead of entering the city, he had struckeastward to save money, --while Ansell still looked at the house andfound that all his imagination and knowledge could lead him no fartherthan this: how interesting!

"--And what do you think of that for a holy horror?"

"For a what?" said Ansell, his thoughts far away. 

"This man I am telling you about, who gave me a lift towards Andover, who said I was a blot on God's earth. "

One o'clock struck. It was strange that neither of them had had anysummons from the house. 

"He said I ought to be ashamed of myself. He said, 'I'll not be themeans of bringing shame to an honest gentleman and lady. ' I told himnot to be a fool. I said I knew what I was about. Rickie and Agnes areproperly educated, which leads people to look at things straight, andnot go screaming about blots. A man like me, with just a little readingat odd hours--I've got so far, and Rickie has been through Cambridge. "

"And Mrs. Elliot?"

"Oh, she won't mind, and I told the man so; but he kept on saying, 'I'llnot be the means of bringing shame to an honest gentleman and lady, 'until I got out of his rotten cart. " His eye watched the man aNonconformist, driving away over God's earth. "I caught the train byrunning. I got to Waterloo at--"

Here the parlour-maid fluttered towards them, Would Mr. Wonham come in?Mrs. Elliot would be glad to see him now. 

"Mrs. Elliot?" cried Ansell. "Not Mr. Elliot?"

"It's all the same, " said Stephen, and moved towards the house. 

"You see, I only left my name. They don't know why I've come. "

"Perhaps Mr. Elliot sees me meanwhile?"

The parlour-maid looked blank. Mr. Elliot had not said so. He had beenwith Mrs. Elliot and Mr. Pembroke in the study. Now the gentlemen hadgone upstairs. 

"All right, I can wait. " After all, Rickie was treating him as he hadtreated Rickie, as one in the grave, to whom it is futile to make anyloving motion. Gone upstairs--to brush his hair for dinner! The ironyof the situation appealed to him strongly. It reminded him of the GreekDrama, where the actors know so little and the spectators so much. 

"But, by the bye, " he called after Stephen, "I think I ought to tellyou--don't--"

"What is it?"

"Don't--" Then he was silent. He had been tempted to explain everything, to tell the fellow how things stood, that he must avoid this if hewanted to attain that; that he must break the news to Rickie gently;that he must have at least one battle royal with Agnes. But it wascontrary to his own spirit to coach people: he held the human soul tobe a very delicate thing, which can receive eternal damage from a littlepatronage. Stephen must go into the house simply as himself, for thusalone would he remain there. 

"I ought to knock my pipe out? Was that it?" "By no means. Go in, yourpipe and you. "

He hesitated, torn between propriety and desire. Then he followed theparlour-maid into the house smoking. As he entered the dinner-bell rang, and there was the sound of rushing feet, which died away into shufflingand silence. Through the window of the boys' dining-hall came thecolourless voice of Rickie--"'Benedictus benedicat. '"

Ansell prepared himself to witness the second act of the drama;forgetting that all this world, and not part of it, is a stage. 

XXVII

The parlour-maid took Mr. Wonham to the study. He had been in thedrawing-room before, but had got bored, and so had strolled out intothe garden. Now he was in better spirits, as a man ought to be who hasknocked down a man. As he passed through the hall he sparred at theteak monkey, and hung his cap on the bust of Hermes. And he greeted Mrs. Elliot with a pleasant clap of laughter. "Oh, I've come with the mosttremendous news!" he cried. 

She bowed, but did not shake hands, which rather surprised him. Buthe never troubled over "details. " He seldom watched people, and neverthought that they were watching him. Nor could he guess how much itmeant to her that he should enter her presence smoking. Had she notsaid once at Cadover, "Oh, please smoke; I love the smell of a pipe"?

"Would you sit down? Exactly there, please. " She placed him at a largetable, opposite an inkpot and a pad of blotting-paper. 

"Will you tell your 'tremendous news' to me? My brother and my husbandare giving the boys their dinner. "

"Ah!" said Stephen, who had had neither time nor money for breakfast inLondon. 

"I told them not to wait for me. "

So he came to the point at once. He trusted this handsome woman. Hisstrength and his youth called to hers, expecting no prudish response. "It's very odd. It is that I'm Rickie's brother. I've just found out. I've come to tell you all. "

"Yes?"

He felt in his pocket for the papers. "Half-brother I ought to havesaid. "

"Yes?"

"I'm illegitimate. Legally speaking, that is, I've been turned out ofCadover. I haven't a penny. I--"

"There is no occasion to inflict the details. " Her face, which had beenan even brown, began to flush slowly in the centre of the cheeks. Thecolour spread till all that he saw of her was suffused, and she turnedaway. He thought he had shocked her, and so did she. Neither knew thatthe body can be insincere and express not the emotions we feel but thosethat we should like to feel. In reality she was quite calm, and herdislike of him had nothing emotional in it as yet. 

"You see--" he began. He was determined to tell the fidgety story, forthe sooner it was over the sooner they would have something to eat. Delicacy he lacked, and his sympathies were limited. But such as theywere, they rang true: he put no decorous phantom between him and hisdesires. 

"I do see. I have seen for two years. " She sat down at the head of thetable, where there was another ink-pot. Into this she dipped a pen. "Ihave seen everything, Mr. Wonham--who you are, how you have behaved atCadover, how you must have treated Mrs. Failing yesterday; and now"--hervoice became very grave--"I see why you have come here, penniless. Before you speak, we know what you will say. "

His mouth fell open, and he laughed so merrily that it might have givenher a warning. But she was thinking how to follow up her first success. "And I thought I was bringing tremendous news!" he cried. "I onlytwisted it out of Mrs. Failing last night. And Rickie knows too?"

"We have known for two years. "

"But come, by the bye, --if you've known for two years, how is it youdidn't--" The laugh died out of his eyes. "You aren't ashamed?" heasked, half rising from his chair. "You aren't like the man towardsAndover?"

"Please, please sit down, " said Agnes, in the even tones she usedwhen speaking to the servants; "let us not discuss side issues. I am ahorribly direct person, Mr. Wonham. I go always straight to the point. "She opened a chequebook. "I am afraid I shall shock you. For how much?"

He was not attending. 

"There is the paper we suggest you shall sign. " She pushed towards him apseudo-legal document, just composed by Herbert. 

"In consideration of the sum of. .. , I agree to perpetual silence--torestrain from libellous. .. Never to molest the said Frederick Elliot byintruding--'"

His brain was not quick. He read the document over twice, and he couldstill say, "But what's that cheque for?"

"It is my husband's. He signed for you as soon as we heard you werehere. We guessed you had come to be silenced. Here is his signature. Buthe has left the filling in for me. For how much? I will cross it, shallI? You will just have started a banking account, if I understand Mrs. Failing rightly. It is not quite accurate to say you are penniless: Iheard from her just before you returned from your cricket. She allowsyou two hundred a-year, I think. But this additional sum--shall I datethe cheque Saturday or for tomorrow?"

At last he found words. Knocking his pipe out on the table, he saidslowly, "Here's a very bad mistake. "

"It is quite possible, " retorted Agnes. She was glad she had taken theoffensive, instead of waiting till he began his blackmailing, as hadbeen the advice of Rickie. Aunt Emily had said that very spring, "One'sonly hope with Stephen is to start bullying first. " Here he was, quitebewildered, smearing the pipe-ashes with his thumb. He asked to read thedocument again. "A stamp and all!" he remarked. 

They had anticipated that his claim would exceed two pounds. 

"I see. All right. It takes a fool a minute. Never mind. I've made a badmistake. "

"You refuse?" she exclaimed, for he was standing at the door. "Then doyour worst! We defy you!"

"That's all right, Mrs. Elliot, " he said roughly. "I don't want a scenewith you, nor yet with your husband. We'll say no more about it. It'sall right. I mean no harm. "

"But your signature then! You must sign--you--"

He pushed past her, and said as he reached for his cap, "There, that'sall right. It's my mistake. I'm sorry. " He spoke like a farmer who hasfailed to sell a sheep. His manner was utterly prosaic, and up to thelast she thought he had not understood her. "But it's money we offeryou, " she informed him, and then darted back to the study, believingfor one terrible moment that he had picked up the blank cheque. When shereturned to the hall he had gone. He was walking down the road ratherquickly. At the corner he cleared his throat, spat into the gutter, anddisappeared. 

"There's an odd finish, " she thought. She was puzzled, and determined torecast the interview a little when she related it to Rickie. She hadnot succeeded, for the paper was still unsigned. But she had so cowedStephen that he would probably rest content with his two hundred a-year, and never come troubling them again. Clever management, for one knewhim to be rapacious: she had heard tales of him lending to the poorand exacting repayment to the uttermost farthing. He had also stolen atschool. Moderately triumphant, she hurried into the side-garden: she hadjust remembered Ansell: she, not Rickie, had received his card. 

"Oh, Mr. Ansell!" she exclaimed, awaking him from some day-dream. "Haven't either Rickie or Herbert been out to you? Now, do come intodinner, to show you aren't offended. You will find all of us assembledin the boys' dining-hall. "

To her annoyance he accepted. 

"That is, if the Jacksons are not expecting you. "

The Jacksons did not matter. If he might brush his clothes and bathe hislip, he would like to come. 

"Oh, what has happened to you? And oh, my pretty lobelias!"

He replied, "A momentary contact with reality, " and she, who did notlook for sense in his remarks, hurried away to the dining-hall toannounce him. 

The dining-hall was not unlike the preparation room. There was thesame parquet floor, and dado of shiny pitchpine. On its walls alsowere imperial portraits, and over the harmonium to which they sang theevening hymns was spread the Union Jack. Sunday dinner, the most pompousmeal of the week, was in progress. Her brother sat at the head of thehigh table, her husband at the head of the second. To each he gave areassuring nod and went to her own seat, which was among the juniorboys. The beef was being carried out; she stopped it. "Mr. Ansellis coming, " she called. "Herbert there is more room by you; sit upstraight, boys. " The boys sat up straight, and a respectful hush spreadover the room. 

"Here he is!" called Rickie cheerfully, taking his cue from his wife. "Oh, this is splendid!" Ansell came in. "I'm so glad you managed this. I couldn't leave these wretches last night!" The boys tittered suitably. The atmosphere seemed normal. Even Herbert, though longing to hear whathad happened to the blackmailer, gave adequate greeting to their guest:"Come in, Mr. Ansell; come here. Take us as you find us!"

"I understood, " said Stewart, "that I should find you all. Mrs. Elliottold me I should. On that understanding I came. "

It was at once evident that something had gone wrong. 

Ansell looked round the room carefully. Then clearing his throat andruffling his hair, he began--"I cannot see the man with whom I havetalked, intimately, for an hour, in your garden. "

The worst of it was they were all so far from him and from each other, each at the end of a tableful of inquisitive boys. The two masterslooked at Agnes for information, for her reassuring nod had not toldthem much. She looked hopelessly back. 

"I cannot see this man, " repeated Ansell, who remained by the harmoniumin the midst of astonished waitresses. "Is he to be given no lunch?"

Herbert broke the silence by fresh greetings. Rickie knew that thecontest was lost, and that his friend had sided with the enemy. It wasthe kind of thing he would do. One must face the catastrophe quietlyand with dignity. Perhaps Ansell would have turned on his heel, and leftbehind him only vague suspicions, if Mrs. Elliot had not tried to talkhim down. "Man, " she cried--"what man? Oh, I know--terrible bore! Didhe get hold of you?"--thus committing their first blunder, and causingAnsell to say to Rickie, "Have you seen your brother?"

"I have not. "

"Have you been told he was here?"

Rickie's answer was inaudible. 

"Have you been told you have a brother?"

"Let us continue this conversation later. "

"Continue it? My dear man, how can we until you know what I'm talkingabout? You must think me mad; but I tell you solemnly that you have abrother of whom you've never heard, and that he was in this house tenminutes ago. " He paused impressively. "Your wife has happened to seehim first. Being neither serious nor truthful, she is keeping you apart, telling him some lie and not telling you a word. "

There was a murmur of alarm. One of the prefects rose, and Ansell sethis back to the wall, quite ready for a battle. For two years he hadwaited for his opportunity. He would hit out at Mrs. Elliot likeany ploughboy now that it had come. Rickie said: "There is a slightmisunderstanding. I, like my wife, have known what there is to know fortwo years"--a dignified rebuff, but their second blunder. 

"Exactly, " said Agnes. "Now I think Mr. Ansell had better go. "

"Go?" exploded Ansell. "I've everything to say yet. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Elliot, I am concerned with you no longer. This man"--he turnedto the avenue of faces--"this man who teaches you has a brother. He hasknown of him two years and been ashamed. He has--oh--oh--how it fitstogether! Rickie, it's you, not Mrs. Silt, who must have sent tales ofhim to your aunt. It's you who've turned him out of Cadover. It's youwho've ordered him to be ruined today. "

Now Herbert arose. "Out of my sight, sir! But have it from me first thatRickie and his aunt have both behaved most generously. No, no, Agnes, I'll not be interrupted. Garbled versions must not get about. If theWonham man is not satisfied now, he must be insatiable. He cannot levyblackmail on us for ever. Sir, I give you two minutes; then you will beexpelled by force. "

"Two minutes!" sang Ansell. "I can say a great deal in that. " He putone foot on a chair and held his arms over the quivering room. He seemedtransfigured into a Hebrew prophet passionate for satire and the truth. "Oh, keep quiet for two minutes, " he cried, "and I'll tell you somethingyou'll be glad to hear. You're a little afraid Stephen may come back. Don't be afraid. I bring good news. You'll never see him nor any onelike him again. I must speak very plainly, for you are all threefools. I don't want you to say afterwards, 'Poor Mr. Ansell tried to beclever. ' Generally I don't mind, but I should mind today. Please listen. Stephen is a bully; he drinks; he knocks one down; but he would soonerdie than take money from people he did not love. Perhaps he will die, for he has nothing but a few pence that the poor gave him and sometobacco which, to my eternal glory, he accepted from me. Please listenagain. Why did he come here? Because he thought you would love him, andwas ready to love you. But I tell you, don't be afraid. He would soonerdie now than say you were his brother. Please listen again--"

"Now, Stewart, don't go on like that, " said Rickie bitterly. "It's easyenough to preach when you are an outsider. You would be morecharitable if such a thing had happened to yourself. Easy enough to beunconventional when you haven't suffered and know nothing of the facts. You love anything out of the way, anything queer, that doesn't oftenhappen, and so you get excited over this. It's useless, my dear man;you have hurt me, but you will never upset me. As soon as you stop thisridiculous scene we will finish our dinner. Spread this scandal; addto it. I'm too old to mind such nonsense. I cannot help my father'sdisgrace, on the one hand; nor, on the other, will I have anything to dowith his blackguard of a son. "

So the secret was given to the world. Agnes might colour at his speech;Herbert might calculate the effect of it on the entries for DunwoodHouse; but he cared for none of these things. Thank God! he was witheredup at last. 

"Please listen again, " resumed Ansell. "Please correct two slightmistakes: firstly, Stephen is one of the greatest people I have evermet; secondly, he's not your father's son. He's the son of your mother. "

It was Rickie, not Ansell, who was carried from the hall, and it wasHerbert who pronounced the blessing--

"Benedicto benedicatur. "

A profound stillness succeeded the storm, and the boys, slipping awayfrom their meal, told the news to the rest of the school, or put it inthe letters they were writing home. 

XXVIII

The soul has her own currency. She mints her spiritual coinage andstamps it with the image of some beloved face. With it she pays herdebts, with it she reckons, saying, "This man has worth, this man isworthless. " And in time she forgets its origin; it seems to her to be athing unalterable, divine. But the soul can also have her bankruptcies. 

Perhaps she will be the richer in the end. In her agony she learns toreckon clearly. Fair as the coin may have been, it was not accurate; andthough she knew it not, there were treasures that it could not buy. Theface, however beloved, was mortal, and as liable as the soul herself toerr. We do but shift responsibility by making a standard of the dead. 

There is, indeed, another coinage that bears on it not man's image butGod's. It is incorruptible, and the soul may trust it safely; it willserve her beyond the stars. But it cannot give us friends, or theembrace of a lover, or the touch of children, for with our fellowmortals it has no concern. It cannot even give the joys we calltrivial--fine weather, the pleasures of meat and drink, bathing and thehot sand afterwards, running, dreamless sleep. Have we learnt the truediscipline of a bankruptcy if we turn to such coinage as this? Will itreally profit us so much if we save our souls and lose the whole world?

PART 3 -- WILTSHIRE

XXIX

Robert--there is no occasion to mention his surname: he was a youngfarmer of some education who tried to coax the aged soil of Wiltshirescientifically--came to Cadover on business and fell in love with Mrs. Elliot. She was there on her bridal visit, and he, an obscure nobody, was received by Mrs. Failing into the house and treated as her socialequal. He was good-looking in a bucolic way, and people sometimesmistook him for a gentleman until they saw his hands. He discoveredthis, and one of the slow, gentle jokes he played on society was totalk upon some cultured subject with his hands behind his back and thensuddenly reveal them. "Do you go in for boating?" the lady would ask;and then he explained that those particular weals are made by thehandles of the plough. Upon which she became extremely interested, butfound an early opportunity of talking to some one else. 

He played this joke on Mrs. Elliot the first evening, not knowing thatshe observed him as he entered the room. He walked heavily, lifting hisfeet as if the carpet was furrowed, and he had no evening clothes. Everyone tried to put him at his ease, but she rather suspected that he wasthere already, and envied him. They were introduced, and spoke of Byron, who was still fashionable. Out came his hands--the only rough hands inthe drawing-room, the only hands that had ever worked. She was filledwith some strange approval, and liked him. 

After dinner they met again, to speak not of Byron but of manure. Theother people were so clever and so amusing that it relieved her tolisten to a man who told her three times not to buy artificial manureready made, but, if she would use it, to make it herself at the lastmoment. Because the ammonia evaporated. Here were two packets of powder. Did they smell? No. Mix them together and pour some coffee--An appallingsmell at once burst forth, and every one began to cough and cry. Thiswas good for the earth when she felt sour, for he knew when the earthwas ill. He knew, too, when she was hungry he spoke of her tantrums--thestrange unscientific element in her that will baffle the scientist tothe end of time. "Study away, Mrs. Elliot, " he told her; "read all thebooks you can get hold of; but when it comes to the point, stroll outwith a pipe in your mouth and do a bit of guessing. " As he talked, theearth became a living being--or rather a being with a living skin, --andmanure no longer dirty stuff, but a symbol of regeneration and of thebirth of life from life. "So it goes on for ever!" she cried excitedly. He replied: "Not for ever. In time the fire at the centre will cool, andnothing can go on then. "

He advanced into love with open eyes, slowly, heavily, just as he hadadvanced across the drawing room carpet. But this time the bride did notobserve his tread. She was listening to her husband, and trying not tobe so stupid. When he was close to her--so close that it was difficultnot to take her in his arms--he spoke to Mr. Failing, and was at onceturned out of Cadover. 

"I'm sorry, " said Mr. Failing, as he walked down the drive with his handon his guest's shoulder. "I had no notion you were that sort. Any onewho behaves like that has to stop at the farm. "

"Any one?"

"Any one. " He sighed heavily, not for any personal grievance, butbecause he saw how unruly, how barbaric, is the soul of man. After all, this man was more civilized than most. 

"Are you angry with me, sir?" He called him "sir, " not because he wasricher or cleverer or smarter, not because he had helped to educate himand had lent him money, but for a reason more profound--for the reasonthat there are gradations in heaven. 

"I did think you--that a man like you wouldn't risk making peopleunhappy. My sister-in-law--I don't say this to stop you loving her;something else must do that--my sister-in-law, as far as I know, doesn'tcare for you one little bit. If you had said anything, if she hadguessed that a chance person was in--this fearful state, you wouldsimply--have opened hell. A woman of her sort would have lost all--"

"I knew that. "

Mr. Failing removed his hand. He was displeased. 

"But something here, " said Robert incoherently. "This here. " He struckhimself heavily on the heart. "This here, doing something so unusual, makes it not matter what she loses--I--" After a silence he asked, "HaveI quite followed you, sir, in that business of the brotherhood of man?"

"How do you mean?"

"I thought love was to bring it about. "

"Love of another man's wife? Sensual love? You have understoodnothing--nothing. " Then he was ashamed, and cried, "I understand nothingmyself. " For he remembered that sensual and spiritual are not easy wordsto use; that there are, perhaps, not two Aphrodites, but one Aphroditewith a Janus face. "I only understand that you must try to forget her. "

"I will not try. "

"Promise me just this, then--not to do anything crooked. "

"I'm straight. No boasting, but I couldn't do a crooked thing--No, notif I tried. "

And so appallingly straight was he in after years, that Mr. Failingwished that he had phrased the promise differently. 

Robert simply waited. He told himself that it was hopeless; butsomething deeper than himself declared that there was hope. He gave updrink, and kept himself in all ways clean, for he wanted to be worthyof her when the time came. Women seemed fond of him, and caused him toreflect with pleasure, "They do run after me. There must be something inme. Good. I'd be done for if there wasn't. " For six years he turned upthe earth of Wiltshire, and read books for the sake of his mind, andtalked to gentlemen for the sake of their patois, and each year he rodeto Cadover to take off his hat to Mrs. Elliot, and, perhaps, to speakto her about the crops. Mr. Failing was generally present, and it struckneither man that those dull little visits were so many words out ofwhich a lonely woman might build sentences. Then Robert went to Londonon business. He chanced to see Mr. Elliot with a strange lady. The timehad come. 

He became diplomatic, and called at Mr. Elliot's rooms to find thingsout. For if Mrs. Elliot was happier than he could ever make her, hewould withdraw, and love her in renunciation. But if he could make herhappier, he would love her in fulfilment. Mr. Elliot admitted him as afriend of his brother-in-law's, and felt very broad-minded as he didso. Robert, however, was a success. The youngish men there found himinteresting, and liked to shock him with tales of naughty London andnaughtier Paris. They spoke of "experience" and "sensations" and "seeinglife, " and when a smile ploughed over his face, concluded that hisprudery was vanquished. He saw that they were much less vicious thanthey supposed: one boy had obviously read his sensations in a book. Buthe could pardon vice. What he could not pardon was triviality, and hehoped that no decent woman could pardon it either. There grew up in hima cold, steady anger against these silly people who thought it advancedto be shocking, and who described, as something particularly choice andeducational, things that he had understood and fought against for years. He inquired after Mrs. Elliot, and a boy tittered. It seemed that she"did not know, " that she lived in a remote suburb, taking care of askinny baby. "I shall call some time or other, " said Robert. "Do, " saidMr. Elliot, smiling. And next time he saw his wife he congratulated heron her rustic admirer. 

She had suffered terribly. She had asked for bread, and had been givennot even a stone. People talk of hungering for the ideal, but there isanother hunger, quite as divine, for facts. She had asked for factsand had been given "views, " "emotional standpoints, " "attitudes towardslife. " To a woman who believed that facts are beautiful, that the livingworld is beautiful beyond the laws of beauty, that manure is neithergross nor ludicrous, that a fire, not eternal, glows at the heart ofthe earth, it was intolerable to be put off with what the Elliots called"philosophy, " and, if she refused, to be told that she had no sense ofhumour. "Tarrying into the Elliot family. " It had sounded so splendid, for she was a penniless child with nothing to offer, and the Elliotsheld their heads high. For what reason? What had they ever done, exceptsay sarcastic things, and limp, and be refined? Mr. Failing sufferedtoo, but she suffered more, inasmuch as Frederick was more impossiblethan Emily. He did not like her, he practically lived apart, he was noteven faithful or polite. These were grave faults, but they were humanones: she could even imagine them in a man she loved. What she couldnever love was a dilettante. 

Robert brought her an armful of sweet-peas. He laid it on the table, put his hands behind his back, and kept them there till the end of thevisit. She knew quite well why he had come, and though she also knewthat he would fail, she loved him too much to snub him or to stare invirtuous indignation. "Why have you come?" she asked gravely, "and whyhave you brought me so many flowers?"

"My garden is full of them, " he answered. "Sweetpeas need picking down. And, generally speaking, flowers are plentiful in July. "

She broke his present into bunches--so much for the drawing-room, somuch for the nursery, so much for the kitchen and her husband's room:he would be down for the night. The most beautiful she would keep forherself. Presently he said, "Your husband is no good. I've watched himfor a week. I'm thirty, and not what you call hasty, as I used to be, or thinking that nothing matters like the French. No. I'm a plainBritisher, yet--I--I've begun wrong end, Mrs. Elliot; I should have saidthat I've thought chiefly of you for six years, and that though I talkhere so respectfully, if I once unhooked my hands--"

There was a pause. Then she said with great sweetness, "Thank you; I amglad you love me, " and rang the bell. 

"What have you done that for?" he cried. 

"Because you must now leave the house, and never enter it again. "

"I don't go alone, " and he began to get furious. 

Her voice was still sweet, but strength lay in it too, as she said, "You either go now with my thanks and blessing, or else you go withthe police. I am Mrs. Elliot. We need not discuss Mr. Elliot. I am Mrs. Elliot, and if you make one step towards me I give you in charge. "

But the maid answered the bell not of the drawing-room, but of the frontdoor. They were joined by Mr. Elliot, who held out his hand with muchurbanity. It was not taken. He looked quickly at his wife, and said, "AmI de trop?" There was a long silence. At last she said, "Frederick, turnthis man out. "

"My love, why?"

Robert said that he loved her. 

"Then I am de trop, " said Mr. Elliot, smoothing out his gloves. He wouldgive these sodden barbarians a lesson. "My hansom is waiting at thedoor. Pray make use of it. "

"Don't!" she cried, almost affectionately. "Dear Frederick, it isn't aplay. Just tell this man to go, or send for the police. "

"On the contrary; it is French comedy of the best type. Don't you agree, sir, that the police would be an inartistic error?" He was perfectlycalm and collected, whereas they were in a pitiable state. 

"Turn him out at once!" she cried. "He has insulted your wife. Save me, save me!" She clung to her husband and wept. "He was going I had managedhim--he would never have known--" Mr. Elliot repulsed her. 

"If you don't feel inclined to start at once, " he said with easycivility, "Let us have a little tea. My dear sir, do forgive me for notshooting you. Nous avons change tout cela. Please don't look so nervous. Please do unclasp your hands--"

He was alone. 

"That's all right, " he exclaimed, and strolled to the door. The hansomwas disappearing round the corner. "That's all right, " he repeated inmore quavering tones as he returned to the drawing-room and saw that itwas littered with sweet-peas. Their colour got on his nerves--magenta, crimson; magenta, crimson. He tried to pick them up, and they escaped. He trod them underfoot, and they multiplied and danced in the triumphof summer like a thousand butterflies. The train had left when he got tothe station. He followed on to London, and there he lost all traces. At midnight he began to realize that his wife could never belong to himagain. 

Mr. Failing had a letter from Stockholm. It was never known what impulsesent them there. "I am sorry about it all, but it was the only way. "The letter censured the law of England, "which obliges us to behave likethis, or else we should never get married. I shall come back to facethings: she will not come back till she is my wife. He must bring anaction soon, or else we shall try one against him. It seems all veryunconventional, but it is not really, it is only a difficult start. Weare not like you or your wife: we want to be just ordinary people, andmake the farm pay, and not be noticed all our lives. "

And they were capable of living as they wanted. The class difference, which so intrigued Mrs. Failing, meant very little to them. It wasthere, but so were other things. 

They both cared for work and living in the open, and for not speakingunless they had got something to say. Their love of beauty, like theirlove for each other, was not dependent on detail: it grew not from thenerves but from the soul. 

"I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the starsAnd the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg ofthe wren, And the tree toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest, And therunning blackberry would adorn the parlours of heaven. "

They had never read these lines, and would have thought them nonsense ifthey had. They did not dissect--indeed they could not. But she, at allevents, divined that more than perfect health and perfect weather, morethan personal love, had gone to the making of those seventeen days. 

"Ordinary people!" cried Mrs. Failing on hearing the letter. At thattime she was young and daring. "Why, they're divine! They're forces ofNature! They're as ordinary as volcanoes. We all knew my brother wasdisgusting, and wanted him to be blown to pieces, but we never thoughtit would happen. Do look at the thing bravely, and say, as I do, thatthey are guiltless in the sight of God. "

"I think they are, " replied her husband. "But they are not guiltless inthe sight of man. "

"You conventional!" she exclaimed in disgust. "What they have done meansmisery not only for themselves but for others. For your brother, thoughyou will not think of him. For the little boy--did you think of him? Andperhaps for another child, who will have the whole world against him ifit knows. They have sinned against society, and you do not diminishthe misery by proving that society is bad or foolish. It is the saddesttruth I have yet perceived that the Beloved Republic"--here she took upa book--"of which Swinburne speaks"--she put the book down--"will notbe brought about by love alone. It will approach with no flourishof trumpets, and have no declaration of independence. Self-sacrificeand--worse still--self-mutilation are the things that sometimes help itmost, and that is why we should start for Stockholm this evening. " Hewaited for her indignation to subside, and then continued. "I don't knowwhether it can be hushed up. I don't yet know whether it ought to behushed up. But we ought to provide the opportunity. There is no scandalyet. If we go, it is just possible there never will be any. We must talkover the whole thing and--"

"--And lie!" interrupted Mrs. Failing, who hated travel. 

"--And see how to avoid the greatest unhappiness. "

There was to be no scandal. By the time they arrived Robert had beendrowned. Mrs. Elliot described how they had gone swimming, and how, "since he always lived inland, " the great waves had tired him. They hadraced for the open sea. 

"What are your plans?" he asked. "I bring you a message from Frederick. "

"I heard him call, " she continued, "but I thought he was laughing. WhenI turned, it was too late. He put his hands behind his back and sank. For he would only have drowned me with him. I should have done thesame. "

Mrs. Failing was thrilled, and kissed her. But Mr. Failing knew thatlife does not continue heroic for long, and he gave her the message fromher husband: Would she come back to him?

To his intense astonishment--at first to his regret--she replied, "Iwill think about it. If I loved him the very least bit I should say no. If I had anything to do with my life I should say no. But it is simplya question of beating time till I die. Nothing that is coming matters. Imay as well sit in his drawing-room and dust his furniture, since he hassuggested it. "

And Mr. Elliot, though he made certain stipulations, was positively gladto see her. People had begun to laugh at him, and to say that his wifehad run away. She had not. She had been with his sister in Sweden. Ina half miraculous way the matter was hushed up. Even the Silts onlyscented "something strange. " When Stephen was born, it was abroad. Whenhe came to England, it was as the child of a friend of Mr. Failing's. Mrs. Elliot returned unsuspected to her husband. 

But though things can be hushed up, there is no such thing as beatingtime; and as the years passed she realized her terrible mistake. Whenher lover sank, eluding her last embrace, she thought, as Agnes was tothink after her, that her soul had sunk with him, and that never againshould she be capable of earthly love. Nothing mattered. She might aswell go and be useful to her husband and to the little boy who lookedexactly like him, and who, she thought, was exactly like him indisposition. Then Stephen was born, and altered her life. She couldstill love people passionately; she still drew strength from the heroicpast. Yet, to keep to her bond, she must see this son only as astranger. She was protected be the conventions, and must pay them theirfee. And a curious thing happened. Her second child drew her towards herfirst. She began to love Rickie also, and to be more than useful to him. And as her love revived, so did her capacity for suffering. Life, moreimportant, grew more bitter. She minded her husband more, not less; andwhen at last he died, and she saw a glorious autumn, beautiful with thevoices of boys who should call her mother, the end came for her as well, before she could remember the grave in the alien north and the dust thatwould never return to the dear fields that had given it. 

XXX

Stephen, the son of these people, had one instinct that troubled him. At night--especially out of doors--it seemed rather strange that he wasalive. The dry grass pricked his cheek, the fields were invisible andmute, and here was he, throwing stones at the darkness or smoking apipe. The stones vanished, the pipe would burn out. But he would be herein the morning when the sun rose, and he would bathe, and run in themist. He was proud of his good circulation, and in the morning it seemedquite natural. But at night, why should there be this difference betweenhim and the acres of land that cooled all round him until the sunreturned? What lucky chance had heated him up, and sent him, warm andlovable, into a passive world? He had other instincts, but these gavehim no trouble. He simply gratified each as it occurred, provided hecould do so without grave injury to his fellows. But the instinct towonder at the night was not to be thus appeased. At first he had livedunder the care of Mr. Failing the only person to whom his mother spokefreely, the only person who had treated her neither as a criminal nor asa pioneer. In their rare but intimate conversations she had asked him toeducate her son. "I will teach him Latin, " he answered. "The rest sucha boy must remember. " Latin, at all events, was a failure: who couldattend to Virgil when the sound of the thresher arose, and you knewthat the stack was decreasing and that rats rushed more plentifully eachmoment to their doom? But he was fond of Mr. Failing, and cried when hedied. Mrs. Elliot, a pleasant woman, died soon after. 

There was something fatal in the order of these deaths. Mr. Failing hadmade no provision for the boy in his will: his wife had promised tosee to this. Then came Mr. Elliot's death, and, before the new homewas created, the sudden death of Mrs. Elliot. She also left Stephen nomoney: she had none to leave. Chance threw him into the power of Mrs. Failing. "Let things go on as they are, " she thought. "I will take careof this pretty little boy, and the ugly little boy can live with theSilts. After my death--well, the papers will be found after my death, and they can meet then. I like the idea of their mutual ignorance. It isamusing. "

He was then twelve. With a few brief intervals of school, he lived inWiltshire until he was driven out. Life had two distinct sides--thedrawing-room and the other. In the drawing-room people talked a gooddeal, laughing as they talked. Being clever, they did not care foranimals: one man had never seen a hedgehog. In the other life peopletalked and laughed separately, or even did neither. On the whole, inspite of the wet and gamekeepers, this life was preferable. He knewwhere he was. He glanced at the boy, or later at the man, and behavedaccordingly. There was no law--the policeman was negligible. Nothingbound him but his own word, and he gave that sparingly. 

It is impossible to be romantic when you have your heart's desire, andsuch a boy disappointed Mrs. Failing greatly. His parents had met forone brief embrace, had found one little interval between the power ofthe rulers of this world and the power of death. He was the child ofpoetry and of rebellion, and poetry should run in his veins. But helived too near the things he loved to seem poetical. Parted from them, he might yet satisfy her, and stretch out his hands with a pagan'syearning. As it was, he only rode her horses, and trespassed, andbathed, and worked, for no obvious reason, upon her fields. Affectionshe did not believe in, and made no attempt to mould him; and he, forhis part, was very content to harden untouched into a man. His parentshad given him excellent gifts--health, sturdy limbs, and a face notugly, --gifts that his habits confirmed. They had also given him acloudless spirit--the spirit of the seventeen days in which he wascreated. But they had not given him the spirit of their sit years ofwaiting, and love for one person was never to be the greatest thing heknew. 

"Philosophy" had postponed the quarrel between them. Incurious about hispersonal origin, he had a certain interest in our eternal problems. Theinterest never became a passion: it sprang out of his physical growth, and was soon merged in it again. Or, as he put it himself, "I must getfixed up before starting. " He was soon fixed up as a materialist. Thenhe tore up the sixpenny reprints, and never amused Mrs. Failing so muchagain. 

About the time he fixed himself up, he took to drink. He knew of noreason against it. The instinct was in him, and it hurt nobody. Here, aselsewhere, his motions were decided, and he passed at once from roaringjollity to silence. For those who live on the fuddled borderland, whocrawl home by the railings and maunder repentance in the morning, he hada biting contempt. A man must take his tumble and his headache. He was, in fact, as little disgusting as is conceivable; and hitherto he had notstrained his constitution or his will. Nor did he get drunk as often asAgnes suggested. The real quarrel gathered elsewhere. 

Presentable people have run wild in their youth. But the hour comes whenthey turn from their boorish company to higher things. This hour nevercame for Stephen. Somewhat a bully by nature, he kept where his powerswould tell, and continued to quarrel and play with the men he had knownas boys. He prolonged their youth unduly. "They won't settle down, " saidMr. Wilbraham to his wife. "They're wanting things. It's the germ ofa Trades Union. I shall get rid of a few of the worst. " Then Stephenrushed up to Mrs. Failing and worried her. "It wasn't fair. So-and-sowas a good sort. He did his work. Keen about it? No. Why should he be?Why should he be keen about somebody else's land? But keen enough. Andvery keen on football. " She laughed, and said a word about So-and-soto Mr. Wilbraham. Mr. Wilbraham blazed up. "How could the farm goon without discipline? How could there be discipline if Mr. Stepheninterfered? Mr. Stephen liked power. He spoke to the men like one ofthemselves, and pretended it was all equality, but he took care to comeout top. Natural, of course, that, being a gentleman, he should. Butnot natural for a gentleman to loiter all day with poor people and learntheir work, and put wrong notions into their heads, and carry theirnewfangled grievances to Mrs. Failing. Which partly accounted for thedeficit on the past year. " She rebuked Stephen. Then he lost his temper, was rude to her, and insulted Mr. Wilbraham. 

The worst days of Mr. Failing's rule seemed to be returning. And Stephenhad a practical experience, and also a taste for battle, that herhusband had never possessed. He drew up a list of grievances, someabsurd, others fundamental. No newspapers in the reading-room, youcould put a plate under the Thompsons' door, no level cricket-pitch, no allotments and no time to work in them, Mrs. Wilbraham's knife-boyunderpaid. "Aren't you a little unwise?" she asked coldly. "I am morebored than you think over the farm. " She was wanting to correct theproofs of the book and rewrite the prefatory memoir. In her irritationshe wrote to Agnes. Agnes replied sympathetically, and Mrs. Failing, clever as she was, fell into the power of the younger woman. Theydiscussed him at first as a wretch of a boy; then he got drunk andsomehow it seemed more criminal. All that she needed now was a personalgrievance, which Agnes casually supplied. Though vindictive, she wasdetermined to treat him well, and thought with satisfaction of ourdistant colonies. But he burst into an odd passion: he would soonerstarve than leave England. "Why?" she asked. "Are you in love?" Hepicked up a lump of the chalk-they were by the arbour--and made noanswer. The vicar murmured, "It is not like going abroad--GreaterBritain--blood is thicker than water--" A lump of chalk broke herdrawing-room window on the Saturday. 

Thus Stephen left Wiltshire, half-blackguard, half-martyr. Do not brandhim as a socialist. He had no quarrel with society, nor any particularbelief in people because they are poor. He only held the creed of "heream I and there are you, " and therefore class distinctions were trivialthings to him, and life no decorous scheme, but a personal combat or apersonal truce. For the same reason ancestry also was trivial, and a mannot the dearer because the same woman was mother to them both. Yet itseemed worth while to go to Sawston with the news. Perhaps nothing wouldcome of it; perhaps friendly intercourse, and a home while he lookedaround. 

When they wronged him he walked quietly away. He never thought ofallotting the blame, nor or appealing to Ansell, who still sat broodingin the side-garden. He only knew that educated people could be horrible, and that a clean liver must never enter Dunwood House again. The airseemed stuffy. He spat in the gutter. Was it yesterday he had lain inthe rifle-butts over Salisbury? Slightly aggrieved, he wondered why hewas not back there now. "I ought to have written first, " he reflected. "Here is my money gone. I cannot move. The Elliots have, as it were, practically robbed me. " That was the only grudge he retained againstthem. Their suspicions and insults were to him as the curses of a trampwhom he passed by the wayside. They were dirty people, not his sort. Hesummed up the complicated tragedy as a "take in. "

While Rickie was being carried upstairs, and while Ansell (had he knownit) was dashing about the streets for him, he lay under a railway archtrying to settle his plans. He must pay back the friends who had givenhim shillings and clothes. He thought of Flea, whose Sundays he wasspoiling--poor Flea, who ought to be in them now, shining before hisgirl. "I daresay he'll be ashamed and not go to see her, and then she'lltake the other man. " He was also very hungry. That worm Mrs. Elliotwould be through her lunch by now. Trying his braces round him, andtearing up those old wet documents, he stepped forth to make money. Avillainous young brute he looked: his clothes were dirty, and he hadlost the spring of the morning. Touching the walls, frowning, talking tohimself at times, he slouched disconsolately northwards; no wonder thatsome tawdry girls screamed at him, or that matrons averted their eyesas they hurried to afternoon church. He wandered from one suburb toanother, till he was among people more villainous than himself, whobought his tobacco from him and sold him food. Again the neighbourhood"went up, " and families, instead of sitting on their doorsteps, wouldsit behind thick muslin curtains. Again it would "go down" into a moreavowed despair. Far into the night he wandered, until he came to asolemn river majestic as a stream in hell. Therein were gatheredthe waters of Central England--those that flow off Hindhead, off theChilterns, off Wiltshire north of the Plain. Therein they were madeintolerable ere they reached the sea. But the waters he had knownescaped. Their course lay southward into the Avon by forests andbeautiful fields, even swift, even pure, until they mirrored the towerof Christchurch and greeted the ramparts of the Isle of Wight. Of thesehe thought for a moment as he crossed the black river and entered theheart of the modern world. Here he found employment. He was not hamperedby genteel traditions, and, as it was near quarter-day, managed to gettaken on at a furniture warehouse. He moved people from the suburbsto London, from London to the suburbs, from one suburb to another. Hiscompanions were hurried and querulous. In particular, he loathedthe foreman, a pious humbug who allowed no swearing, but indulged insomething far more degraded--the Cockney repartee. The London intellect, so pert and shallow, like a stream that never reaches the ocean, disgusted him almost as much as the London physique, which for allits dexterity is not permanent, and seldom continues into the thirdgeneration. His father, had he known it, had felt the same; for betweenMr. Elliot and the foreman the gulf was social, not spiritual: bothspent their lives in trying to be clever. And Tony Failing had once putthe thing into words: "There's no such thing as a Londoner. He's only acountry man on the road to sterility. "

At the end of ten days he had saved scarcely anything. Once he passedthe bank where a hundred pounds lay ready for him, but it was stillinconvenient for him to take them. Then duty sent him to a suburb notvery far from Sawston. In the evening a man who was driving a trap askedhim to hold it, and by mistake tipped him a sovereign. Stephen calledafter him; but the man had a woman with him and wanted to show off, andthough he had meant to tip a shilling, and could not afford that, heshouted back that his sovereign was as good as any one's, and that ifStephen did not think so he could do various things and go to variousplaces. On the action of this man much depends. Stephen changed thesovereign into a postal order, and sent it off to the people at Cadford. It did not pay them back, but it paid them something, and he felt thathis soul was free. 

A few shillings remained in his pocket. They would have paid his faretowards Wiltshire, a good county; but what should he do there? Whowould employ him? Today the journey did not seem worth while. "Tomorrow, perhaps, " he thought, and determined to spend the money on pleasure ofanother kind. Two-pence went for a ride on an electric tram. From thetop he saw the sun descend--a disc with a dark red edge. The same sunwas descending over Salisbury intolerably bright. Out of the golden hazethe spire would be piercing, like a purple needle; then mists arose fromthe Avon and the other streams. Lamps flickered, but in the outer puritythe villages were already slumbering. Salisbury is only a Gothic upstartbeside these. For generations they have come down to her to buy or toworship, and have found in her the reasonable crisis of their lives;but generations before she was built they were clinging to the soil, andrenewing it with sheep and dogs and men, who found the crisis of theirlives upon Stonehenge. The blood of these men ran in Stephen; the vigourthey had won for him was as yet untarnished; out on those downs they hadunited with rough women to make the thing he spoke of as "himself"; thelast of them has rescued a woman of a different kind from streets andhouses such as these. As the sun descended he got off the tram with asmile of expectation. A public-house lay opposite, and a boy in a dirtyuniform was already lighting its enormous lamp. His lips parted, and hewent in. 

Two hours later, when Rickie and Herbert were going the rounds, a brickcame crashing at the study window. Herbert peered into the garden, and ahooligan slipped by him into the house, wrecked the hall, lurched up thestairs, fell against the banisters, balanced for a moment on his spine, and slid over. Herbert called for the police. Rickie, who was upon thelanding, caught the man by the knees and saved his life. 

"What is it?" cried Agnes, emerging. 

"It's Stephen come back, " was the answer. "Hullo, Stephen!"

XXXI

Hither had Rickie moved in ten days--from disgust to penitence, frompenitence to longing from a life of horror to a new life, in which hestill surprised himself by unexpected words. Hullo, Stephen! For the sonof his mother had come back, to forgive him, as she would have done, tolive with him, as she had planned. 

"He's drunk this time, " said Agnes wearily. She too had altered: thescandal was ageing her, and Ansell came to the house daily. 

"Hullo, Stephen!"

But Stephen was now insensible. 

"Stephen, you live here--"

"Good gracious me!" interposed Herbert. "My advice is, that we all go tobed. The less said the better while our nerves are in this state. Verywell, Rickie. Of course, Wonham sleeps the night if you wish. " Theycarried the drunken mass into the spare room. A mass of scandal itseemed to one of them, a symbol of redemption to the other. Neitheracknowledged it a man, who would answer them back after a few hours'rest. 

"Ansell thought he would never forgive me, " said Rickie. "For once he'swrong. "

"Come to bed now, I think. " And as Rickie laid his hand on the sleeper'shair, he added, "You won't do anything foolish, will you? You are stillin a morbid state. Your poor mother--Pardon me, dear boy; it is my turnto speak out. You thought it was your father, and minded. It is yourmother. Surely you ought to mind more?"

"I have been too far back, " said Rickie gently. "Ansell took me on ajourney that was even new to him. We got behind right and wrong, to aplace where only one thing matters--that the Beloved should rise fromthe dead. "

"But you won't do anything rash?"

"Why should I?"

"Remember poor Agnes, " he stammered. "I--I am the first to acknowledgethat we might have pursued a different policy. But we are committed toit now. It makes no difference whose son he is. I mean, he is the sameperson. You and I and my sister stand or fall together. It was ouragreement from the first. I hope--No more of these distressing sceneswith her, there's a dear fellow. I assure you they make my heart bleed. "

"Things will quiet down now. "

"To bed now; I insist upon that much. "

"Very well, " said Rickie, and when they were in the passage, locked thedoor from the outside. "We want no more muddles, " he explained. 

Mr. Pembroke was left examining the hall. The bust of Hermes was broken. So was the pot of the palm. He could not go to bed without once moresounding Rickie. "You'll do nothing rash, " he called. "The notion of himliving here was, of course, a passing impulse. We three have adopted acommon policy. "

"Now, you go away!" called a voice that was almost flippant. "I neverdid belong to that great sect whose doctrine is that each one shouldselect--at least, I'm not going to belong to it any longer. Go away tobed. "

"A good night's rest is what you need, " threatened Herbert, and retired, not to find one for himself. 

But Rickie slept. The guilt of months and the remorse of the last tendays had alike departed. He had thought that his life was poisoned, andlo! it was purified. He had cursed his mother, and Ansell had replied, "You may be right, but you stand too near to settle. Step backwards. Pretend that it happened to me. Do you want me to curse my mother?Now, step forward and see whether anything has changed. " Something hadchanged. He had journeyed--as on rare occasions a man must--till hestood behind right and wrong. On the banks of the grey torrent of life, love is the only flower. A little way up the stream and a little waydown had Rickie glanced, and he knew that she whom he loved had risenfrom the dead, and might rise again. "Come away--let them die out--letthem die out. " Surely that dream was a vision! To-night also he hurriedto the window--to remember, with a smile, that Orion is not among thestars of June. 

"Let me die out. She will continue, " he murmured, and in making plansfor Stephen's happiness, fell asleep. 

Next morning after breakfast he announced that his brother must liveat Dunwood House. They were awed by the very moderation of his tone. "There's nothing else to be done. Cadover's hopeless, and a boy of thosetendencies can't go drifting. There is also the question of a professionfor him, and his allowance. "

"We have to thank Mr. Ansell for this, " was all that Agnes could say;and "I foresee disaster, " was the contribution of Herbert. 

"There's plenty of money about, " Rickie continued. "Quite a man's-worthtoo much. It has been one of our absurdities. Don't look so sad, Herbert. I'm sorry for you people, but he's sure to let us down easy. "For his experience of drunkards and of Stephen was small. 

He supposed that he had come without malice to renew the offer of tendays ago. 

"It is the end of Dunwood House. "

Rickie nodded, and hoped not. Agnes, who was not looking well, began tocry. "Oh, it is too bad, " she complained, "when I've saved you from himall these years. " But he could not pity her, nor even sympathize withher wounded delicacy. The time for such nonsense was over. He would takehis share of the blame: it was cant to assume it all. 

Perhaps he was over-hard. He did not realize how large his share was, nor how his very virtues were to blame for her deterioration. "If I hada girl, I'd keep her in line, " is not the remark of a fool nor of a cad. Rickie had not kept his wife in line. He had shown her all the workingsof his soul, mistaking this for love; and in consequence she was theworse woman after two years of marriage, and he, on this morning offreedom, was harder upon her than he need have been. 

The spare room bell rang. Herbert had a painful struggle betweencuriosity and duty, for the bell for chapel was ringing also, and hemust go through the drizzle to school. He promised to come up in theinterval, Rickie, who had rapped his head that Sunday on the edge ofthe table, was still forbidden to work. Before him a quiet morning lay. Secure of his victory, he took the portrait of their mother in his handand walked leisurely upstairs. The bell continued to ring. 

"See about his breakfast, " he called to Agnes, who replied, "Very well. "The handle of the spare room door was moving slowly. "I'm coming, " hecried. The handle was still. He unlocked and entered, his heart full ofcharity. 

But within stood a man who probably owned the world. 

Rickie scarcely knew him; last night he had seemed so colorless, nonegligible. In a few hours he had recaptured motion and passion and theimprint of the sunlight and the wind. He stood, not consciously heroic, with arms that dangled from broad stooping shoulders, and feet thatplayed with a hassock on the carpet. But his hair was beautiful againstthe grey sky, and his eyes, recalling the sky unclouded, shot past theintruder as if to some worthier vision. So intent was their gaze thatRickie himself glanced backwards, only to see the neat passage and thebanisters at the top of the stairs. Then the lips beat together twice, and out burst a torrent of amazing words. 

"Add it all up, and let me know how much. I'd sooner have died. It nevertook me that way before. I must have broken pounds' worth. If you'll nottell the police, I promise you shan't lose, Mr. Elliot, I swear. But itmay be months before I send it. Everything is to be new. You've not tobe a penny out of pocket, do you see? Do let me go, this once again. "

"What's the trouble?" asked Rickie, as if they had been friends foryears. "My dear man, we've other things to talk about. Gracious me, whata fuss! If you'd smashed the whole house I wouldn't mind, so long as youcame back. "

"I'd sooner have died, " gulped Stephen. 

"You did nearly! It was I who caught you. Never mind yesterday's rag. What can you manage for breakfast?"

The face grew more angry and more puzzled. "Yesterday wasn't a rag, " hesaid without focusing his eyes. "I was drunk, but naturally meant it. "

"Meant what?"

"To smash you. Bad liquor did what Mrs. Elliot couldn't. I've put myselfin the wrong. You've got me. "

It was a poor beginning. 

"As I have got you, " said Rickie, controlling himself, "I want to have atalk with you. There has been a ghastly mistake. "

But Stephen, with a countryman's persistency, continued on his own line. He meant to be civil, but Rickie went cold round the mouth. For he hadnot even been angry with them. Until he was drunk, they had been dirtypeople--not his sort. Then the trivial injury recurred, and he hadreeled to smash them as he passed. "And I will pay for everything, " washis refrain, with which the sighing of raindrops mingled. "You shan'tlose a penny, if only you let me free. "

"You'll pay for my coffin if you talk like that any longer! Will you, one, forgive my frightful behaviour; two, live with me?" For his onlyhope was in a cheerful precision. 

Stephen grew more agitated. He thought it was some trick. 

"I was saying I made an unspeakable mistake. Ansell put me right, but itwas too late to find you. Don't think I got off easily. Ansell doesn'tspare one. And you've got to forgive me, to share my life, to sharemy money. --I've brought you this photograph--I want it to be the firstthing you accept from me--you have the greater right--I know all thestory now. You know who it is?"

"Oh yes; but I don't want to drag all that in. "

"It is only her wish if we live together. She was planning it when shedied. "

"I can't follow--because--to share your life? Did you know I called herelast Sunday week?"

"Yes. But then I only knew half. I thought you were my father's son. "

Stephen's anger and bewilderment were increasing. He stuttered. "What--what's the odds if you did?"

"I hated my father, " said Rickie. "I loved my mother. " And never had thephrases seemed so destitute of meaning. 

"Last Sunday week, " interrupted Stephen, his voice suddenly rising, "I came to call on you. Not as this or that's son. Not to fall on yourneck. Nor to live here. Nor--damn your dirty little mind! I meant tosay I didn't come for money. Sorry. Sorry. I simply came as I was, and Ihaven't altered since. "

"Yes--yet our mother--for me she has risen from the dead since then--Iknow I was wrong--"

"And where do I come in?" He kicked the hassock. "I haven't risen fromthe dead. I haven't altered since last Sunday week. I'm--" He stutteredagain. He could not quite explain what he was. "The man towardsAndover--after all, he was having principles. But you've--" His voicebroke. "I mind it--I'm--I don't alter--blackguard one week--live herethe next--I keep to one or the other--you've hurt something most badlyin me that I didn't know was there. "

"Don't let us talk, " said Rickie. "It gets worse every minute. Simplysay you forgive me; shake hands, and have done with it. "

"That I won't. That I couldn't. In fact, I don't know what you mean. "

Then Rickie began a new appeal--not to pity, for now he was in no moodto whimper. For all its pathos, there was something heroic in thismeeting. "I warn you to stop here with me, Stephen. No one else in theworld will look after you. As far as I know, you have never been reallyunhappy yet or suffered, as you should do, from your faults. Last nightyou nearly killed yourself with drink. Never mind why I'm willing tocure you. I am willing, and I warn you to give me the chance. Forgive meor not, as you choose. I care for other things more. "

Stephen looked at him at last, faintly approving. The offer wasridiculous, but it did treat him as a man. 

"Let me tell you of a fault of mine, and how I was punished for it, "continued Rickie. "Two years ago I behaved badly to you, up at theRings. No, even a few days before that. We went for a ride, and Ithought too much of other matters, and did not try to understand you. Then came the Rings, and in the evening, when you called up to me mostkindly, I never answered. But the ride was the beginning. Ever sincethen I have taken the world at second-hand. I have bothered less andless to look it in the face--until not only you, but every one else hasturned unreal. Never Ansell: he kept away, and somehow saved himself. But every one else. Do you remember in one of Tony Failing's books, 'Cast bitter bread upon the waters, and after many days it really doescome back to you'? This had been true of my life; it will be equallytrue of a drunkard's, and I warn you to stop with me. "

"I can't stop after that cheque, " said Stephen more gently. "But I doremember the ride. I was a bit bored myself. "

Agnes, who had not been seeing to the breakfast, chose this moment tocall from the passage. "Of course he can't stop, " she exclaimed. "Forbetter or worse, it's settled. We've none of us altered since lastSunday week. "

"There you're right, Mrs. Elliot!" he shouted, starting out of thetemperate past. "We haven't altered. " With a rare flash of insight heturned on Rickie. "I see your game. You don't care about ME drinking, orto shake MY hand. It's some one else you want to cure--as it were, that old photograph. You talk to me, but all the time you look at thephotograph. " He snatched it up. 

"I've my own ideas of good manners, and to look friends between the eyesis one of them; and this"--he tore the photograph across "and this"--hetore it again--"and these--" He flung the pieces at the man, who hadsunk into a chair. "For my part, I'm off. "

Then Rickie was heroic no longer. Turning round in his chair, he coveredhis face. The man was right. He did not love him, even as he had neverhated him. In either passion he had degraded him to be a symbol for thevanished past. The man was right, and would have been lovable. He longedto be back riding over those windy fields, to be back in those mysticcircles, beneath pure sky. Then they could have watched and helped andtaught each other, until the word was a reality, and the past not a tornphotograph, but Demeter the goddess rejoicing in the spring. Ah, if hehad seized those high opportunities! For they led to the highest of all, the symbolic moment, which, if a man accepts, he has accepted life. 

The voice of Agnes, which had lured him then ("For my sake, " she hadwhispered), pealed over him now in triumph. Abruptly it broke into sobsthat had the effect of rain. He started up. The anger had died out ofStephen's face, not for a subtle reason but because here was a woman, near him, and unhappy. 

She tried to apologize, and brought on a fresh burst of tears. Somethinghad upset her. They heard her locking the door of her room. From thatmoment their intercourse was changed. 

"Why does she keep crying today?" mused Rickie, as if he spoke to somemutual friend. 

"I can make a guess, " said Stephen, and his heavy face flushed. 

"Did you insult her?" he asked feebly. 

"But who's Gerald?"

Rickie raised his hand to his mouth. 

"She looked at me as if she knew me, and then gasps 'Gerald, ' andstarted crying. "

"Gerald is the name of some one she once knew. "

"So I thought. " There was a long silence, in which they could hear apiteous gulping cough. "Where is he now?" asked Stephen. 

"Dead. "

"And then you--?"

Rickie nodded. 

"Bad, this sort of thing. "

"I didn't know of this particular thing. She acted as if she hadforgotten him. Perhaps she had, and you woke him up. There are queertricks in the world. She is overstrained. She has probably been plottingever since you burst in last night. "

"Against me?"

"Yes. "

Stephen stood irresolute. "I suppose you and she pulled together?" Hesaid at last. 

"Get away from us, man! I mind losing you. Yet it's as well you don'tstop. "

"Oh, THAT'S out of the question, " said Stephen, brushing his cap. 

"If you've guessed anything, I'd be obliged if you didn't mention it. I've no right to ask, but I'd be obliged. "

He nodded, and walked slowly along the landing and down the stairs. Rickie accompanied him, and even opened the front door. It was as ifAgnes had absorbed the passion out of both of them. The suburb was nowwrapped in a cloud, not of its own making. Sigh after sigh passed alongits streets to break against dripping walls. The school, the houseswere hidden, and all civilization seemed in abeyance. Only the simplestsounds, the simplest desires emerged. They agreed that this weather wasstrange after such a sunset. 

"That's a collie, " said Stephen, listening. 

"I wish you'd have some breakfast before starting. "

"No food, thanks. But you know" He paused. "It's all been a muddle, andI've no objection to your coming along with me. "

The cloud descended lower. 

"Come with me as a man, " said Stephen, already out in the mist. "Not asa brother; who cares what people did years back? We're alive together, and the rest is cant. Here am I, Rickie, and there are you, a fairwreck. They've no use for you here, --never had any, if the truth wasknown, --and they've only made you beastly. This house, so to speak, hasthe rot. It's common-sense that you should come. "

"Stephen, wait a minute. What do you mean?"

"Wait's what we won't do, " said Stephen at the gate. 

"I must ask--"

He did wait for a minute, and sobs were heard, faint, hopeless, vindictive. Then he trudged away, and Rickie soon lost his colour andhis form. But a voice persisted, saying, "Come, I do mean it. Come; Iwill take care of you, I can manage you. "

The words were kind; yet it was not for their sake that Rickie plungedinto the impalpable cloud. In the voice he had found a surer guarantee. Habits and sex may change with the new generation, features may alterwith the play of a private passion, but a voice is apart from these. Itlies nearer to the racial essence and perhaps to the divine; it can, atall events, overleap one grave. 

XXXII

Mr. Pembroke did not receive a clear account of what had happened whenhe returned for the interval. His sister--he told her frankly--wasconcealing something from him. She could make no reply. Had she gonemad, she wondered. Hitherto she had pretended to love her husband. Whychoose such a moment for the truth?

"But I understand Rickie's position, " he told her. "It is an unbalancedposition, yet I understand it; I noted its approach while he was ill. He imagines himself his brother's keeper. Therefore we must makeconcessions. We must negotiate. " The negotiations were still progressingin November, the month during which this story draws to its close. 

"I understand his position, " he then told her. "It is both weak anddefiant. He is still with those Ansells. Read this letter, which thanksme for his little stories. We sent them last month, you remember--suchof them as we could find. It seems that he fills up his time by writing:he has already written a book. "

She only gave him half her attention, for a beautiful wreath had justarrived from the florist's. She was taking it up to the cemetery: todayher child had been dead a year. 

"On the other hand, he has altered his will. Fortunately, he cannotalter much. But I fear that what is not settled on you, will go. ShouldI read what I wrote on this point, and also my minutes of the interviewwith old Mr. Ansell, and the copy of my correspondence with StephenWonham?"

But her fly was announced. While he put the wreath in for her, she ranfor a moment upstairs. A few tears had come to her eyes. A scandalousdivorce would have been more bearable than this withdrawal. Peopleasked, "Why did her husband leave her?" and the answer came, "Oh, nothing particular; he only couldn't stand her; she lied and taught himto lie; she kept him from the work that suited him, from his friends, from his brother, --in a word, she tried to run him, which a man won'tpardon. " A few tears; not many. To her, life never showed itself as aclassic drama, in which, by trying to advance our fortunes, we shatterthem. She had turned Stephen out of Wiltshire, and he fell like athunderbolt on Sawston and on herself. In trying to gain Mrs. Failing'smoney she had probably lost money which would have been her own. Butirony is a subtle teacher, and she was not the woman to learn from suchlessons as these. Her suffering was more direct. Three men had wrongedher; therefore she hated them, and, if she could, would do them harm. 

"These negotiations are quite useless, " she told Herbert when shecame downstairs. "We had much better bide our time. Tell me just aboutStephen Wonham, though. "

He drew her into the study again. "Wonham is or was in Scotland, learning to farm with connections of the Ansells: I believe the moneyis to go towards setting him up. Apparently he is a hard worker. He alsodrinks!"

She nodded and smiled. "More than he did?"

"My informant, Mr. Tilliard--oh, I ought not to have mentioned his name. He is one of the better sort of Rickie's Cambridge friends, and has beendreadfully grieved at the collapse, but he does not want to be mixed upin it. This autumn he was up in the Lowlands, close by, and very kindlymade a few unobtrusive inquiries for me. The man is becoming an habitualdrunkard. "

She smiled again. Stephen had evoked her secret, and she hated himmore for that than for anything else that he had done. The poise of hisshoulders that morning--it was no more--had recalled Gerald. 

If only she had not been so tired! He had reminded her of the greatestthing she had known, and to her cloudy mind this seemed degradation. Shehad turned to him as to her lover; with a look, which a man of his typeunderstood, she had asked for his pity; for one terrible moment shehad desired to be held in his arms. Even Herbert was surprised when shesaid, "I'm glad he drinks. I hope he'll kill himself. A man like thatought never to have been born. "

"Perhaps the sins of the parents are visited on the children, " saidHerbert, taking her to the carriage. "Yet it is not for us to decide. "

"I feel sure he will be punished. What right has he--" She broke off. What right had he to our common humanity? It was a hard lesson forany one to learn. For Agnes it was impossible. Stephen was illicit, abnormal, worse than a man diseased. Yet she had turned to him: he haddrawn out the truth. 

"My dear, don't cry, " said her brother, drawing up the windows. "I havegreat hopes of Mr. Tilliard--the Silts have written--Mrs. Failing willdo what she can--"

As she drove to the cemetery, her bitterness turned against Ansell, whohad kept her husband alive in the days after Stephen's expulsion. Ifhe had not been there, Rickie would have renounced his mother and hisbrother and all the outer world, troubling no one. The mystic, inherentin him, would have prevailed. So Ansell himself had told her. AndAnsell, too, had sheltered the fugitives and given them money, and savedthem from the ludicrous checks that so often stop young men. But whenshe reached the cemetery, and stood beside the tiny grave, all herbitterness, all her hatred were turned against Rickie. 

"But he'll come back in the end, " she thought. "A wife has only to wait. What are his friends beside me? They too will marry. I have only towait. His book, like all that he has done, will fail. His brother isdrinking himself away. Poor aimless Rickie! I have only to keep civil. He will come back in the end. "

She had moved, and found herself close to the grave of Gerald. Theflowers she had planted after his death were dead, and she had not likedto renew them. There lay the athlete, and his dust was as the littlechild's whom she had brought into the world with such hope, with suchpain. 

XXXIII

That same day Rickie, feeling neither poor nor aimless, left theAnsells' for a night's visit to Cadover. His aunt had invited him--why, he could not think, nor could he think why he should refuse theinvitation. She could not annoy him now, and he was not vindictive. Inthe dell near Madingley he had cried, "I hate no one, " in his ignorance. Now, with full knowledge, he hated no one again. The weather waspleasant, the county attractive, and he was ready for a little change. 

Maud and Stewart saw him off. Stephen, who was down for the holiday, had been left with his chin on the luncheon table. He had wanted to comealso. Rickie pointed out that you cannot visit where you have broken thewindows. There was an argument--there generally was--and now the youngman had turned sulky. 

"Let him do what he likes, " said Ansell. "He knows more than we do. Heknows everything. "

"Is he to get drunk?" Rickie asked. 

"Most certainly. "

"And to go where he isn't asked?"

Maud, though liking a little spirit in a man, declared this to beimpossible. 

"Well, I wish you joy!" Rickie called, as the train moved away. "Hemeans mischief this evening. He told me piously that he felt it beatingup. Good-bye!"

"But we'll wait for you to pass, " they cried. For the Salisbury trainalways backed out of the station and then returned, and the Ansellfamily, including Stewart, took an incredible pleasure in seeing it dothis. 

The carriage was empty. Rickie settled himself down for his littlejourney. First he looked at the coloured photographs. Then he read thedirections for obtaining luncheon-baskets, and felt the texture of thecushions. Through the windows a signal-box interested him. Then he sawthe ugly little town that was now his home, and up its chief street theAnsells' memorable facade. The spirit of a genial comedy dwelt there. Itwas so absurd, so kindly. The house was divided against itself and yetstood. Metaphysics, commerce, social aspirations--all lived together inharmony. Mr. Ansell had done much, but one was tempted to believe in amore capricious power--the power that abstains from "nipping. " "One nipsor is nipped, and never knows beforehand, " quoted Rickie, and opened thepoems of Shelley, a man less foolish than you supposed. How pleasantit was to read! If business worried him, if Stephen was noisy or Ansellperverse, there still remained this paradise of books. It seemed asif he had read nothing for two years. Then the train stopped for theshunting, and he heard protests from minor officials who were working onthe line. They complained that some one who didn't ought to, had mountedon the footboard of the carriage. Stephen's face appeared, convulsedwith laughter. With the action of a swimmer he dived in through the openwindow, and fell comfortably on Rickie's luggage and Rickie. He declaredit was the finest joke ever known. Rickie was not so sure. "You'll berun over next, " he said. "What did you do that for?"

"I'm coming with you, " he giggled, rolling all that he could on to thedusty floor. 

"Now, Stephen, this is too bad. Get up. We went into the whole questionyesterday. "

"I know; and I settled we wouldn't go into it again, spoiling myholiday. "

"Well, it's execrable taste. "

Now he was waving to the Ansells, and showing them a piece of soap:it was all his luggage, and even that he abandoned, for he flung it atStewart's lofty brow. 

"I can't think what you've done it for. You know how strongly I felt. "

Stephen replied that he should stop in the village; meet Rickie at thelodge gates; that kind of thing. 

"It's execrable taste, " he repeated, trying to keep grave. 

"Well, you did all you could, " he exclaimed with sudden sympathy. "Leaving me talking to old Ansell, you might have thought you'd got yourway. I've as much taste as most chaps, but, hang it! your aunt isn't theGerman Emperor. She doesn't own Wiltshire. "

"You ass!" sputtered Rickie, who had taken to laugh at nonsense again. 

"No, she isn't, " he repeated, blowing a kiss out of the window tomaidens. "Why, we started for Wiltshire on the wet morning!"

"When Stewart found us at Sawston railway station?" He smiled happily. "I never thought we should pull through. "

"Well, we DIDN'T. We never did what we meant. It's nonsense that Icouldn't have managed you alone. I've a notion. Slip out after yourdinner this evening, and we'll get thundering tight together. "

"I've a notion I won't. "

"It'd do you no end of good. You'll get to know people--shepherds, carters--" He waved his arms vaguely, indicating democracy. "Then you'llsing. "

"And then?"

"Plop. "

"Precisely. "

"But I'll catch you, " promised Stephen. "We shall carry you up the hillto bed. In the morning you wake, have your row with old Em'ly, she kicksyou out, we meet--we'll meet at the Rings!" He danced up and down thecarriage. Some one in the next carriage punched at the partition, andwhen this happens, all lads with mettle know that they must punch thepartition back. 

"Thank you. I've a notion I won't, " said Rickie when the noise hadsubsided--subsided for a moment only, for the following conversationtook place to an accompaniment of dust and bangs. "Except as regards theRings. We will meet there. "

"Then I'll get tight by myself. "

"No, you won't. "

"Yes, I will. I swore to do something special this evening. I feel likeit. "

"In that case, I get out at the next station. " He was laughing, butquite determined. Stephen had grown too dictatorial of late. The Ansellsspoilt him. "It's bad enough having you there at all. Having you theredrunk is impossible. I'd sooner not visit my aunt than think, when I satwith her, that you're down in the village teaching her labourers to beas beastly as yourself. Go if you will. But not with me. "

"Why shouldn't I have a good time while I'm young, if I don't harm anyone?" said Stephen defiantly. 

"Need we discuss self. "

"Oh, I can stop myself any minute I choose. I just say 'I won't' to youor any other fool, and I don't. "

Rickie knew that the boast was true. He continued, "There is also athing called Morality. You may learn in the Bible, and also from theGreeks, that your body is a temple. "

"So you said in your longest letter. "

"Probably I wrote like a prig, for the reason that I have never beentempted in this way; but surely it is wrong that your body should escapeyou. "

"I don't follow, " he retorted, punching. 

"It isn't right, even for a little time, to forget that you exist. "

"I suppose you've never been tempted to go to sleep?"

Just then the train passed through a coppice in which the greyundergrowth looked no more alive than firewood. Yet every twig in itwas waiting for the spring. Rickie knew that the analogy was false, butargument confused him, and he gave up this line of attack also. 

"Do be more careful over life. If your body escapes you in one thing, why not in more? A man will have other temptations. "

"You mean women, " said Stephen quietly, pausing for a moment in thisgame. "But that's absolutely different. That would be harming some oneelse. "

"Is that the only thing that keeps you straight?"

"What else should?" And he looked not into Rickie, but past him, withthe wondering eyes of a child. Rickie nodded, and referred himself tothe window. 

He observed that the country was smoother and more plastic. The woodshad gone, and under a pale-blue sky long contours of earth were flowing, and merging, rising a little to bear some coronal of beeches, parting alittle to disclose some green valley, where cottages stood under elmsor beside translucent waters. It was Wiltshire at last. The train hadentered the chalk. At last it slackened at a wayside platform. Withoutspeaking he opened the door. 

"What's that for?"

"To go back. "

Stephen had forgotten the threat. He said that this was not playing thegame. 

"Surely!"

"I can't have you going back. "

"Promise to behave decently then. "

He was seized and pulled away from the door. 

"We change at Salisbury, " he remarked. "There is an hour to wait. Youwill find me troublesome. "

"It isn't fair, " exploded Stephen. "It's a lowdown trick. How can I letyou go back?"

"Promise, then. "

"Oh, yes, yes, yes. Y. M. C. A. But for this occasion only. "

"No, no. For the rest of your holiday. "

"Yes, yes. Very well. I promise. "

"For the rest of your life?"

Somehow it pleased him that Stephen should bang him crossly with hiselbow and say, "No. Get out. You've gone too far. " So had the train. The porter at the end of the wayside platform slammed the door, and theyproceeded toward Salisbury through the slowly modulating downs. Rickiepretended to read. Over the book he watched his brother's face, andwondered how bad temper could be consistent with a mind so radiant. Inspite of his obstinacy and conceit, Stephen was an easy person to livewith. He never fidgeted or nursed hidden grievances, or indulged in ashoddy pride. Though he spent Rickie's money as slowly as he could, he asked for it without apology: "You must put it down against me, " hewould say. In time--it was still very vague--he would rent or purchasea farm. There is no formula in which we may sum up decent people. SoAnsell had preached, and had of course proceeded to offer a formula:"They must be serious, they must be truthful. " Serious not in the senseof glum; but they must be convinced that our life is a state of someimportance, and our earth not a place to beat time on. Of so muchStephen was convinced: he showed it in his work, in his play, in hisself-respect, and above all--though the fact is hard to face-in hissacred passion for alcohol. Drink, today, is an unlovely thing. Betweenus and the heights of Cithaeron the river of sin now flows. Yet thecries still call from the mountain, and granted a man has responded tothem, it is better he respond with the candour of the Greek. 

"I shall stop at the Thompsons' now, " said the disappointed reveller. "Prayers. "

Rickie did not press his triumph, but it was a happy moment, partlybecause of the triumph, partly because he was sure that his brother mustcare for him. Stephen was too selfish to give up any pleasure withoutgrave reasons. He was certain that he had been right to disentanglehimself from Sawston, and to ignore the threats and tears that stilltempted him to return. Here there was real work for him to do. Moreover, though he sought no reward, it had come. His health was better, hisbrain sound, his life washed clean, not by the waters of sentiment, but by the efforts of a fellow-man. Stephen was man first, brotherafterwards. Herein lay his brutality and also his virtue. "Look me inthe face. Don't hang on me clothes that don't belong--as you did on yourwife, giving her saint's robes, whereas she was simply a woman of herown sort, who needed careful watching. Tear up the photographs. Heream I, and there are you. The rest is cant. " The rest was not cant, and perhaps Stephen would confess as much in time. But Rickie needed atonic, and a man, not a brother, must hold it to his lips. 

"I see the old spire, " he called, and then added, "I don't mind seeingit again. "

"No one does, as far as I know. People have come from the other side ofthe world to see it again. "

"Pious people. But I don't hold with bishops. " He was young enough tobe uneasy. The cathedral, a fount of superstition, must find no place inhis life. At the age of twenty he had settled things. 

"I've got my own philosophy, " he once told Ansell, "and I don't care astraw about yours. " Ansell's mirth had annoyed him not a little. Andit was strange that one so settled should feel his heart leap up atthe sight of an old spire. "I regard it as a public building, " he toldRickie, who agreed. "It's useful, too, as a landmark. " His attitudetoday was defensive. It was part of a subtle change that Rickie hadnoted in him since his return from Scotland. His face gave hints of anew maturity. "You can see the old spire from the Ridgeway, " he said, suddenly laying a hand on Rickie's knee, "before rain as clearly as anytelegraph post. "

"How far is the Ridgeway?"

"Seventeen miles. "

"Which direction?"

"North, naturally. North again from that you see Devizes, the vale ofPewsey, and the other downs. Also towards Bath. It is something of aview. You ought to get on the Ridgeway. "

"I shouldn't have time for that. "

"Or Beacon Hill. Or let's do Stonehenge. "

"If it's fine, I suggest the Rings. "

"It will be fine. " Then he murmured the names of villages. 

"I wish you could live here, " said Rickie kindly. "I believe you lovethese particular acres more than the whole world. "

Stephen replied that this was not the case: he was only used to them. He wished they were driving out, instead of waiting for the Cadchurchtrain. 

They had advanced into Salisbury, and the cathedral, a public building, was grey against a tender sky. Rickie suggested that, while waitingfor the train, they should visit it. He spoke of the incomparable northporch. "I've never been inside it, and I never will. Sorry to shock you, Rickie, but I must tell you plainly. I'm an atheist. I don't believe inanything. "

"I do, " said Rickie. 

"When a man dies, it's as if he's never been, " he asserted. The traindrew up in Salisbury station. Here a little incident took place whichcaused them to alter their plans. 

They found outside the station a trap driven by a small boy, who hadcome in from Cadford to fetch some wire-netting. "That'll do us, " saidStephen, and called to the boy, "If I pay your railway-ticket back, andif I give you sixpence as well, will you let us drive back in thetrap?" The boy said no. "It will be all right, " said Rickie. "I am Mrs. Failing's nephew. " The boy shook his head. "And you know Mr. Wonham?"The boy couldn't say he didn't. "Then what's your objection? Why? Whatis it? Why not?" But Stephen leant against the time-tables and spoke ofother matters. 

Presently the boy said, "Did you say you'd pay my railway-ticket back, Mr. Wonham?"

"Yes, " said a bystander. "Didn't you hear him?"

"I heard him right enough. "

Now Stephen laid his hand on the splash-board, saying, "What I want, though, is this trap here of yours, see, to drive in back myself;" andas he spoke the bystander followed him in canon, "What he wants, though, is that there trap of yours, see, to drive hisself back in. "

"I've no objection, " said the boy, as if deeply offended. For a time hesat motionless, and then got down, remarking, "I won't rob you of yoursixpence. "

"Silly little fool, " snapped Rickie, as they drove through the town. 

Stephen looked surprised. "What's wrong with the boy? He had to think itover. No one had asked him to do such a thing before. Next time he'd letus have the trap quick enough. "

"Not if he had driven in for a cabbage instead of wire-netting. "

"He never would drive in for a cabbage. "

Rickie shuffled his feet. But his irritation passed. He saw that thelittle incident had been a quiet challenge to the civilization that hehad known. "Organize. " "Systematize. " "Fill up every moment, " "Induceesprit de corps. " He reviewed the watchwords of the last two years, and found that they ignored personal contest, personal truces, personallove. By following them Sawston School had lost its quiet usefulnessand become a frothy sea, wherein plunged Dunwood House, that unnecessaryship. Humbled, he turned to Stephen and said, "No, you're right. Nothingis wrong with the boy. He was honestly thinking it out. " But Stephen hadforgotten the incident, or else he was not inclined to talk about it. His assertive fit was over. 

The direct road from Salisbury to Cadover is extremely dull. Thecity--which God intended to keep by the river; did she not move there, being thirsty, in the reign of William Rufus?--the city had strayed outof her own plain, climbed up her slopes, and tumbled over them in uglycataracts of brick. The cataracts are still short, and doubtless theymeet or create some commercial need. But instead of looking towardsthe cathedral, as all the city should, they look outwards at a paganentrenchment, as the city should not. They neglect the poise of theearth, and the sentiments she has decreed. They are the modern spirit. 

Through them the road descends into an unobtrusive country where, nevertheless, the power of the earth grows stronger. Streams do divide. Distances do still exist. It is easier to know the men in your valleythan those who live in the next, across a waste of down. It is easier toknow men well. The country is not paradise, and can show the vices thatgrieve a good man everywhere. But there is room in it, and leisure. 

"I suppose, " said Rickie as the twilight fell, "this kind of thing isgoing on all over England. " Perhaps he meant that towns are after allexcrescences, grey fluxions, where men, hurrying to find one another, have lost themselves. But he got no response, and expected none. Turninground in his seat, he watched the winter sun slide out of a quiet sky. The horizon was primrose, and the earth against it gave momentary hintsof purple. All faded: no pageant would conclude the gracious day, andwhen he turned eastward the night was already established. 

"Those verlands--" said Stephen, scarcely above his breath. 

"What are verlands?"

He pointed at the dusk, and said, "Our name for a kind of field. " Thenhe drove his whip into its socket, and seemed to swallow something. Rickie, straining his eyes for verlands, could only see a tumblingwilderness of brown. 

"Are there many local words?"

"There have been. "

"I suppose they die out. "

The conversation turned curiously. In the tone of one who replies, hesaid, "I expect that some time or other I shall marry. "

"I expect you will, " said Rickie, and wondered a little why the replyseemed not abrupt. "Would we see the Rings in the daytime from here?"

"(We do see them. ) But Mrs. Failing once said no decent woman would haveme. "

"Did you agree to that?"

"Drive a little, will you?"

The horse went slowly forward into the wilderness, that turned frombrown to black. Then a luminous glimmer surrounded them, and the airgrew cooler: the road was descending between parapets of chalk. 

"But, Rickie, mightn't I find a girl--naturally not refined--and behappy with her in my own way? I would tell her straight I was nothingmuch--faithful, of course, but that she should never have all mythoughts. Out of no disrespect to her, but because all one's thoughtscan't belong to any single person. "

While he spoke even the road vanished, and invisible water came gurglingthrough the wheel-spokes. The horse had chosen the ford. "You can't ownpeople. At least a fellow can't. It may be different for a poet. (Letthe horse drink. ) And I want to marry some one, and don't yet know whoshe is, which a poet again will tell you is disgusting. Does it disgustyou? Being nothing much, surely I'd better go gently. For it's somethingrather outside that makes one marry, if you follow me: not exactlyoneself. (Don't hurry the horse. ) We want to marry, and yet--I can'texplain. I fancy I'll go wading: this is our stream. "

Romantic love is greater than this. There are men and women--we know itfrom history--who have been born into the world for each other, and forno one else, who have accomplished the longest journey locked in eachother's arms. But romantic love is also the code of modern morals, and, for this reason, popular. Eternal union, eternal ownership--these aretempting baits for the average man. He swallows them, will not confesshis mistake, and--perhaps to cover it--cries "dirty cynic" at such a manas Stephen. 

Rickie watched the black earth unite to the black sky. But the skyoverhead grew clearer, and in it twinkled the Plough and the centralstars. He thought of his brother's future and of his own past, and ofhow much truth might lie in that antithesis of Ansell's: "A man wants tolove mankind, a woman wants to love one man. " At all events, he and hiswife had illustrated it, and perhaps the conflict, so tragic in theirown case, was elsewhere the salt of the world. Meanwhile Stephen calledfrom the water for matches: there was some trick with paper which Mr. Failing had showed him, and which he would show Rickie now, instead oftalking nonsense. Bending down, he illuminated the dimpled surface ofthe ford. "Quite a current. " he said, and his face flickered out in thedarkness. "Yes, give me the loose paper, quick! Crumple it into a ball. "

Rickie obeyed, though intent on the transfigured face. He believedthat a new spirit dwelt there, expelling the crudities of youth. Hesaw steadier eyes, and the sign of manhood set like a bar of gold uponsteadier lips. Some faces are knit by beauty, or by intellect, or by agreat passion: had Stephen's waited for the touch of the years?

But they played as boys who continued the nonsense of the railwaycarriage. The paper caught fire from the match, and spread into arose of flame. "Now gently with me, " said Stephen, and they laid itflowerlike on the stream. Gravel and tremulous weeds leapt into sight, and then the flower sailed into deep water, and up leapt the two archesof a bridge. "It'll strike!" they cried; "no, it won't; it's chosen theleft, " and one arch became a fairy tunnel, dropping diamonds. Then itvanished for Rickie; but Stephen, who knelt in the water, declared thatit was still afloat, far through the arch, burning as if it would burnforever. 

XXXIV

The carriage that Mrs. Failing had sent to meet her nephew returned fromCadchurch station empty. She was preparing for a solitary dinner whenhe somehow arrived, full of apologies, but more sedate than she hadexpected. She cut his explanations short. "Never mind how you got here. You are here, and I am quite pleased to see you. " He changed his clothesand they proceeded to the dining-room. 

There was a bright fire, but the curtains were not drawn. Mr. Failinghad believed that windows with the night behind are more beautiful thanany pictures, and his widow had kept to the custom. It was brave of herto persevere, lumps of chalk having come out of the night last June. Forsome obscure reason--not so obscure to Rickie--she had preserved themas mementoes of an episode. Seeing them in a row on the mantelpiece, he expected that their first topic would be Stephen. But they nevermentioned him, though he was latent in all that they said. 

It was of Mr. Failing that they spoke. The Essays had been a success. She was really pleased. The book was brought in at her request, andbetween the courses she read it aloud to her nephew, in her soft yetunsympathetic voice. Then she sent for the press notices--after allno one despises them--and read their comments on her introduction. Shewielded a graceful pen, was apt, adequate, suggestive, indispensable, unnecessary. So the meal passed pleasantly away, for no one could sowell combine the formal with the unconventional, and it only seemedcharming when papers littered her stately table. 

"My man wrote very nicely, " she observed. "Now, you read me somethingout of him that you like. Read 'The True Patriot. '"

He took the book and found: "Let us love one another. Let our children, physical and spiritual, love one another. It is all that we can do. Perhaps the earth will neglect our love. Perhaps she will confirm it, and suffer some rallying-point, spire, mound, for the new generations tocherish. "

"He wrote that when he was young. Later on he doubted whether we hadbetter love one another, or whether the earth will confirm anything. Hedied a most unhappy man. "

He could not help saying, "Not knowing that the earth had confirmedhim. "

"Has she? It is quite possible. We meet so seldom in these days, she andI. Do you see much of the earth?"

"A little. "

"Do you expect that she will confirm you?"

"It is quite possible. "

"Beware of her, Rickie, I think. "

"I think not. "

"Beware of her, surely. Going back to her really is going back--throwingaway the artificiality which (though you young people won't confess it)is the only good thing in life. Don't pretend you are simple. Once Ipretended. Don't pretend that you care for anything but for clever talksuch as this, and for books. "

"The talk, " said Leighton afterwards, "certainly was clever. But itmeant something, all the same. " He heard no more, for his mistress toldhim to retire. 

"And my nephew, this being so, make up your quarrel with your wife. " Shestretched out her hand to him with real feeling. "It is easier now thanit will be later. Poor lady, she has written to me foolishly and often, but, on the whole, I side with her against you. She would grant you allthat you fought for--all the people, all the theories. I have it, in herwriting, that she will never interfere with your life again. "

"She cannot help interfering, " said Rickie, with his eyes on the blackwindows. "She despises me. Besides, I do not love her. "

"I know, my dear. Nor she you. I am not being sentimental. I sayonce more, beware of the earth. We are conventional people, andconventions--if you will but see it--are majestic in their way, andwill claim us in the end. We do not live for great passions or for greatmemories, or for anything great. "

He threw up his head. "We do. "

"Now listen to me. I am serious and friendly tonight, as you must haveobserved. I have asked you here partly to amuse myself--you belong tomy March Past--but also to give you good advice. There has been avolcano--a phenomenon which I too once greatly admired. The eruption isover. Let the conventions do their work now, and clear the rubbish away. My age is fifty-nine, and I tell you solemnly that the important thingsin life are little things, and that people are not important at all. Goback to your wife. "

He looked at her, and was filled with pity. He knew that he would neverbe frightened of her again. Only because she was serious and friendlydid he trouble himself to reply. "There is one little fact I shouldlike to tell you, as confuting your theory. The idea of a story--a longstory--had been in my head for a year. As a dream to amuse myself--thekind of amusement you would recommend for the future. I should have hadtime to write it, but the people round me coloured my life, and so itnever seemed worth while. For the story is not likely to pay. Then camethe volcano. A few days after it was over I lay in bed looking out upona world of rubbish. Two men I know--one intellectual, the other verymuch the reverse--burst into the room. They said, 'What happened toyour short stories? They weren't good, but where are they? Why have youstopped writing? Why haven't you been to Italy? You must write. Youmust go. Because to write, to go, is you. ' Well, I have written, andyesterday we sent the long story out on its rounds. The men do not likeit, for different reasons. But it mattered very much to them that Ishould write it, and so it got written. As I told you, this is only onefact; other facts, I trust, have happened in the last five months. ButI mention it to prove that people are important, and therefore, howevermuch it inconveniences my wife, I will not go back to her. "

"And Italy?" asked Mrs. Failing. 

This question he avoided. Italy must wait. Now that he had the time, hehad not the money. 

"Or what is the long story about, then?"

"About a man and a woman who meet and are happy. "

"Somewhat of a tour de force, I conclude. "

He frowned. "In literature we needn't intrude our own limitations. I'm not so silly as to think that all marriages turn out like mine. Mycharacter is to blame for our catastrophe, not marriage. "

"My dear, I too have married; marriage is to blame. "

But here again he seemed to know better. 

"Well, " she said, leaving the table and moving with her dessert to themantelpiece, "so you are abandoning marriage and taking to literature. And are happy. "

"Yes. "

"Because, as we used to say at Cambridge, the cow is there. The world isreal again. This is a room, that a window, outside is the night. "

"Go on. "

He pointed to the floor. "The day is straight below, shining throughother windows into other rooms. "

"You are very odd, " she said after a pause, "and I do not like you atall. There you sit, eating my biscuits, and all the time you know thatthe earth is round. Who taught you? I am going to bed now, and all thenight, you tell me, you and I and the biscuits go plunging eastwards, until we reach the sun. But breakfast will be at nine as usual. Good-night. "

She rang the bell twice, and her maid came with her candle and herwalking-stick: it was her habit of late to go to her room as soon asdinner was over, for she had no one to sit up with. Rickie was impressedby her loneliness, and also by the mixture in her of insight andobtuseness. She was so quick, so clear-headed, so imaginative even. But all the same, she had forgotten what people were like. Finding lifedull, she had dropped lies into it, as a chemist drops a new elementinto a solution, hoping that life would thereby sparkle or turn somebeautiful colour. She loved to mislead others, and in the end herprivate view of false and true was obscured, and she misled herself. Howshe must have enjoyed their errors over Stephen! But her own error hadbeen greater, inasmuch as it was spiritual entirely. 

Leighton came in with some coffee. Feeling it unnecessary to light thedrawing-room lamp for one small young man, he persuaded Rickie to say hepreferred the dining-room. So Rickie sat down by the fire playing withone of the lumps of chalk. His thoughts went back to the ford, fromwhich they had scarcely wandered. Still he heard the horse in thedark drinking, still he saw the mystic rose, and the tunnel droppingdiamonds. He had driven away alone, believing the earth had confirmedhim. He stood behind things at last, and knew that conventions are notmajestic, and that they will not claim us in the end. 

As he mused, the chalk slipped from his fingers, and fell on thecoffee-cup, which broke. The china, said Leighton, was expensive. Hebelieved it was impossible to match it now. Each cup was different. Itwas a harlequin set. The saucer, without the cup, was therefore useless. Would Mr. Elliot please explain to Mrs. Failing how it happened. 

Rickie promised he would explain. 

He had left Stephen preparing to bathe, and had heard him workingup-stream like an animal, splashing in the shallows, breathing heavilyas he swam the pools; at times reeds snapped, or clods of earth werepulled in. By the fire he remembered it was again November. "Should youlike a walk?" he asked Leighton, and told him who stopped in the villagetonight. Leighton was pleased. At nine o'clock the two young men leftthe house, under a sky that was still only bright in the zenith. "Itwill rain tomorrow, " Leighton said. 

"My brother says, fine tomorrow. "

"Fine tomorrow, " Leighton echoed. 

"Now which do you mean?" asked Rickie, laughing. 

Since the plumes of the fir-trees touched over the drive, only a verylittle light penetrated. It was clearer outside the lodge gate, andbubbles of air, which Wiltshire seemed to have travelled from an immensedistance, broke gently and separately on his face. They paused on thebridge. He asked whether the little fish and the bright green weeds werehere now as well as in the summer. The footman had not noticed. Over thebridge they came to the cross-roads, of which one led to Salisbury andthe other up through the string of villages to the railway station. The road in front was only the Roman road, the one that went on to thedowns. Turning to the left, they were in Cadford. 

"He will be with the Thompsons, " said Rickie, looking up at dark eaves. "Perhaps he's in bed already. "

"Perhaps he will be at The Antelope. "

"No. Tonight he is with the Thompsons. "

"With the Thompsons. " After a dozen paces he said, "The Thompsons havegone away. "

"Where? Why?"

"They were turned out by Mr. Wilbraham on account of our brokenwindows. "

"Are you sure?"

"Five families were turned out. "

"That's bad for Stephen, " said Rickie, after a pause. "He was lookingforward--oh, it's monstrous in any case!"

"But the Thompsons have gone to London, " said Leighton. "Why, thatfamily--they say it's been in the valley hundreds of years, and nevergot beyond shepherding. To various parts of London. "

"Let us try The Antelope, then. "

"Let us try The Antelope. "

The inn lay up in the village. Rickie hastened his pace. This tyrannywas monstrous. Some men of the age of undergraduates had broken windows, and therefore they and their families were to be ruined. The fools whogovern us find it easier to be severe. It saves them trouble to say, "The innocent must suffer with the guilty. " It even gives them a thrillof pride. Against all this wicked nonsense, against the Wilbrahams andPembrokes who try to rule our world Stephen would fight till he died. Stephen was a hero. He was a law to himself, and rightly. He was greatenough to despise our small moralities. He was attaining love. Thisevening Rickie caught Ansell's enthusiasm, and felt it worth while tosacrifice everything for such a man. 

"The Antelope, " said Leighton. "Those lights under the greatest elm. "

"Would you please ask if he's there, and if he'd come for a turn withme. I don't think I'll go in. "

Leighton opened the door. They saw a little room, blue withtobacco-smoke. Flanking the fire were deep settles hiding all but thelegs of the men who lounged in them. Between the settles stood a table, covered with mugs and glasses. The scene was picturesque--fairer thanthe cutglass palaces of the town. 

"Oh yes, he's there, " he called, and after a moment's hesitation cameout. 

"Would he come?"

"No. I shouldn't say so, " replied Leighton, with a furtive glance. Heknew that Rickie was a milksop. "First night, you know, sir, among oldfriends. "

"Yes, I know, " said Rickie. "But he might like a turn down the village. It looks stuffy inside there, and poor fun probably to watch othersdrinking. "

Leighton shut the door. 

"What was that he called after you?"

"Oh, nothing. A man when he's drunk--he says the worst he's ever heard. At least, so they say. "

"A man when he's drunk?"

"Yes, Sir. "

"But Stephen isn't drinking?"

"No, no. "

"He couldn't be. If he broke a promise--I don't pretend he's a saint. Idon't want him one. But it isn't in him to break a promise. "

"Yes, sir; I understand. "

"In the train he promised me not to drink--nothing theatrical: just apromise for these few days. "

"No, sir. " "'No, sir, '" stamped Rickie. "'Yes! no! yes!' Can't you speakout? Is he drunk or isn't he?"

Leighton, justly exasperated, cried, "He can't stand, and I've told youso again and again. "

"Stephen!" shouted Rickie, darting up the steps. Heat and the smell ofbeer awaited him, and he spoke more furiously than he had intended. "Isthere any one here who's sober?" he cried. The landlord looked overthe bar angrily, and asked him what he meant. He pointed to the deepsettles. "Inside there he's drunk. Tell him he's broken his word, and Iwill not go with him to the Rings. "

"Very well. You won't go with him to the Rings, " said the landlord, stepping forward and slamming the door in his face. 

In the room he was only angry, but out in the cool air he rememberedthat Stephen was a law to himself. He had chosen to break his word, andwould break it again. Nothing else bound him. To yield to temptation isnot fatal for most of us. But it was the end of everything for a hero. 

"He's suddenly ruined!" he cried, not yet remembering himself. For alittle he stood by the elm-tree, clutching the ridges of its bark. Evenso would he wrestle tomorrow, and Stephen, imperturbable, reply, "Mybody is my own. " Or worse still, he might wrestle with a pliant Stephenwho promised him glibly again. While he prayed for a miracle to converthis brother, it struck him that he must pray for himself. For he, too, was ruined. 

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Leighton. "Stephen's only being withfriends. Mr. Elliot, sir, don't break down. Nothing's happened bad. Noone's died yet, or even hurt themselves. " Ever kind, he took hold ofRickie's arm, and, pitying such a nervous fellow, set out with him forhome. The shoulders of Orion rose behind them over the topmost boughs ofthe elm. From the bridge the whole constellation was visible, and Rickiesaid, "May God receive me and pardon me for trusting the earth. "

"But, Mr. Elliot, what have you done that's wrong?"

"Gone bankrupt, Leighton, for the second time. Pretended again thatpeople were real. May God have mercy on me!"

Leighton dropped his arm. Though he did not understand, a chill ofdisgust passed over him, and he said, "I will go back to The Antelope. Iwill help them put Stephen to bed. "

"Do. I will wait for you here. " Then he leant against the parapet andprayed passionately, for he knew that the conventions would claim himsoon. God was beyond them, but ah, how far beyond, and to be reachedafter what degradation! At the end of this childish detour his wifeawaited him, not less surely because she was only his wife in name. Hewas too weak. Books and friends were not enough. Little by little shewould claim him and corrupt him and make him what he had been; and thewoman he loved would die out, in drunkenness, in debauchery, and herstrength would be dissipated by a man, her beauty defiled in a man. Shewould not continue. That mystic rose and the face it illumined meantnothing. The stream--he was above it now--meant nothing, though itburst from the pure turf and ran for ever to the sea. The bather, theshoulders of Orion-they all meant nothing, and were going nowhere. Thewhole affair was a ridiculous dream. 

Leighton returned, saying, "Haven't you seen Stephen? They say hefollowed us: he can still walk: I told you he wasn't so bad. "

"I don't think he passed me. Ought one to look?" He wandered a littlealong the Roman road. Again nothing mattered. At the level-crossing heleant on the gate to watch a slow goods train pass. In the glare of theengine he saw that his brother had come this way, perhaps through somesodden memory of the Rings, and now lay drunk over the rails. Wearilyhe did a man's duty. There was time to raise him up and push him intosafety. It is also a man's duty to save his own life, and therefore hetried. The train went over his knees. He died up in Cadover, whispering, "You have been right, " to Mrs. Failing. 

She wrote of him to Mrs. Lewin afterwards as "one who has failed inall he undertook; one of the thousands whose dust returns to the dust, accomplishing nothing in the interval. Agnes and I buried him to thesound of our cracked bell, and pretended that he had once been alive. The other, who was always honest, kept away. "

XXXV

From the window they looked over a sober valley, whose sides werenot too sloping to be ploughed, and whose trend was followed by agrass-grown track. It was late on Sunday afternoon, and the valley wasdeserted except for one labourer, who was coasting slowly downward ona rosy bicycle. The air was very quiet. A jay screamed up in the woodsbehind, but the ring-doves, who roost early, were already silent. Since the window opened westward, the room was flooded with light, andStephen, finding it hot, was working in his shirtsleeves. 

"You guarantee they'll sell?" he asked, with a pen between his teeth. Hewas tidying up a pile of manuscripts. 

"I guarantee that the world will be the gainer, " said Mr. Pembroke, now a clergyman, who sat beside him at the table with an expression ofrefined disapproval on his face. 

"I'd got the idea that the long story had its points, but that theseshorter things didn't--what's the word?"

"'Convince' is probably the word you want. But that type of criticismis quite a thing of the past. Have you seen the illustrated Americanedition?"

"I don't remember. "

"Might I send you a copy? I think you ought to possess one. "

"Thank you. " His eye wandered. The bicycle had disappeared intosome trees, and thither, through a cloudless sky, the sun was alsodescending. 

"Is all quite plain?" said Mr. Pembroke. "Submit these ten stories tothe magazines, and make your own terms with the editors. Then--I haveyour word for it--you will join forces with me; and the four stories inmy possession, together with yours, should make up a volume, which wemight well call 'Pan Pipes. '"

"Are you sure `Pan Pipes' haven't been used up already?"

Mr. Pembroke clenched his teeth. He had been bearing with this sort ofthing for nearly an hour. "If that is the case, we can select another. A title is easy to come by. But that is the idea it must suggest. Thestories, as I have twice explained to you, all centre round a Naturetheme. Pan, being the god of--"

"I know that, " said Stephen impatiently. 

"--Being the god of--"

"All right. Let's get furrard. I've learnt that. "

It was years since the schoolmaster had been interrupted, and he couldnot stand it. "Very well, " he said. "I bow to your superior knowledge ofthe classics. Let us proceed. "

"Oh yes the introduction. There must be one. It was the introductionwith all those wrong details that sold the other book. "

"You overwhelm me. I never penned the memoir with that intention. "

"If you won't do one, Mrs. Keynes must!"

"My sister leads a busy life. I could not ask her. I will do it myselfsince you insist. "

"And the binding?"

"The binding, " said Mr. Pembroke coldly, "must really be left to thediscretion of the publisher. We cannot be concerned with such details. Our task is purely literary. " His attention wandered. He began tofidget, and finally bent down and looked under the table. "What have wehere?" he asked. 

Stephen looked also, and for a moment they smiled at each other overthe prostrate figure of a child, who was cuddling Mr. Pembroke's boots. "She's after the blacking, " he explained. "If we left her there, she'dlick them brown. "

"Indeed. Is that so very safe?"

"It never did me any harm. Come up! Your tongue's dirty. "

"Can I--" She was understood to ask whether she could clean her tongueon a lollie. 

"No, no!" said Mr. Pembroke. "Lollipops don't clean little girls'tongues. "

"Yes, they do, " he retorted. "But she won't get one. " He lifted her onhis knee, and rasped her tongue with his handkerchief. 

"Dear little thing, " said the visitor perfunctorily. The child beganto squall, and kicked her father in the stomach. Stephen regarded herquietly. "You tried to hurt me, " he said. "Hurting doesn't count. Tryingto hurt counts. Go and clean your tongue yourself. Get off my knee. "Tears of another sort came into her eyes, but she obeyed him. "How's thegreat Bertie?" he asked. 

"Thank you. My nephew is perfectly well. How came you to hear of hisexistence?"

"Through the Silts, of course. It isn't five miles to Cadover. "

Mr. Pembroke raised his eyes mournfully. "I cannot conceive how the poorSilts go on in that great house. Whatever she intended, it could nothave been that. The house, the farm, the money, --everything down to thepersonal articles that belong to Mr. Failing, and should have revertedto his family!"

"It's legal. Interstate succession. "

"I do not dispute it. But it is a lesson to one to make a will. Mrs. Keynes and myself were electrified. "

"They'll do there. They offered me the agency, but--" He looked downthe cultivated slopes. His manners were growing rough, for he saw fewgentlemen now, and he was either incoherent or else alarmingly direct. "However, if Lawrie Silt's a Cockney like his father, and if my next isa boy and like me--" A shy beautiful look came into his eyes, and passedunnoticed. "They'll do, " he repeated. "They turned out Wilbraham andbuilt new cottages, and bridged the railway, and made other necessaryalterations. " There was a moment's silence. 

Mr. Pembroke took out his watch. "I wonder if I might have the trap? Imustn't miss my train, must I? It is good of you to have granted me aninterview. It is all quite plain?"

"Yes. "

"A case of half and half-division of profits. "

"Half and half?" said the young farmer slowly. "What do you take me for?Half and half, when I provide ten of the stories and you only four?"

"I--I--" stammered Mr. Pembroke. 

"I consider you did me over the long story, and I'm damned if you do meover the short ones!"

"Hush! if you please, hush!--if only for your little girl's sake. "

He lifted a clerical palm. 

"You did me, " his voice drove, "and all the thirty-nine Articles won'tstop me saying so. That long story was meant to be mine. I got itwritten. You've done me out of every penny it fetched. It's dedicated tome--flat out--and you even crossed out the dedication and tidied me outof the introduction. Listen to me, Pembroke. You've done people all yourlife--I think without knowing it, but that won't comfort us. A wretcheddevil at your school once wrote to me, and he'd been done. Sham food, sham religion, sham straight talks--and when he broke down, you said itwas the world in miniature. " He snatched at him roughly. "But I'll showyou the world. " He twisted him round like a baby, and through the opendoor they saw only the quiet valley, but in it a rivulet that wouldin time bring its waters to the sea. "Look even at that--and up behindwhere the Plain begins and you get on the solid chalk--think of usriding some night when you're ordering your hot bottle--that's theworld, and there's no miniature world. There's one world, Pembroke, andyou can't tidy men out of it. They answer you back do you hear?--theyanswer back if you do them. If you tell a man this way that four sheepequal ten, he answers back you're a liar. "

Mr. Pembroke was speechless, and--such is human nature--he chieflyresented the allusion to the hot bottle; an unmanly luxury in which henever indulged; contenting himself with nightsocks. "Enough--there is nowitness present--as you have doubtless observed. " But there was. For alittle voice cried, "Oh, mummy, they're fighting--such fun--" and feetwent pattering up the stairs. "Enough. You talk of 'doing, ' but whatabout the money out of which you 'did' my sister? What about thispicture"--he pointed to a faded photograph of Stockholm--"which youcaused to be filched from the walls of my house? What about--enough!Let us conclude this disheartening scene. You object to my terms. Nameyours. I shall accept them. It is futile to reason with one who is theworse for drink. "

Stephen was quiet at once. "Steady on!" he said gently. "Steady onin that direction. Take one-third for your four stories and theintroduction, and I will keep two-thirds for myself. " Then he went toharness the horse, while Mr. Pembroke, watching his broad back, desired to bury a knife in it. The desire passed, partly because it wasunclerical, partly because he had no knife, and partly because he soonblurred over what had happened. To him all criticism was "rudeness":he never heeded it, for he never needed it: he was never wrong. All hislife he had ordered little human beings about, and now he was equallymagisterial to big ones: Stephen was a fifth-form lout whom, owing tosome flaw in the regulations, he could not send up to the headmaster tobe caned. 

This attitude makes for tranquillity. Before long he felt merely aninjured martyr. His brain cleared. He stood deep in thought before theonly other picture that the bare room boasted--the Demeter of Cnidus. Outside the sun was sinking, and its last rays fell upon the immortalfeatures and the shattered knees. Sweet-peas offered their fragrance, and with it there entered those more mysterious scents that come fromno one flower or clod of earth, but from the whole bosom of evening. He tried not to be cynical. But in his heart he could not regret thattragedy, already half-forgotten, conventionalized, indistinct. Of coursedeath is a terrible thing. Yet death is merciful when it weeds out afailure. If we look deep enough, it is all for the best. He stared atthe picture and nodded. 

Stephen, who had met his visitor at the station, had intended to drivehim back there. But after their spurt of temper he sent him with theboy. He remained in the doorway, glad that he was going to make money, glad that he had been angry; while the glow of the clear sky deepened, and the silence was perfected, and the scents of the night grewstronger. Old vagrancies awoke, and he resolved that, dearly as heloved his house, he would not enter it again till dawn. "Goodnight!" hecalled, and then the child came running, and he whispered, "Quick, then!Bring me a rug. " "Good-night, " he repeated, and a pleasant voice calledthrough an upper window, "Why good-night?" He did not answer until thechild was wrapped up in his arms. 

"It is time that she learnt to sleep out, " he cried. "If you want me, we're out on the hillside, where I used to be. "

The voice protested, saying this and that. 

"Stewart's in the house, " said the man, "and it cannot matter, and I amgoing anyway. "

"Stephen, I wish you wouldn't. I wish you wouldn't take her. Promiseyou won't say foolish things to her. Don't--I wish you'd come up for aminute--"

The child, whose face was laid against his, felt the muscles in itharden. 

"Don't tell her foolish things about yourself--things that aren't anylonger true. Don't worry her with old dead dreadfulness. To pleaseme--don't. "

"Just tonight I won't, then. "

"Stevie, dear, please me more--don't take her with you. "

At this he laughed impertinently. "I suppose I'm being kept in line, "she called, and, though he could not see her, she stretched her armstowards him. For a time he stood motionless, under her window, musing onhis happy tangible life. Then his breath quickened, and he wondered whyhe was here, and why he should hold a warm child in his arms. "It's timewe were starting, " he whispered, and showed the sky, whose orange wasalready fading into green. "Wish everything goodnight. "

"Good-night, dear mummy, " she said sleepily. "Goodnight, dear house. Good-night, you pictures--long picture--stone lady. I see you throughthe window--your faces are pink. "

The twilight descended. He rested his lips on her hair, and carried her, without speaking, until he reached the open down. He had often slepthere himself, alone, and on his wedding-night, and he knew that the turfwas dry, and that if you laid your face to it you would smell thethyme. For a moment the earth aroused her, and she began to chatter. "Myprayers--" she said anxiously. He gave her one hand, and she wasasleep before her fingers had nestled in its palm. Their touch made himpensive, and again he marvelled why he, the accident, was here. He wasalive and had created life. By whose authority? Though he could notphrase it, he believed that he guided the future of our race, and that, century after century, his thoughts and his passions would triumph inEngland. The dead who had evoked him, the unborn whom he would evoke hegoverned the paths between them. By whose authority?

Out in the west lay Cadover and the fields of his earlier youth, andover them descended the crescent moon. His eyes followed her decline, and against her final radiance he saw, or thought he saw, the outlineof the Rings. He had always been grateful, as people who understood himknew. But this evening his gratitude seemed a gift of small account. Theear was deaf, and what thanks of his could reach it? The body was dust, and in what ecstasy of his could it share? The spirit had fled, in agonyand loneliness, never to know that it bequeathed him salvation. 

He filled his pipe, and then sat pressing the unlit tobacco with histhumb. "What am I to do?" he thought. "Can he notice the things he gaveme? A parson would know. But what's a man like me to do, who works allhis life out of doors?" As he wondered, the silence of the night wasbroken. The whistle of Mr. Pembroke's train came faintly, and a luridspot passed over the land--passed, and the silence returned. One thingremained that a man of his sort might do. He bent down reverently andsaluted the child; to whom he had given the name of their mother.