THE WONDER

 BY J. D. BERESFORD

 THESE LYNNEKERS THE EARLY HISTORY OF JACOB STAHL A CANDIDATE FOR TRUTH THE INVISIBLE EVENT THE HOUSE IN DEMETRIUS ROAD

 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY NEW YORK

 THE WONDER

 BY

 J. D. BERESFORD AUTHOR OF "THESE LYNNEKERS, " "THE STORY OF JACOB STAHL, " ETC. 

 [Device]

 NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Transcriber's Note:

 Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Dialect and variant spellings have been retained. Greek text appears as originally printed. 

 TO MY FRIEND AND CRITIC HUGH WALPOLE

CONTENTS

 PART ONE

 MY EARLY ASSOCIATIONS WITH GINGER STOTT

 CHAPTER PAGE I. THE MOTIVE 11

 II. NOTES FOR A BIOGRAPHY OF GINGER STOTT 22

 III. THE DISILLUSIONMENT OF GINGER STOTT 58

 PART TWO

 THE CHILDHOOD OF THE WONDER

 IV. THE MANNER OF HIS BIRTH 71

 V. HIS DEPARTURE FROM STOKE-UNDERHILL 92

 VI. HIS FATHER'S DESERTION 107

 VII. HIS DEBT TO HENRY CHALLIS 118

 VIII. HIS FIRST VISIT TO CHALLIS COURT 143

 INTERLUDE 149

 THE WONDER AMONG BOOKS

 IX. HIS PASSAGE THROUGH THE PRISON OF KNOWLEDGE 155

 X. HIS PASTORS AND MASTERS 179

 XI. HIS EXAMINATION 193

 XII. HIS INTERVIEW WITH HERR GROSSMANN 217

 XIII. FUGITIVE 229

 PART THREE

 MY ASSOCIATION WITH THE WONDER

 XIV. HOW I WENT TO PYM TO WRITE A BOOK 235

 XV. THE INCIPIENCE OF MY SUBJECTION TO THE WONDER 247

 XVI. THE PROGRESS AND RELAXATION OF MY SUBJECTION 267

 XVII. RELEASE 284

 XVIII. IMPLICATIONS 299

 XIX. EPILOGUE: THE USES OF MYSTERY 305

PART ONE

MY EARLY ASSOCIATIONS WITH GINGER STOTT

PART ONE

MY EARLY ASSOCIATIONS WITH GINGER STOTT

CHAPTER I

THE MOTIVE

I

I could not say at which station the woman and her baby entered thetrain. 

Since we had left London, I had been struggling with Baillie'stranslation of Hegel's "Phenomenology. " It was not a book to read amongsuch distracting circumstances as those of a railway journey, but I waseagerly planning a little dissertation of my own at that time, and mywork as a journalist gave me little leisure for quiet study. 

I looked up when the woman entered my compartment, though I did notnotice the name of the station. I caught sight of the baby she wascarrying, and turned back to my book. I thought the child was a freak, an abnormality; and such things disgust me. 

I returned to the study of my Hegel and read: "For knowledge is not thedivergence of the ray, but the ray itself by which the truth comes tous; and if this ray be removed, the bare direction or the empty placewould alone be indicated. "

I kept my eyes on the book--the train had started again--but the nextpassage conveyed no meaning to my mind, and as I attempted to re-read itan impression was interposed between me and the work I was studying. 

I saw projected on the page before me an image which I mistook at firstfor the likeness of Richard Owen. It was the conformation of the headthat gave rise to the mistake, a head domed and massive, white andsmooth--it was a head that had always interested me. But as I looked, mymind already searching for the reason of this hallucination, I saw thatthe lower part of the face was that of an infant. My eyes wandered fromthe book, and my gaze fluttered along the four persons seated oppositeto me, till it rested on the reality of my vision. And even as myattention was thus irresistibly dragged from my book, my mind clung witha feeble desperation to its task, and I murmured under my breath like achild repeating a mechanically learned lesson: "Knowledge is not thedivergence of the ray but the ray itself. .. . "

For several seconds the eyes of the infant held mine. Its gaze wassteady and clear as that of a normal child, but what differentiated itwas the impression one received of calm intelligence. The head wascompletely bald, and there was no trace of eyebrows, but the eyesthemselves were protected by thick, short lashes. 

The child turned its head, and I felt my muscles relax. Until then I hadnot been conscious that they had been stiffened. My gaze was released, pushed aside as it were, and I found myself watching the object of thechild's next scrutiny. 

This object was a man of forty or so, inclined to corpulence, anduntidy. He bore the evidences of failure in the process of becoming. Hewore a beard that was scanty and ragged, there were bald patches of skinon the jaw; one inferred that he wore that beard only to save thetrouble of shaving. He was sitting next to me, the middle passenger ofthe three on my side of the carriage, and he was absorbed in the pagesof a half-penny paper--I think he was reading the police reports--whichwas interposed between him and the child in the corner diagonallyopposite to that which I occupied. 

The man was hunched up, slouching, his legs crossed, his elbows seekingsupport against his body; he held his clumsily folded paper close to hiseyes. He had the appearance of being very myopic, but he did not wearglasses. 

As I watched him, he began to fidget. He uncrossed his legs and hunchedhis body deeper into the back of his seat. Presently his eyes began tocreep up the paper in front of him. When they reached the top, hehesitated a moment, making a survey under cover, then he dropped hishands and stared stupidly at the infant in the corner, his mouthslightly open, his feet pulled in under the seat of the carriage. 

As the child let him go, his head drooped, and then he turned and lookedat me with a silly, vacuous smile. I looked away hurriedly; this was nota man with whom I cared to share experience. 

The process was repeated. The next victim was a big, rubicund, healthy-looking man, clean shaved, with light-blue eyes that wereslightly magnified by the glasses of his gold-mounted spectacles. He, too, had been reading a newspaper--the _Evening Standard_--until thechild's gaze claimed his attention, and he, too, was held motionless bythat strange, appraising stare. But when he was released, his surprisefound vent in words. "This, " I thought, "is the man accustomed to act. "

"A very remarkable child, ma'am, " he said, addressing the thin, ascetic-looking mother. 

II

The mother's appearance did not convey the impression of poverty. Shewas, indeed, warmly, decently, and becomingly clad. She wore a longblack coat, braided and frogged; it had the air of belonging to an olderfashion, but the material of it was new. And her bonnet, trimmed withjet ornaments growing on stalks that waved tremulously--that, also, wasa modern replica of an older mode. On her hands were black threadgloves, somewhat ill-fitting. 

Her face was not that of a country woman. The thin, high-bridged nose, the fallen cheeks, the shadows under eyes gloomy and retrospective--thesewere marks of the town; above all, perhaps, that sallow greyness of theskin which speaks of confinement. .. . 

The child looked healthy enough. Its great bald head shone resplendentlylike a globe of alabaster. 

"A very remarkable child, ma'am, " said the rubicund man who sat facingthe woman. 

The woman twitched her untidy-looking black eyebrows, her head trembledslightly and set the jet fruit of her bonnet dancing and nodding. 

"Yes, sir, " she replied. 

"Very remarkable, " said the man, adjusting his spectacles and leaningforward. His action had an air of deliberate courage; he was justifyinghis fortitude after that temporary aberration. 

I watched him a little nervously. I remembered my feelings when, as achild, I had seen some magnificent enter the lion's den in a travellingcircus. The failure on my right was, also, absorbed in the spectacle; hestared, open-mouthed, his eyes blinking and shifting. 

The other three occupants of the compartment, sitting on the same sideas the woman, back to the engine, dropped papers and magazines andturned their heads, all interest. None of these three had, so far as Ihad observed, fallen under the spell of inspection by the infant, but Inoticed that the man--an artisan apparently--who sat next to the womanhad edged away from her, and that the three passengers opposite to mewere huddled towards my end of the compartment. 

The child had abstracted its gaze, which was now directed down the aisleof the carriage, indefinitely focussed on some point outside the window. It seemed remote, entirely unconcerned with any human being. 

I speak of it asexually. I was still uncertain as to its sex. It is truethat all babies look alike to me; but I should have known that thischild was male, the conformation of the skull alone should have told methat. It was its dress that gave me cause to hesitate. It was dressedabsurdly, not in "long-clothes, " but in a long frock that hid its feetand was bunched about its body. 

III

"Er--does it--er--can it--talk?" hesitated the rubicund man, and I grewhot at his boldness. There seemed to be something disrespectful inspeaking before the child in this impersonal way. 

"No, sir, he's never made a sound, " replied the woman, twitching andvibrating. Her heavy, dark eyebrows jerked spasmodically, nervously. 

"Never cried?" persisted the interrogator. 

"Never once, sir. "

"Dumb, eh?" He said it as an aside, half under his breath. 

"'E's never spoke, sir. "

"Hm!" The man cleared his throat and braced himself with a deliberateand obvious effort. "Is it--he--not water on the brain--what?"

I felt that a rigour of breathless suspense held every occupant of thecompartment. I wanted, and I know that every other person there wanted, to say, "Look out! Don't go too far. " The child, however, seemedunconscious of the insult: he still stared out through the window, lostin profound contemplation. 

"No, sir, oh no!" replied the woman. "'E's got more sense than aordinary child. " She held the infant as if it were some priceless pieceof earthenware, not nursing it as a woman nurses a baby, but balancingit with supreme attention in her lap. 

"How old is he?"

We had been awaiting this question. 

"A year and nine munse, sir. "

"Ought to have spoken before that, oughtn't he?"

"Never even cried, sir, " said the woman. She regarded the child with alook into which I read something of apprehension. If it wereapprehension it was a feeling that we all shared. But the rubicund manwas magnificent, though, like the lion tamer of my youthful experience, he was doubtless conscious of the aspect his temerity wore in the eyesof beholders. He must have been showing off. 

"Have you taken opinion?" he asked; and then, seeing the woman's lack ofcomprehension, he translated the question--badly, for he conveyed adifferent meaning--thus, "I mean, have you had a doctor for him?"

The train was slackening speed. 

"Oh! yes, sir. "

"And what do _they_ say?"

The child turned its head and looked the rubicund man full in the eyes. Never in the face of any man or woman have I seen such an expression ofsublime pity and contempt. .. . 

I remembered a small urchin I had once seen at the Zoological Gardens. Urged on by a band of other urchins, he was throwing pebbles at a greatlion that lolled, finely indifferent, on the floor of its playground. Closer crept the urchin; he grew splendidly bold; he threw larger andlarger pebbles, until the lion rose suddenly with a roar, and dashedfiercely down to the bars of its cage. 

I thought of that urchin's scared, shrieking face now, as the rubicundman leant quickly back into his corner. 

Yet that was not all, for the infant, satisfied, perhaps, with itsvictim's ignominy, turned and looked at me with a cynical smile. I was, as it were, taken into its confidence. I felt flattered, undeservedlyyet enormously flattered. I blushed, I may have simpered. 

The train drew up in Great Hittenden station. 

The woman gathered her priceless possession carefully into her arms, andthe rubicund man adroitly opened the door for her. 

"Good day, sir, " she said, as she got out. 

"Good day, " echoed the rubicund man with relief, and we all drew a deepbreath of relief with him in concert, as though we had just witnessedthe safe descent of some over-daring aviator. 

IV

As the train moved on, we six, who had been fellow-passengers for somethirty or forty minutes before the woman had entered our compartment, wewho had not till then exchanged a word, broke suddenly into generalconversation. 

"Water on the brain; I don't care what any one says, " asserted therubicund man. 

"My sister had one very similar, " put in the failure, who was sittingnext to me. "It died, " he added, by way of giving point to his instance. 

"Ought not to exhibit freaks like that in public, " said an old manopposite to me. 

"You're right, sir, " was the verdict of the artisan, and he spatcarefully and scraped his boot on the floor; "them things ought to bekep' private. "

"Mad, of course, that's to say imbecile, " repeated the rubicund man. 

"Horrid head he'd got, " said the failure, and shivered histrionically. 

They continued to demonstrate their contempt for the infant by manyasseverations. The reaction grew. They were all bold now, and all wantedto speak. They spoke as the survivors from some common peril; they wereincreasingly anxious to demonstrate that they had never sufferedintimidation, and in their relief they were anxious to laugh at thething which had for a time subdued them. But they never named it as acause for fear. Their speech was merely innuendo. 

At the last, however, I caught an echo of the true feeling. 

It was the rubicund man who, most daring during the crisis, was now boldenough to admit curiosity. 

"What's your opinion, sir?" he said to me. The train was running intoWenderby; he was preparing to get out; he leaned forward, his fingers onthe handle of the door. 

I was embarrassed. Why had I been singled out by the child? I had takenno part in the recent interjectory conversation. Was this a consequenceof the notice that had been paid to me?

"I?" I stammered, and then reverted to the rubicund man's originalphrase, "It--it was certainly a very remarkable child, " I said. 

The rubicund man nodded and pursed his lips. "Very, " he muttered as healighted, "Very remarkable. Well, good day to you. "

I returned to my book, and was surprised to find that my index fingerwas still marking the place at which I had been interrupted some fifteenminutes before. My arm felt stiff and cramped. 

I read: ". .. And if this ray be removed, the bare direction or the emptyplace would alone be indicated. "

CHAPTER II

NOTES FOR A BIOGRAPHY OF GINGER STOTT

I

Ginger Stott is a name that was once as well known as any in England. Stott has been the subject of leading articles in every daily paper; hislife has been written by an able journalist who interviewed Stotthimself, during ten crowded minutes, and filled three hundred pages withdetails, seventy per cent. Of which were taken from the journals, andthe remainder supplied by a brilliant imagination. Ten years ago GingerStott was on a pinnacle, there was a Stott vogue. You found his name atthe bottom of signed articles written by members of the editorial staff;you bought Stott collars, although Stott himself did not wear collars;there was a Stott waltz, which is occasionally hummed by clerks, andwhistled by errand-boys to this day; there was a periodical which livedfor ten months, entitled _Ginger Stott's Weekly_; in brief, during onesummer there was a Stott apotheosis. 

But that was ten years ago, and the rising generation has almostforgotten the once well-known name. One rarely sees him mentioned in themorning paper now, and then it is but the briefest reference; some suchnote as this "Pickering was at the top of his form, recalling the finestachievements of Ginger Stott at his best, " or "Flack is a magnificentfind for Kent: he promises to completely surpass the historic feats ofGinger Stott. " These journalistic superlatives only irritate those whoremember the performances referred to. We who watched the man's careerknow that Pickering and Flack are but tyros compared to Stott; we knowthat none of his successors has challenged comparison with him. He was ameteor that blazed across the sky, and if he ever has a true successor, such stars as Pickering and Flack will shine pale and dim in comparison. 

It makes one feel suddenly old to recall that great matinée at theLyceum, given for Ginger Stott's benefit after he met with his accident. In ten years so many great figures in that world have died or falleninto obscurity. I can count on my fingers the number of those who werethen, and are still, in the forefront of popularity. Of the others poorCaptain Wallis, for instance, is dead--and no modern writer, in myopinion, can equal the brilliant descriptiveness of Wallis's articles inthe _Daily Post_. Bobby Maisefield, again, Stott's colleague, is amartyr to rheumatism, and keeps a shop in Ailesworth, the scene of somany of his triumphs. What a list one might make, but how uselessly. Itis enough to note how many names have dropped out, how many others arethe names of those we now speak of as veterans. In ten years! Itcertainly makes one feel old. 

II

No apology is needed for telling again the story of Stott's career. Certain details will still be familiar, it is true, the historic detailsthat can never be forgotten while cricket holds place as our nationalgame. But there are many facts of Stott's life familiar to me, whichhave never been made public property. If I must repeat that which isknown, I can give the known a new setting; perhaps a new value. 

He came of mixed races. His mother was pure Welsh, his father aYorkshire collier; but when Ginger was nine years old his father died, and Mrs. Stott came to live in Ailesworth where she had immigrantrelations, and it was there that she set up the little paper-shop, thebusiness by which she maintained herself and her boy. That shop is stillin existence, and the name has not been altered. You may find it in thelittle street that runs off the market place, going down towards theBorstal Institution. 

There are many people alive in Ailesworth to-day who can remember thesturdy, freckled, sandy-haired boy who used to go round with the morningand evening papers; the boy who was to change the fortunes of a county. 

Ginger was phenomenally thorough in all he undertook. It was one of thesecrets of his success. It was this thoroughness that kept him engagedin his mother's little business until he was seventeen. Up to that agehe never found time for cricket--sufficient evidence of his remarkableand most unusual qualities. 

It was sheer chance, apparently, that determined his choice of a career. 

He had walked into Stoke-Underhill to deliver a parcel, and on his wayback his attention was arrested by the sight of a line of vehicles drawnup to the boarded fencing that encloses the Ailesworth County Ground. The occupants of these vehicles were standing up, struggling to catch asight of the match that was being played behind the screen erected toshut out non-paying sightseers. Among the horses' feet, squirmingbetween the spokes of wheels, utterly regardless of all injury, smallboys glued their eyes to knot-holes in the fence, while others climbedsurreptitiously, and for the most part unobserved, on to the backs oftradesmen's carts. All these individuals were in a state of tremendousexcitement, and even the policeman whose duty it was to move them on, was so engrossed in watching the game that he had disappeared inside theturnstile, and had given the outside spectators full opportunity foreleemosynary enjoyment. 

That tarred fence has since been raised some six feet, and now enclosesa wider sweep of ground--alterations that may be classed among the minorrevolutions effected by the genius of the thick-set, fair-haired youthof seventeen, who paused on that early September afternoon to wonderwhat all the fuss was about. The Ailesworth County Ground was not famousin those days; not then was accommodation needed for thirty thousandspectators, drawn from every county in England to witness theunparallelled. 

Ginger stopped. The interest of the spectacle pierced his absorption inthe business he had in hand. Such a thing was almost unprecedented. 

"What's up?" he asked of Puggy Phillips. 

Puggy Phillips--hazarding his life by standing on the shiny, slightlycurved top of his butcher's cart--made no appropriate answer. "Yah--_ah_--AH!" he screamed in ecstasy. "Oh! played! Pla-a-a-ayed!!"

Ginger wasted no more breath, but laid hold of the little brass railthat encircled Puggy's platform, and with a sudden hoist that lifted theshafts and startled the pony, raised himself to the level of aspectator. 

"'Ere!" shouted the swaying, tottering Puggy. "What the . .. Are yer rupto?"

The well-drilled pony, however, settled down again quietly to maintainhis end of the see-saw, and, finding himself still able to preserve hisequilibrium, Puggy instantly forgot the presence of the intruder. 

"What's up?" asked Ginger again. 

"Oh! Well _'it_, WELL 'IT!" yelled Puggy. "Oh! Gow on, gow on agen! Runit _aht_. Run it AH-T. "

Ginger gave it up, and turned his attention to the match. 

It was not any famous struggle that was being fought out on the oldAilesworth Ground; it was only second-class cricket, the deciding matchof the Minor Counties championship. Hampdenshire and Oxfordshire, oldrivals, had been neck-and-neck all through the season, and, as luckwould have it, the engagement between them had been the last fixture onthe card. 

When Ginger rose to the level of spectator, the match was anybody'sgame. Bobby Maisefield was batting. He was then a promising young coltwho had not earned a fixed place in the Eleven. Ginger knew himsocially, but they were not friends, they had no interests in common. Bobby had made twenty-seven. He was partnered by old Trigson, thebowler, (he has been dead these eight years, ) whose characteristic scoreof "Not out . .. 0, " is sufficiently representative of his methods. 

It was the fourth innings, and Hampdenshire with only one more wicket tofall, still required nineteen runs to win. Trigson could be relied uponto keep his wicket up, but not to score. The hopes of Ailesworth centredin the ability of that almost untried colt Bobby Maisefield--and heseemed likely to justify the trust reposed in him. A beautiful late cutthat eluded third man and hit the fence with a resounding bang, nearlydrove Puggy wild with delight. 

"Only fifteen more, " he shouted. "Oh! Played; pla-a-a-yed!"

But as the score crept up, the tensity grew. As each ball was delivered, a chill, rigid silence held the onlookers in its grip. When Trigson, with the field collected round him, almost to be covered with a sheet, stonewalled the most tempting lob, the click of the ball on his bat wasan intrusion on the stillness. And always it was followed by a deepbreath of relief that sighed round the ring like a faint wind through aplantation of larches. When Bobby scored, the tumult broke out like acrash of thunder; but it subsided again, echoless, to that intensesilence so soon as the ball was "dead. "

Curiously, it was not Bobby who made the winning hit but Trigson. "Oneto tie, two to win, " breathed Puggy as the field changed over, and itwas Trigson who had to face the bowling. The suspense was torture. Oxford had put on their fast bowler again, and Trigson, intimidated, perhaps, did not play him with quite so straight a bat as he had opposedto the lob-bowler. The ball hit Trigson's bat and glanced through theslips. The field was very close to the wicket, and the ball wastravelling fast. No one seemed to make any attempt to stop it. For amoment the significance of the thing was not realised; for a momentonly, then followed uproar, deafening, stupendous. 

Puggy was stamping fiercely on the top of his cart; the tears werestreaming down his face; he was screaming and yelling incoherent words. And he was representative of the crowd. Thus men shouted and stamped andcried when news came of the relief of Kimberley, or when that falsereport of victory was brought to Paris in the August of 1870. .. . 

The effect upon Ginger was a thing apart. He did not join in the fierceacclamation; he did not wait to see the chairing of Bobby and Trigson. The greatness of Stott's character, the fineness of his genius isdisplayed in his attitude towards the dramatic spectacle he had justwitnessed. 

As he trudged home into Ailesworth, his thoughts found vent in amuttered sentence which is peculiarly typical of the effect that hadbeen made upon him. 

"I believe I could have bowled that chap, " he said. 

III

In writing a history of this kind, a certain licence must be claimed. Itwill be understood that I am filling certain gaps in the narrative withimagined detail. But the facts are true. My added detail is onlyintended to give an appearance of life and reality to my history. Letme, therefore, insist upon one vital point. I have not been dependent onhearsay for one single fact in this story. Where my experience does notdepend upon personal experience, it has been received from theprincipals themselves. Finally, it should be remembered that when Ihave, imaginatively, put words into the mouths of the persons of thisstory, they are never essential words which affect the issue. Theessential speeches are reported from first-hand sources. For instance, Ginger Stott himself has told me on more than one occasion that thewords with which I closed the last section, were the actual words spokenby him on the occasion in question. It was not until six years after thegreat Oxfordshire match that I myself first met the man, but whatfollows is literally true in all essentials. 

There was a long, narrow strip of yard, or alley, at the back of Mrs. Stott's paper-shop, a yard that, unfortunately, no longer exists. It hasbeen partly built over, and another of England's memorials has thus beendestroyed by the vandals of modern commerce. .. . 

This yard was fifty-three feet long, measuring from Mrs. Stott's backdoor to the door of the coal-shed, which marked the alley's extremelimit. This measurement, an apparently negligible trifle, had animportant effect upon Stott's career. For it was in this yard that hetaught himself to bowl, and the shortness of the pitch precluded histaking any run. From those long studious hours of practice he emergedwith a characteristic that was--and still remains--unique. Stott nevertook more than two steps before delivering the ball; frequently hebowled from a standing position, and batsmen have confessed that of allStott's puzzling mannerisms, this was the one to which they never becameaccustomed. S. R. L. Maturin, the finest bat Australia ever sent to thiscountry, has told me that to this peculiarity of delivery he attributedhis failure ever to score freely against Stott. It completely upsetone's habit of play, he said: one had no time to prepare for the flightof the ball; it came at one so suddenly. Other bowlers have sinceattempted some imitation of this method without success. They had notStott's physical advantages. 

Nevertheless, the shortness of that alley threw Stott back for twoyears. When he first emerged to try conclusions on the field, he foundhis length on the longer pitch utterly unreliable, and the effortnecessary to throw the ball another six yards, at first upset his slowlyacquired methods. 

It was not until he was twenty years old that Ginger Stott played in hisfirst Colts' match. 

The three years that had intervened had not been prosperous years forHampdenshire. Their team was a one-man team. Bobby Maisefield wasdeveloping into a fine bat (and other counties were throwing outinducements to him, trying to persuade him to qualify for first-classcricket), but he found no support, and Hampdenshire was never lookedupon as a coming county. The best of the minor counties in those yearswere Staffordshire and Norfolk. 

In the Colts' match Stott's analysis ran:

 overs maidens runs wickets 11·3 7 16 7

and reference to the score-sheet, which is still preserved among therecords of the County Club, shows that six of the seven wickets wereclean bowled. The Eleven had no second innings; the match was drawn, owing to rain. Stott has told me that the Eleven had to bat on a drywicket, but after making all allowances, the performance was certainlyremarkable. 

After this match Stott was, of course, played regularly. That yearHampdenshire rose once more to their old position at the head of theminor counties, and Maisefield, who had been seriously consideringSurrey's offer of a place in their Eleven after two years' qualificationby residence, decided to remain with the county which had given him hisfirst chance. 

During that season Stott did not record any performance so remarkable ashis feat in the Colts' match, but his record for the year waseighty-seven wickets with an average of 9·31; and it is worthy of noticethat Yorkshire made overtures to him, as he was qualified by birth toplay for the northern county. 

I think there must have been a wonderful _esprit de corps_ among themembers of that early Hampdenshire Eleven. There are other evidencesbeside this refusal of its two most prominent members to join the ranksof first-class cricket. Lord R----, the president of the H. C. C. C. , hastold me that this spirit was quite as marked as in the earlier case ofKent. He himself certainly did much to promote it, and his generosity inmaking good the deficits of the balance sheet, had a great influence onthe acceleration of Hampdenshire's triumph. 

In his second year, though Hampdenshire were again champions of thesecond-class counties, Stott had not such a fine average as in thepreceding season. Sixty-one wickets for eight hundred and sixty-eight(average 14·23) seems to show a decline in his powers, but that was awonderful year for batsmen (Maisefield scored seven hundred andforty-two runs, with an average of forty-two) and, moreover, that wasthe year in which Stott was privately practising his new theory. 

It was in this year that three very promising recruits, all since becomefamous, joined the Eleven, viz. : P. H. Evans, St. John Townley, andFlower the fast bowler. With these five cricketers Hampdenshire fullydeserved their elevation into the list of first-class counties. Curiously enough, they took the place of the old champions, Gloucestershire, who, with Somerset, fell back into the obscurity of thesecond-class that season. 

IV

I must turn aside for a moment at this point in order to explain the"new theory" of Stott's, to which I have referred, a theory which becamein practice one of the elements of his most astounding successes. 

Ginger Stott was not a tall man. He stood only 5 ft. 5¼ in. In hissocks, but he was tremendously solid; he had what is known as a "stocky"figure, broad and deep-chested. That was where his muscular power lay, for his abnormally long arms were rather thin, though his huge handswere powerful enough. 

Even without his "new theory, " Stott would have been an exceptionalbowler. His thoroughness would have assured his success. He studied hisart diligently, and practised regularly in a barn through the winter. His physique, too, was a magnificent instrument. That long, muscularbody was superbly steady on the short, thick legs. It gave him afulcrum, firm, apparently immovable. And those weirdly long, thin armscould move with lightning rapidity. He always stood with his handsbehind him, and then--as often as not without even one preliminarystep--the long arm would flash round and the ball be delivered, withoutgiving the batsman any opportunity of watching his hand; you could nevertell which way he was going to break. It was astonishing, too, the pacehe could get without any run. Poor Wallis used to call him the "humancatapult"; Wallis was always trying to find new phrases. 

The theory first came to Stott when he was practising at the nets. Itwas a windy morning, and he noticed that several times the balls hebowled swerved in the air. When those swerving balls came they werealmost unplayable. 

Stott made no remark to any one--he was bowling to the groundsman--butthe ambition to bowl "swerves, "[1] as they were afterwards called, tookpossession of him from that morning. It is true that he never masteredthe theory completely; on a perfectly calm day he could never dependupon obtaining any swerve at all, but, within limits, he developed histheory until he had any batsman practically at his mercy. 

He might have mastered the theory completely, had it not been for hisaccident--we must remember that he had only three seasons of first-classcricket--and, personally, I believe he would have achieved that completemastery. But I do not believe, as Stott did, that he could have taughthis method to another man. That belief became an obsession with him, andwill be dealt with later. 

My own reasons for doubting that Stott's "swerve" could have beentaught, is that it would have been necessary for the pupil to have hadStott's peculiarities, not only of method, but of physique. He used tospin the ball with a twist of his middle finger and thumb, just as youmay see a billiard professional spin a billiard ball. To do this in hismanner, it is absolutely necessary not only to have a very large andmuscular hand, but to have very lithe and flexible arm muscles, for thearm is moving rapidly while the twist is given, and there must be noantagonistic muscular action. Further, I believe that part of the secretwas due to the fact that Stott bowled from a standing position. Giventhese things, the rest is merely a question of long and assiduouspractice. The human mechanism is marvellously adaptable. I have seenStott throw a cricket ball half across the room with sufficient spin onthe ball to make it shoot back to him along the carpet. 

I have mentioned the wind as a factor in obtaining the swerve. It was ahead-wind that Stott required. I have seen him, for sport, toss acricket ball into the teeth of a gale, and make it describe thetrajectory of a badly sliced golf-ball. This is why the big pavilion atAilesworth is set at such a curious angle to the ground. It was built inthe winter following Hampdenshire's second season of first-classcricket, and it was so placed that when the wickets were pitched in aline with it, they might lie south-west and north-east, or in thedirection of the prevailing winds. 

V

The first time I ever saw Ginger Stott, was on the occasion of thehistoric encounter with Surrey; Hampdenshire's second engagement infirst-class cricket. The match with Notts, played at Trent Bridge a fewdays earlier, had not foreshadowed any startling results. The truth ofthe matter is that Stott had been kept, deliberately, in the background;and as matters turned out his services were only required to finish offNotts' second innings. Stott was even then a marked man, and theHampdenshire captain did not wish to advertise his methods too freelybefore the Surrey match. Neither Archie Findlater, who was captainingthe team that year, nor any other person, had the least conception ofhow unnecessary such a reservation was to prove. In his third year, whenStott had been studied by every English, Australian, and South Africanbatsman of any note, he was still as unplayable as when he made hisdébut in first-class cricket. 

I was reporting the Surrey match for two papers, and in company withpoor Wallis interviewed Stott before the first innings. 

His appearance made a great impression on me. I have, of course, methim, and talked with him many times since then, but my most vividmemory of him is the picture recorded in the inadequate professionaldressing-room of the old Ailesworth pavilion. 

I have turned up the account of my interview in an old press-cuttingbook, and I do not know that I can do better than quote that part of itwhich describes Stott's personal appearance. I wrote the account on theoff chance of being able to get it taken. It was one of my lucky hits. After that match, finished in a single day, my interview afforded copythat any paper would have paid heavily for, and gladly. 

Here is the description:

 "Stott--he is known to every one in Ailesworth as 'Ginger' Stott--is a short, thick-set young man, with abnormally long arms that are tanned a rich red up to the elbow. The tan does not, however, obliterate the golden freckles with which arm and face are richly speckled. There is no need to speculate as to the _raison d'être_ of his nickname. The hair of his head, a close, short crop, is a pale russet, and the hair on his hands and arms is a yellower shade of the same colour. 'Ginger' is, indeed, a perfectly apt description. He has a square chin and a thin-lipped, determined mouth. His eyes are a clear, but rather light blue, his forehead is good, broad, and high, and he has a well-proportioned head. One might have put him down as an engineer, essentially intelligent, purposeful, and reserved. "

The description is journalistic, but I do not know that I could improveupon the detail of it. I can see those queer, freckled, hairy arms ofhis as I write--the combination of colours in them produced an effectthat was almost orange. It struck one as unusual. .. . 

Surrey had the choice of innings, and decided to bat, despite the factthat the wicket was drying after rain, under the influence of a steadysouth-west wind and occasional bursts of sunshine. Would any captain inStott's second year have dared to take first innings under suchconditions? The question is farcical now, but not a single member of theHampdenshire Eleven had the least conception that the Surrey captain wasdeliberately throwing away his chances on that eventful day. 

Wallis and I were sitting together in the reporters' box. There wereonly four of us; two specials, --Wallis and myself, --a news-agencyreporter, and a local man. 

"Stott takes first over, " remarked Wallis, sharpening his pencil andarranging his watch and score-sheet--he was very meticulous in hismethods. "They've put him to bowl against the wind. He's medium right, isn't he?"

"Haven't the least idea, " I said. "He volunteered no information;Hampdenshire have been keeping him dark. "

Wallis sneered. "Think they've got a find, eh?" he said. "We'll wait andsee what he can do against first-class batting. "

We did not have to wait long. 

As usual, Thorpe and Harrison were first wicket for Surrey, and Thorpetook the first ball. 

It bowled him. It made his wicket look as untidy as any wicket I haveever seen. The off stump was out of the ground, and the other two weremarkedly divergent. 

"Damn it, I wasn't ready for him, " we heard Thorpe say in theprofessionals' room. Thorpe always had some excuse, but on this occasionit was justified. 

C. V. Punshon was the next comer, and he got his first ball through theslips for four, but Wallis looked at me with a raised eyebrow. 

"Punshon didn't know a lot about that, " he said, and then he added, "Isay, what a queer delivery the chap has. He stands and shoots 'em out. It's uncanny. He's a kind of human catapult. " He made a note of thephrase on his pad. 

Punshon succeeded in hitting the next ball, also, but it simply ran uphis bat into the hands of short slip. 

"Well, that's a sitter, if you like, " said Wallis. "What's the matterwith 'em?"

I was beginning to grow enthusiastic. 

"Look here, Wallis, " I said, "this chap's going to break records. "

Wallis was still doubtful. 

He was convinced before the innings was over. 

There must be many who remember the startling poster that heralded theearly editions of the evening papers:

 SURREY

 ALL OUT

 FOR 13 RUNS. 

For once sub-editors did not hesitate to give the score on the contentsbill. That was a proclamation which would sell. Inside, the headlineswere rich and varied. I have an old paper by me, yellow now, andbrittle, that may serve as a type for the rest. The headlines are asfollows:--

 SURREY AND HAMPDENSHIRE. 

 EXTRAORDINARY BOWLING PERFORMANCE. 

 DOUBLE HAT-TRICK. 

 SURREY ALL OUT IN 35 MINUTES FOR 13 RUNS. 

 STOTT TAKES 10 WICKETS FOR 5. 

The "double hat-trick" was six consecutive wickets, the last six, allclean bowled. 

"Good God!" Wallis said, when the last wicket fell, and he looked at mewith something like fear in his eyes. "This man will have to be barred;it means the end of cricket. "

VI

Stott's accident came during the high flood of Hampdenshire success. Fortwo years they held undisputed place as champion county, a place whichcould not be upset by the most ingenious methods of calculating points. They three times defeated Australia, and played four men in the testmatches. As a team they were capable of beating any Eleven opposed tothem. Not even the newspaper critics denied that. 

The accident appeared insignificant at the time. The match was againstNotts on the Trent Bridge ground. I was reporting for three papers;Wallis was not there. 

Stott had been taken off. Notts were a poor lot that year and I thinkFindlater did not wish to make their defeat appear too ignominious. Flower was bowling; it was a fast, true wicket, and Stott, who was asafe field, was at cover-point. 

G. L. Mallinson was batting and making good use of his opportunity; hewas, it will be remembered, a magnificent though erratic hitter. Flowerbowled him a short-pitched, fast ball, rather wide of the off-stump. Many men might have left it alone, for the ball was rising, and theslips were crowded, but Mallinson timed the ball splendidly, and droveit with all his force. He could not keep it on the ground, however, andStott had a possible chance. He leaped for it and just touched the ballwith his right hand. The ball jumped the ring at its first bound, andMallinson never even attempted to run. There was a big round of applausefrom the Trent Bridge crowd. 

I noticed that Stott had tied a handkerchief round his finger, but Iforgot the incident until I saw Findlater beckon to his best bowler, afew overs later. Notts had made enough runs for decency; it was time toget them out. 

I saw Stott walk up to Findlater and shake his head, and through myglasses I saw him whip the handkerchief from his finger and display hishand. Findlater frowned, said something and looked towards the pavilion, but Stott shook his head. He evidently disagreed with Findlater'sproposal. Then Mallinson came up, and the great bulk of his back hid thefaces of the other two. The crowd was beginning to grow excited at theinterruption. Every one had guessed that something was wrong. All roundthe ring men were standing up, trying to make out what was going on. 

I drew my inferences from Mallinson's face, for when he turned round andstrolled back to his wicket, he was wearing a broad smile. Through myfield glasses I could see that he was licking his lower lip with histongue. His shoulders were humped and his whole expression one of barelycontrolled glee. (I always see that picture framed in a circle; abioscopic presentation. ) He could hardly refrain from dancing. Thenlittle Beale, who was Mallinson's partner, came up and spoke to him, andI saw Mallinson hug himself with delight as he explained the situation. 

When Stott unwillingly came back to the pavilion, a low murmur ran roundthe ring, like the buzz of a great crowd of disturbed blue flies. Inthat murmur I could distinctly trace the signs of mixed feelings. Nodoubt the crowd had come there to witness the performances of the newphenomenon--the abnormal of every kind has a wonderful attraction forus--but, on the other hand, the majority wanted to see their own countywin. Moreover, Mallinson was giving them a taste of his abnormal powersof hitting, and the batsman appeals to the spectacular, more than thebowler. 

I ran down hurriedly to meet Stott. 

"Only a split finger, sir, " he said carelessly, in answer to myquestion; "but Mr. Findlater says I must see to it. "

I examined the finger, and it certainly did not seem to call forsurgical aid. Evidently it had been caught by the seam of the new ball;there was a fairly clean cut about half an inch long on the fleshyunderside of the second joint of the middle finger. 

"Better have it seen to, " I said. "We can't afford to lose you, youknow, Stott. "

Stott gave a laugh that was more nearly a snarl. "Ain't the first timeI've 'ad a cut finger, " he said scornfully. 

He had the finger bound up when I saw him again, but it had been done byan amateur. I learnt afterwards that no antiseptic had been used. Thatwas at lunch time, and Notts had made a hundred and sixty-eight for onewicket; Mallinson was not out, a hundred and three. I saw that the NottsEleven were in magnificent spirits. 

But after lunch Stott came out and took the first over. I don't knowwhat had passed between him and Findlater, but the captain had evidentlybeen over-persuaded. 

We must not blame Findlater. The cut certainly appeared trifling, it wasnot bad enough to prevent Stott from bowling, and Hampdenshire seemedpowerless on that wicket without him. It is very easy to distributeblame after the event, but most people would have done what Findlaterdid in those circumstances. 

The cut did not appear to inconvenience Stott in the least degree. Hebowled Mallinson with his second ball, and the innings was finished upin another fifty-seven minutes for the addition of thirty-eight runs. 

Hampdenshire made two hundred and thirty-seven for three wickets beforethe drawing of stumps, and that was the end of the match, for theweather changed during the night and rain prevented any further play. 

I, of course, stayed on in Nottingham to await results. I saw Stott onthe next day, Friday, and asked him about his finger. He made light ofit, but that evening Findlater told me over the bridge-table that he wasnot happy about it. He had seen the finger, and thought it showed atendency to inflammation. "I shall take him to Gregory in the morning ifit's not all right, " he said. Gregory was a well-known surgeon inNottingham. 

Again one sees, now, that the visit to Gregory should not have beenpostponed, but at the time one does not take extraordinary precautionsin such a case as this. A split finger is such an everyday thing, andone is guided by the average of experience. After all, if one wereconstantly to make preparation for the abnormal; ordinary life could notgo on. .. . 

I heard that Gregory pursed his lips over that finger when he hadlearned the name of his famous patient. "You'll have to be very carefulof this, young man, " was Findlater's report of Gregory's advice. It wasnot sufficient. I often wonder now whether Gregory might not have savedthe finger. If he had performed some small operation at once, cut awaythe poison, it seems to me that the tragedy might have been averted. Iam, I admit, a mere layman in these matters, but it seems to me thatsomething might have been done. 

I left Nottingham on Saturday after lunch--the weather was hopeless--andI did not make use of the information I had for the purposes of mypaper. I was never a good journalist. But I went down to Ailesworth onMonday morning, and found that Findlater and Stott had already gone toHarley Street to see Graves, the King's surgeon. 

I followed them, and arrived at Graves's house while Stott was in theconsulting-room. I hocussed the butler and waited with the patients. Among the papers, I came upon the famous caricature of Stott in thecurrent number of _Punch_--the "Stand-and-Deliver" caricature, in whichStott is represented with an arm about ten feet long, and the batsman islooking wildly over his shoulder to square leg, bewildered, with noconception from what direction the ball is coming. Underneath is written"Stott's New Theory--the Ricochet. Real Ginger. " While I was laughingover the cartoon, the butler came in and nodded to me. I followed himout of the room and met Findlater and Stott in the hall. 

Findlater was in a state of profanity. I could not get a sensible wordout of him. He was in a white heat of pure rage. The butler, who seemedas anxious as I to learn the verdict, was positively frightened. 

"Well, for God's sake tell me what Graves said, " I protested. 

Findlater's answer is unprintable, and told me nothing. 

Stott, however, quite calm and self-possessed, volunteered theinformation. "Finger's got to come off, sir, " he said quietly. "Doctorsays if it ain't off to-day or to-morrer, he won't answer for my 'and. "

This was the news I had to give to England. It was a great coup from thejournalistic point of view, but I made up my three columns with a heavyheart, and the congratulations of my editor only sickened me. I had someluck, but I should never have become a good journalist. 

The operation was performed successfully that evening, and Stott'scareer was closed. 

VII

I did not see Stott again till August, and then I had a long talk withhim on the Ailesworth County Ground, as together we watched the progressof Hampdenshire's defeat by Lancashire. 

"Oh! I can't learn him _nothing_, " he broke out, as Flower was hit tothe four corners of the ground, "'alf vollies and long 'ops and then afull pitch--'e's a disgrace. "

"They've knocked him off his length, " I protested. "On a wicket likethis . .. "

Stott shook his head. "I've been trying to learn 'im, " he said, "but hecan't never learn. 'E's got 'abits what you can't break 'im of. "

"I suppose it _is_ difficult, " I said vaguely. 

"Same with me, " went on Stott, "I've been trying to learn myself to bowlwithout my finger"--he held up his mutilated hand--"or left-'anded; butI can't. If I'd started that way . .. No! I'm always feeling for thatfinger as is gone. A second-class bowler I might be in time, not betternor that. "

"It's early days yet, " I ventured, intending encouragement, but Stottfrowned and shook his head. 

"I'm not going to kid myself, " he said, "I know. But I'm going to find ayoungster and learn 'im. On'y he must be young. 

"No 'abits, you know, " he explained. 

The next time I met Stott was in November. I ran up against him, literally, one Friday afternoon in Ailesworth. 

When he recognised me he asked me if I would care to walk out toStoke-Underhill with him. "I've took a cottage there, " he explained, "I'm to be married in a fortnight's time. "

His circumstances certainly warranted such a venture. The proceeds ofmatinée and benefit, invested for him by the Committee of the CountyClub, produced an income of nearly two pounds a week, and in addition tothis he had his salary as groundsman. I tendered my congratulations. 

"Oh! well, as to that, better wait a bit, " said Stott. 

He walked with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. Hehad the air of a man brooding over some project. 

"It _is_ a lottery, of course . .. " I began, but he interrupted me. 

"Oh that!" he said, and kicked a stone into the ditch; "take my chancesof that. It's the kid I'm thinking on. "

"The kid?" I repeated, doubtful whether he spoke of his fiancée, orwhether his nuptials pointed an act of reparation. 

"What, else 'ud I tie myself up for?" asked Stott. "I must 'ave a kid ofmy own and learn 'im from his cradle. It's come to that. "

"Oh! I understand, " I said; "teach him to bowl. "

"Ah!" replied Stott as an affirmative. "Learn 'im from his cradle;before 'e's got 'abits. When I started I'd never bowled a ball in mylife, and by good luck I started right. But I can't find another kidover seven years old in England as ain't never bowled a ball o' somesort and started 'abits. I've tried . .. "

"And you hope with your own boys. .. ?" I said. 

"Not 'ope, it's a cert, " said Stott. "I'll see no boy of mine touches aball afore he's fourteen, and then 'e'll learn from me; and learnright. From the first go off. " He was silent for a few seconds, and thenhe broke out in a kind of ecstasy. "My Gawd, 'e'll be a bowler such as'as never been, never in this world. He'll start where I left orf. He'll . .. " Words failed him, he fell back on the expletive he had used, repeating it with an awed fervour. "My Gawd!"

I had never seen Stott in this mood before. It was a revelation to me ofthe latent potentialities of the man, the remarkable depth and qualityof his ambitions. .. . 

VIII

I intended to be present at Stott's wedding, but I was not in Englandwhen it took place; indeed, for the next two years and a half I wasnever in England for more than a few days at a time. I sent him awedding-present, an inkstand in the guise of a cricket ball, with apen-rack that was built of little silver wickets. They were stilladvertised that Christmas as "Stott inkstands. "

Two years and a half of American life broke up many of my old habits ofthought. When I first returned to London I found that the cricket newsno longer held the same interest for me, and this may account for thefact that I did not trouble for some time to look up my old friendStott. 

In July, however, affairs took me to Ailesworth, and the associations ofthe place naturally led me to wonder how Stott's marriage had turnedout, and whether the much-desired son had been born to him. When mybusiness in Ailesworth was done, I decided to walk out toStoke-Underhill. 

The road passes the County Ground, and a match was in progress, but Iwalked by without stopping. I was wool-gathering. I was not thinking ofthe man I was going to see, or I should have turned in at the CountyGround, where he would inevitably have been found. Instead, I wasthinking of the abnormal child I had seen in the train that day;uselessly speculating and wondering. 

When I reached Stoke-Underhill I found the cottage which Stott had shownme. I had by then so far recovered my wits as to know that I should notfind Stott himself there, but from the look of the cottage I judged thatit was untenanted, so I made inquiries at the post-office. 

"No; he don't live here, now, sir, " said the postmistress; "he lives atPym, now, sir, and rides into Ailesworth on his bike. " She was evidentlyabout to furnish me with other particulars, but I did not care to hearthem. I was moody and distrait. I was wondering why I should bother myhead about so insignificant a person as this Stott. 

"You'll be sure to find Mr. Stott at the cricket ground, " thepostmistress called after me. 

Another two months of English life induced a return to my old habits ofthought. I found myself reverting to old tastes and interests. Thereversion was a pleasant one. In the States I had been forced out of mygroove, compelled to work, to strive, to think desperately if I wouldmaintain any standing among my contemporaries. But when the perpetualstimulus was removed, I soon fell back to the less strenuous methods ofmy own country. I had time, once more, for the calm reflection that isso unlike the urgent, forced, inventive thought of the Americanjournalist. I was braced by that thirty months' experience, perhapshardened a little, but by September my American life was fading into thebackground; I had begun to take an interest in cricket again. 

With the revival of my old interests, revived also my curiosity as toGinger Stott, and one Sunday in late September I decided to go down toPym. 

It was a perfect day, and I thoroughly enjoyed my four-mile walk fromGreat Hittenden Station. 

Pym is a tiny hamlet made up of three farms and a dozen scatteredcottages. Perched on one of the highest summits of the Hampden Hills andlost in the thick cover of beech woods, without a post-office or ashop, Pym is the most perfectly isolated village within a reasonabledistance of London. As I sauntered up the mile-long lane that climbs thesteep hill, and is the only connection between Pym and anythingapproaching a decent road, I thought that this was the place to which Ishould like to retire for a year, in order to write the book I had sooften contemplated, and never found time to begin. This, I reflected, was a place of peace, of freedom from all distraction, the place forcalm, contemplative meditation. 

I met no one in the lane, and there was no sign of life when I reachedwhat I must call the village, though the word conveys a wrong idea, forthere is no street, merely a cottage here and there, dropped haphazard, and situated without regard to its aspect. These cottages lie all onone's left hand; to the right a stretch of grass soon merges intobracken and bush, and then the beech woods enclose both, and surge downinto the valley and rise up again beyond, a great wave of green; as Isaw it then, not yet touched with the first flame of autumn. 

I inquired at the first cottage and received my direction to Stott'sdwelling. It lay up a little lane, the further of two cottages joinedtogether. 

The door stood open, and after a moment's hesitation and a light knock, I peered in. 

Sitting in a rocking-chair was a woman with black, untidy eyebrows, andon her knee, held with rigid attention, was the remarkable baby I hadseen in the train two months before. As I stood, doubtful and, I willconfess it, intimidated, suddenly cold and nervous, the child opened hiseyes and honoured me with a cold stare. Then he nodded, a reflective, recognisable nod. 

"'E remembers seein' you in the train, sir, " said the woman, "'e neverforgets any one. Did you want to see my 'usband? 'E's upstairs. "

So _this_ was the boy who was designed by Stott to become the greatestbowler the world had ever seen. .. . 

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A relatively easy task for the baseball thrower, but one verydifficult of accomplishment for the English bowler, who is not permittedby the laws of cricket to bend his elbow in delivering the ball. 

CHAPTER III

THE DISILLUSIONMENT OF GINGER STOTT

I

Stott maintained an obstinate silence as we walked together up to theCommon, a stretch of comparatively open ground on the plateau of thehill. He walked with his hands in his pockets and his head down, as hehad walked out from Ailesworth with me nearly three years before, buthis mood was changed. I was conscious that he was gloomy, depressed, perhaps a little unstrung. I was burning with curiosity. Now that I wasreleased from the thrall of the child's presence, I was eager to hearall there was to tell of its history. 

Presently we sat down under an ash-tree, one of three that guarded ashallow, muddy pond skimmed with weed. Stott accepted my offer of acigarette, but seemed disinclined to break the silence. 

I found nothing better to say than a repetition of the old phrase. "That's a very remarkable baby of yours, Stott, " I said. 

"Ah!" he replied, his usual substitute for "yes, " and he picked up apiece of dead wood and threw it into the little pond. 

"How old is he?" I asked. 

"Nearly two year. "

"Can he . .. " I paused; my imagination was reconstructing the scene ofthe railway carriage, and I felt a reflex of the hesitation shown by therubicund man when he had asked the same question. "Can he . .. Can hetalk?" It seemed so absurd a question to ask, yet it was essentially anatural question in the circumstances. 

"He can, but he won't. "

This was startling enough, and I pressed my enquiry. 

"How do you know? Are you sure he can?"

"Ah!" Only that irritating, monosyllabic assent. 

"Look here, Stott, " I said, "don't you want to talk about the child?"

He shrugged his shoulders and threw more wood into the pond with astrained attentiveness as though he were peculiarly anxious to hit someparticular wafer of the vivid, floating weed. For a full five minutes wemaintained silence. I was trying to subdue my impatience and my temper. I knew Stott well enough to know that if I displayed signs of either, Ishould get no information from him. My self-control was rewarded atlast. 

"I've 'eard 'im speak, " he said, "speak proper, too, not like a baby. "

He paused, and I grunted to show that I was listening, but as hevolunteered no further remark, I said: "What did you hear him say?"

"I dunno, " replied Stott, "somethin' about learnin' and talkin'. Ididn't get the rights of it, but the missus near fainted--_she_ thinks'e's Gawd A'mighty or suthing. "

"But why don't you make him speak?" I asked deliberately. 

"Make 'im!" said Stott, with a curl of his lip, "_make_ 'im! You try iton!"

I knew I was acting a part, but I wanted to provoke more information. "Well! Why not?" I said. 

"'Cos 'e'd look at you--that's why not, " replied Stott, "and you can'tno more face 'im than a dog can face a man. I shan't stand it muchlonger. "

"Curious, " I said, "very curious. "

"Oh! he's a blarsted freak, that's what 'e is, " said Stott, getting tohis feet and beginning to pace moodily up and down. 

I did not interrupt him. I was thinking of this man who had drawn hugecrowds from every part of England, who had been a national hero, andwho, now, was unable to face his own child. Presently Stott broke outagain. 

"To think of all the trouble I took when 'e was comin', " he said, stopping in front of me. "There was nothin' the missus fancied as Iwouldn't get. We was livin' in Stoke then. " He made a movement of hishead in the direction of Ailesworth. "Not as she was difficult, " he wenton thoughtfully. "She used to say 'I mussent get 'abits, George. ' Caughtthat from me; I was always on about that--then. You know, thinkin' oflearnin' 'im bowlin'. Things was different then; afore _'e_ came. " Hepaused again, evidently thinking of his troubles. 

Sympathetically, I was wondering how far the child had separated husbandand wife. There was the making of a tragedy here, I thought; but whenStott, after another period of pacing up and down, began to speak againI found that his tragedy was of another kind. 

"Learn _'im_ bowling!" he said, and laughed a mirthless laugh. "My Gawd!it 'ud take something. No fear; that little game's off. And I could a'done it if he'd been a decent or'nery child, 'stead of a blarsted freak. There won't never be another, neither. This one pretty near killed themissus. Doctor said it'd be 'er last. .. . With an 'ead like that, whacherexpect?"

"Can he walk?" I asked. 

"Ah! Gets about easy enough for all 'is body and legs is so small. Whenthe missus tries to stop 'im--she's afraid 'e'll go over--'e just looksat 'er and she 'as to let 'im 'ave 'is own way. "

II

Later, I reverted to that speech of the child's, that intelligent, illuminating speech that seemed to prove that there was indeed apowerful, thoughtful mind behind those profoundly speculative eyes. 

"That time he spoke, Stott, " I said, "was he alone?"

"Ah!" assented Stott. "In the garden, practisin' walkin' all by'imself. "

"Was that the only time?"

"Only time _I've_ 'eard 'im. "

"Was it lately?"

"'Bout six weeks ago. "

"And he has never made a sound otherwise, cried, laughed?"

"'Ardly. 'E gives a sort o' grunt sometimes, when 'e wants anything--andpoints. "

"He's very intelligent. "

"Worse than that, 'e's a freak, I tell you. "

With the repetition of this damning description, Stott fell back intohis moody pacing, and this time I failed to rouse him from his gloom. "Oh! forget it, " he broke out once, when I asked him another question, and I saw that he was not likely to give me any more information thatday. 

We walked back together, and I said good-bye to him at the end of thelane which led up to his cottage. 

"Not comin' up?" he asked, with a nod of his head towards his home. 

"Well! I have to catch that train . .. " I prevaricated, looking at mywatch. I did not wish to see that child again; my distaste was evenstronger than my curiosity. 

Stott grinned. "We don't 'ave many visitors, " he said. "Well, I'll comea bit farther with you. "

He came to the bottom of the hill, and after he left me he took the roadthat goes over the hill to Wenderby. It would be about seven miles backto Pym by that road. .. . 

III

I spent the next afternoon in the Reading Room of the British Museum. Iwas searching for a precedent, and at last I found one in the story ofChristian Heinrich Heinecken, [2] who was born at Lubeck on February 6, 1721. There were marked points of difference between the development ofHeinecken and that of Stott's child. Heinecken was physically feeble; atthe age of three he was still being fed at the breast. The Stottprecocity appeared to be physically strong; his body looked small andundeveloped, it is true, but this was partly an illusion produced by theabnormal size of the head. Again Heinecken learned to speak very early;at ten months old he was asking intelligent questions, at eighteenmonths he was studying history, geography, Latin and anatomy; whereasthe Stott child had only once been heard to speak at the age of twoyears, and had not, apparently, begun any study at all. 

From this comparison it might seem at first that the balance ofprecocity lay in the Heinecken scale. I drew another inference. I arguedthat the genius of the Stott child far outweighed the genius ofChristian Heinecken. 

Little Heinecken in his four years of life suffered the mentalexperience--with certain necessary limitations--of a developed brain. Hegathered knowledge as an ordinary child gathers knowledge, the onlydifference being that his rate of assimilation was as ten to one. 

But little Stott had gathered no knowledge from books. He had been bornof ignorant parents, he was being brought up among uneducated people. Yet he had wonderful intellectual gifts; surely he must have one aboveall others--the gift of reason. His brain must be constructive, logical;he must have the power of deduction. He must even at an extraordinarilyearly age, say six months, have developed some theory of life. He mustbe withholding his energy, deliberately; declining to exhibit hispowers, holding his marvellous faculties in reserve. Here was surely acase of genius which, comparable in some respects to the genius ofHeinecken, yet far exceeded it. 

As I developed my theory, my eagerness grew. And then suddenly aninspiration came to me. In my excitement I spoke aloud and smacked thedesk in front of me with my open hand. "Why, of course!" I said. "Thatis the key. "

An old man in the next seat scowled fiercely. The attendants in thecentral circular desk all looked up. Other readers turned round andstared at me. I had violated the sacred laws of the Reading Room. I sawone of the librarians make a sign to an attendant and point to me. 

I gathered up my books quickly and returned them at the central desk. Myself-consciousness had returned, and I was anxious to be away from theobservation of the many dilettante readers who found my appearance moreengrossing than the books with which they were dallying on some pretextor another. 

Yet, curiously, when I reached the street, the theory which had come tome in the Museum with the force and vividness of an illuminating dreamhad lost some of its glamour. Nevertheless, I set it out as it thenshaped itself in my mind. 

The great restraining force in the evolution of man, so I thought, hasbeen the restriction imposed by habit. What we call instinct is ahereditary habit. This is the first guiding principle in the life of thehuman infant. Upon this instinct we immediately superimpose the habitsof reason, all the bodily and intellectual conventions that have beenhanded down from generation to generation. We learn everything we knowas children by the hereditary, simian habit of imitation. The child ofintellectual, cultured parents, born into savage surroundings, becomesthe slave of this inherited habit--call it tendency, if you will, theintention is the same. I elaborated the theory by instance andintrospection, and found no flaw in it. .. . 

And here, by some freak of nature, was a child born without thesehabits. During the period of gestation, one thought had dominated theminds of both parents--the desire to have a son born without habits. Itdoes not seriously affect the theory that the desire had a peculiar endin view; the wish, the urgent, controlling, omnipotent will had beenthere, and the result included far more than the specific intention. 

Already some of my distaste for the Stott child had vanished. It wasaccountable, and therefore no longer fearful. The child was supernormal, a cause of fear to the normal man, as all truly supernormal things areto our primitive, animal instincts. This is the fear of the wild thing;when we can explain and give reasons, the horror vanishes. We are menagain. 

I did not quite recover the glow of my first inspiration, but the theoryremained with me; I decided to make a study of the child, to submitknowledge to his reason. I would stand between him and the delimitingtraining of the pedagogue, I thought. 

Then I reached home, and my life was changed. 

This story is not of my own life, and I have no wish to enter into thecurious and saddening experiences which stood between me and the childof Ginger Stott for nearly six years. In that time my thoughts strayednow and again to that cottage in the little hamlet on those woodedhills. Often I thought "When I have time I will go and see that childagain if he is alive. " But as the years passed, the memory of him grewdim, even the memory of his father was blurred over by a thousand newimpressions. So it chanced that for nearly six years I heard no word ofStott and his supernormal infant, and then chance again intervened. Mylong period of sorrow came to an end almost as suddenly as it had begun, and by a coincidence I was once more entangled in the strange web of theabnormal. 

In this story of Victor Stott I have bridged these six years in thepages that follow. In doing this I have been compelled to draw to acertain extent on my imagination, but the main facts are true. They havebeen gathered from first-hand authority only, from Henry Challis, fromMrs. Stott, and from her husband; though none, I must confess, has beenchecked by that soundest of all authorities, Victor Stott himself, whomight have given me every particular in accurate detail, had it not beenfor those peculiarities of his which will be explained fully in theproper place. 

FOOTNOTES:

[2] See the Teutsche Bibliothek and Schoneich's account of the child ofLubeck. 

PART TWO

THE CHILDHOOD OF THE WONDER

PART TWO

THE CHILDHOOD OF THE WONDER

CHAPTER IV

THE MANNER OF HIS BIRTH

I

Stoke-Underhill lies in the flat of the valley that separates theHampden from the Quainton Hills. The main road from London to Ailesworthdoes not pass through Stoke, but from the highway you can see the ascentof the bridge over the railway, down the vista of a straight mile ofside road; and, beyond, a glimpse of scattered cottages. That is all, and as a matter of fact, no one who is not keeping a sharp look-outwould ever notice the village, for the eye is drawn to admire the bluffof Deane Hill, the highest point of the Hampdens, which lowers over thelittle hamlet of Stoke and gives it a second name; and to the churchtower of Chilborough Beacon, away to the right, another landmark. 

The attraction which Stoke-Underhill held for Stott, lay not in itsseclusion or its picturesqueness but in its nearness to the CountyGround. Stott could ride the two flat miles which separated him from thescene of his work in ten minutes, and Ailesworth station is only a milebeyond. So when he found that there was a suitable cottage to let inStoke, he looked no farther for a home; he was completely satisfied. 

Stott's absorption in any matter that was occupying his mind made himexceedingly careless about the detail of his affairs. He took the firstcottage that offered when he looked for a home, he took the first womanwho offered when he looked for a wife. 

Stott was not an attractive man to women. He was short and plain, and hehad an appearance of being slightly deformed, a "monkeyish" look, due tohis build and his long arms. Still, he was famous, and might, doubtless, have been accepted by a dozen comely young women for that reason, evenafter his accident. But if Stott was unattractive to women, women wereeven more unattractive to Stott. "No opinion of women?" he used to say. "Ever seen a gel try to throw a cricket ball? You 'ave? Well, ain't thatenough to put you off women?" That was Stott's intellectual standard;physically, he had never felt drawn to women. 

Ellen Mary Jakes exhibited no superiority over her sisters in the matterof throwing a cricket ball. She was a friend of Ginger's mother, andshe was a woman of forty-two, who had long since been relegated to someremote shelf of the matrimonial exchange. But her physical disadvantageswere outbalanced by her mental qualities. Ellen Mary was not abook-worm, she read nothing but the evening and Sunday papers, but shehad a reasoning and intelligent mind. 

She had often contemplated the state of matrimony, and had made morethan one tentative essay in that direction. She had walked out withthree or four sprigs of the Ailesworth bourgeoisie in her time, and theshadow of middle-age had crept upon her before she realised that howeverpliant her disposition, her lack of physical charm put her at the mercyof the first bright-eyed rival. At thirty-five Ellen had decided, withadmirable philosophy, that marriage was not for her, and had assumed, with apparent complacency, the outward evidences of a dignifiedspinsterhood. She had discarded gay hats and ribbons, imitationjewellery, unreliable cheap shoes, and chill diaphanous stockings, andhad found some solace for her singleness in more comfortable andsuitable apparel. 

When Ellen, a declared spinster of seven years' standing, was firsttaken into the confidence of Ginger Stott's mother, the scheme which sheafterwards elaborated immediately presented itself to her mind. Thisfact is a curious instance of Ellen Mary's mobility of intellect, andthe student of heredity may here find matter for careful thought. [3]

The confidence in question was Ginger's declared intention of becomingthe father of the world's greatest bowler. Mrs. Stott was a dark, garrulous, rather deaf little woman, with a keen eye for the mainchance; she might have become a successful woman of business if she hadnot been by nature both stingy and a cheat. When her son presented hisdetermination, her first thought was to find some woman who would notdissipate her son's substance, and in her opinion--not expressed toGinger--the advertised purpose of the contemplated marriage evidenced awasteful disposition. 

Mrs. Stott did not think of Ellen Mary as a possible daughter-in-law, but she did hold forth for an hour and three-quarters on thecontemptible qualities of the young maidens, first of Ailesworth, andthen with a wider swoop that was not justified by her limitedexperience, of the girls of England, Scotland, and Ireland at large. 

It required the flexible reasoning powers of Ellen Mary to find asolution of the problem. Any ordinary, average woman of forty-two, adeclared spinster of seven years' standing, who had lived all her lifein a provincial town, would have been mentally unable to realise thepossibilities of the situation. Such a representative of the decayingsexual instinct would have needed the stimulus of courtship, at theleast of some hint of preference displayed by the suitor. Ruled by theconventions which hold her sex in bondage, she would have deemed itunwomanly to make advances by any means other than innuendo, the subtlesuggestions which are the instruments of her sex, but which are oftentoo delicate to pierce the understanding of the obtuse and slow-wittedmale. 

Ellen Mary stood outside the ruck that determines the destinies of allsuch typical representatives. She considered the idea presented to herby Mrs. Stott with an open and mobile intelligence. She weighed thecharacter of Ginger, the possibilities of rejection, and the influenceof Mrs. Stott; and she gave no thought to the conventions, nor to thecriticisms of Ailesworth society. When she had decided that such chancesas she could calculate were in her favour, Ellen made up her mind, walked out to the County Ground one windy October forenoon, anddiscovered Ginger experimenting with grass seed in a shed off thepavilion. 

In this shed she offered herself, while Ginger worked on, attentive butunresponsive. Perhaps she did not make an offer so much as state a case. A masterly case, without question; for who can doubt that Stott, howeverprocrastinating and unwilling to make a definite overture, must alreadyhave had some type of womanhood in his mind; some conception, the seedof an ideal. 

I find a quality of romance in this courageous and unusual wooing ofEllen Mary's; but more, I find evidences of the remarkable quality ofher intelligence. In other circumstances the name of Ellen Mary Jakesmight have stood for individual achievement; instead of that, she isremembered as a common woman who _happened_ to be the mother of VictorStott. But when the facts are examined, can we say that chance entered?If ever the birth of a child was deliberately designed by both parents, it was in the case under consideration. And in what a strange settingwas the inception first displayed. 

Ellen Mary, a gaunt, tall, somewhat untidy woman, stood at the narrowdoor of the little shed off the Ailesworth pavilion; with one hand, shoulder-high, she steadied herself against the door frame, with theother she continually pushed forward the rusty bonnet which had beenloosened during her walk by the equinoctial gale that now tore at thedoor of the shed, and necessitated the employment of a wary foot to keepthe door from slamming. With all these distractions she still made goodher case, though she had to raise her voice above the multitudinoussounds of the wind, and though she had to address the unresponsiveshoulders of a man who bent over shallow trays of earth set on a trestletable under the small and dirty window. It is heroic, but she had herreward in full measure. Presently her voice ceased, and she waited insilence for the answer that should decide her destiny. There was aninterval broken only by the tireless passion of the wind, and thenGinger Stott, the best-known man in England, looked up and staredthrough the incrusted pane of glass before him at the dim vision ofstooping grass and swaying hedge. Unconsciously his hand strayed to hispockets, and then he said in a low, thoughtful voice: "Well! I dunno whynot. "

II

Dr. O'Connell's face was white and drawn, and the redness of his eyelidsmore pronounced than ever as he faced Stott in the pale October dawn. Heclutched at his beard with a nervous, combing movement, as he shook hishead decidedly in answer to the question put to him. 

"If it's not dead, now, 'twill be in very few hours, " he said. 

Stott was shaken by the feeble passion of a man who has spent many wearyhours of suspense. His anger thrilled out in a feeble stream ofhackneyed profanities. 

O'Connell looked down on him with contempt. At sunrise, after asleepless night, a man is a creature of unrealised emotions. 

"Damn it, control yourself, man!" growled O'Connell, himselfuncontrolled, "your wife'll pull through with care, though she'll neverhave another child. " O'Connell did not understand; he was an Irishman, and no cricketer; he had been called in because he had a reputation forhis skill in obstetrics. 

Stott stared at him fiercely. The two men seemed as if about to grappledesperately for life in the windy, grey twilight. 

O'Connell recovered his self-control first, and began again to clawnervously at his beard. "Don't be a fool, " he said, "it's only what youcould expect. Her first child, and her a woman of near fifty. " Hereturned to the upstairs room; Stott seized his cap and went out intothe chill world of sunrise. 

"She'll do, if there are no complications, " said O'Connell to thenurse, as he bent over the still, exhausted figure of Mrs. Stott. "She'sa wonderful woman to have delivered such a child alive. "

The nurse shivered, and avoiding any glance at the huddle that lay on animprovised sofa-bed, she said: "It can't live, can it?"

O'Connell, still intent on his first patient, shook his head. "Nevercried after delivery, " he muttered--"the worst sign. " He was silent fora moment and then he added: "But, to be sure, it's a freak of somekind. " His scientific curiosity led him to make a further investigation. He left the bed and began to examine the huddle on the sofa-couch. Victor Stott owed his life, in the first instance, to this scientificcuriosity of O'Connell's. 

The nurse, a capable, but sentimental woman, turned to the window andlooked out at the watery trickle of feeble sunlight that now illuminedthe wilderness of Stott's garden. 

"Nurse!" The imperative call startled her; she turned nervously. 

"Yes, doctor?" she said, making no movement towards him. 

"Come here!" O'Connell was kneeling by the sofa. "There seems to becomplete paralysis of all the motor centres, " he went on; "but thechild's not dead. We'll try artificial respiration. "

The nurse overcame her repugnance by a visible effort. "Is it . .. Is itworth while?" she asked, regarding the flaccid, tumbled, wax-like thing, with its bloated, white globe of a skull. Every muscle of it was relaxedand limp, its eyes shut, its tiny jaw hanging. "Wouldn't it be better tolet it die. .. ?"

O'Connell did not seem to hear her. He waved an impatient hand for herassistance. "Outside my experience, " he muttered, "no heart-beatdiscernible, no breath . .. Yet it is indubitably alive. " He depressedthe soft, plastic ribs and gave the feeble heart a gentle squeeze. 

"It's beating, " he ejaculated, after a pause, with an ear close to thelittle chest, "but still no breath! Come!"

The diminutive lungs were as readily open to suggestion as the weeheart: a few movements of the twigs they called arms, and the breathcame. O'Connell closed the mouth and it remained closed, adjusted thelimbs, and they stayed in the positions in which they were placed. Atlast he gently lifted the lids of the eyes. 

The nurse shivered and drew back. Even O'Connell was startled, for theeyes that stared into his own seemed to be heavy with a broodingintelligence. .. . 

Stott came back at ten o'clock, after a morose trudge through the mistyrain. He found the nurse in the sitting-room. 

"Doctor gone?" he asked. 

The nurse nodded. 

"Dead, I suppose?" Stott gave an upward twist of his head towards theroom above. 

The nurse shook her head. 

"Can't live though?" There was a note of faint hope in his voice. 

The nurse drew herself together and sighed deeply. "Yes! we believeit'll live, Mr. Stott, " she said. "But . .. It's a very remarkable baby. "

How that phrase always recurred!

III

There were no complications, but Mrs. Stott's recovery was not rapid. Itwas considered advisable that she should not see the child. She thoughtthat they were lying to her, that the child was dead and, so, resignedherself. But her husband saw it. 

He had never seen so young an infant before, and, just for one moment, he believed that it was a normal child. 

"What an 'ead!" was his first ejaculation, and then he realised thesignificance of that sign. Fear came into his eyes, and his mouth fellopen. "'Ere, I say, nurse, it's . .. It's a wrong 'un, ain't it?" hegasped. 

"I'm _sure_ I can't tell you, Mr. Stott, " broke out the nursehysterically. She had been tending that curious baby for three hours, and she was on the verge of a break-down. There was no wet-nurse to behad, but a woman from the village had been sent for. She was expectedevery moment. 

"More like a tadpole than anything, " mused the unhappy father. 

"Oh! Mr. Stott, for goodness' sake, _don't_, " cried the nurse. "If youonly knew. .. . "

"Knew what?" questioned Stott, still staring at the motionless figure ofhis son, who lay with closed eyes, apparently unconscious. 

"There's something--I don't know, " began the nurse, and then after apause, during which she seemed to struggle for some means of expression, she continued with a sigh of utter weariness, "You'll know when it opensits eyes. Oh! Why doesn't that woman come, the woman you sent for?"

"She'll be 'ere directly, " replied Stott. "What d'you mean about therebein' something . .. Something what?"

"Uncanny, " said the nurse without conviction. "I do wish that womanwould come. I've been up the best part of the night, and now . .. "

"Uncanny? As how?" persisted Stott. 

"Not normal, " explained the nurse. "I can't tell you more than that. "

"But 'ow? What way?"

He did not receive an answer then, for the long expected relief came atlast, a great hulk of a woman, who became voluble when she saw the childshe had come to nurse. 

"Oh! dear, oh! dear, " the stream began. "How unforchnit, and 'er first, too. It'll be a idjit, I'm afraid. Mrs. 'Arrison's third was the veryspit of it. .. . "

The stream ran on, but Stott heard no more. An idiot! He had fathered anidiot! That was the end of his dreams and ambitions! He had had anhour's sleep on the sitting-room sofa. He went out to his work at theCounty Ground with a heart full of blasphemy. 

When he returned at four o'clock he met the stout woman on the doorstep. She put up a hand to her rolling breast, closed her eyes tightly, andgasped as though completely overcome by this trifling rencounter. 

"'Ow is it?" questioned the obsessed Stott. 

"Oh dear! Oh dear!" panted the stout woman, "the leas' thing upsets methis afternoon. .. . " She wandered away into irrelevant fluency, but Stottwas autocratic; his insistent questions overcame the inertia of evenMrs. Reade at last. The substance of her information, freed fromextraneous matter, was as follows:

"Oh! 'ealthy? It'll live, I've no doubt, if that's what you mean; but'elpless. .. ! There, 'elpless is no word. .. . Learn 'im to open his mouth, learn 'im to close 'is 'ands, learn 'im to go to sleep, learn 'imeverythink. I've never seen nothink like it, never in all my days, andI've 'elped to bring a few into the world. .. . I can't begin to tell youabout it, Mr. Stott, and that's the solemn truth. When 'e first lookedat me, I near 'ad a faint. A old-fashioned, wise sort of look as 'emight 'a been a 'undred. 'Lord 'elp us, nurse, ' I says, 'Lord 'elp us. 'I was that opset, I didn't rightly know what I was a-saying. .. . "

Stott pushed past the agitated Mrs. Reade, and went into thesitting-room. He had had neither breakfast nor lunch; there was no signof any preparation for his tea, and the fireplace was grey with thecinders of last night's fire. For some minutes he sat in deepdespondency, a hero faced with the uncompromising detail of domesticneglect. Then he rose and called to the nurse. 

She appeared at the head of the steep, narrow staircase. "Sh!" shewarned, with a finger to her lips. 

"I'm goin' out again, " said Stott in a slightly modulated voice. 

"Mrs. Reade's coming back presently, " replied the nurse, and looked overher shoulder. 

"Want me to wait?" asked Stott. 

The nurse came down a few steps. "It's only in case any one was wanted, "she began, "I've got two of 'em on my hands, you see. They're both doingwell as far as that goes. Only . .. " She broke off and drifted into smalltalk. Ever and again she stopped and listened intently, and looked backtowards the half-open door of the upstairs room. 

Stott fidgeted, and then, as the flow of conversation gave no sign ofrunning dry, he dammed it abruptly. "Look 'ere, miss, " he said, "I've'ad nothing to eat since last night. "

"Oh! dear!" ejaculated the nurse. "If--perhaps, if you'd just stay hereand listen, I could get you something. " She seemed relieved to have someexcuse for coming down. 

While she bustled about the kitchen, Stott, half-way upstairs, stayedand listened. The house was very silent, the only sound was the hushedclatter made by the nurse in the kitchen. There was an atmosphere ofwariness about the place that affected even so callous a person asStott. He listened with strained attention, his eyes fixed on thehalf-open door. He was not an imaginative man, but he was beset withapprehension as to what lay behind that door. He looked for somethinginhuman that might come crawling through the aperture, somethinggrotesque, preternaturally wise and threatening--something horriblyunnatural. 

The window of the upstairs room was evidently open, and now and againthe door creaked faintly. When that happened Stott gripped the handrail, and grew damp and hot. He looked always at the shadows under the door. If it crawled . .. 

The nurse stood at the door of the sitting-room while Stott ate, andpresently Mrs. Reade came grunting and panting up the brick path. 

"I'm going out, now, " said Stott resolutely, and he rose to his feet, though his meal was barely finished. 

"You'll be back before Mrs. Reade goes?" asked the nurse, and passed ahand over her tired eyes. "She'll be here till ten o'clock. I'm going tolie down. "

"I'll be back by ten, " Stott assured her as he went out. 

He did come back at ten o'clock, but he was stupidly drunk. 

IV

The Stotts' cottage was no place to live in during the next few days, but the nurse made one stipulation: Mr. Stott must come home to sleep. He slept on an improvised bed in the sitting-room, and during the nightthe nurse came down many times and listened to the sound of his snores. She would put her ear against the door, and rest her nerves with thethought of human companionship. Sometimes she opened the door quietlyand watched him as he slept. Except at night, when he was rarely quitesober, Stott only visited his cottage once a day, at lunch time; fromseven in the morning till ten at night he remained in Ailesworth savefor this one call of inquiry. 

It was such a still house. Ellen Mary only spoke when speech wasabsolutely required, and then her words were the fewest possible, andwere spoken in a whisper. The child made no sound of any kind. Even Mrs. Reade tried to subdue her stertorous breathing, to move with lessponderous quakings. The neighbours told her she looked thinner. 

Little wonder that during the long night vigil the nurse, movingsilently between the two upstairs rooms, should pause on the landing andlean over the handrail; little wonder that she should give a long sighof relief when she heard the music of Stott's snore ascend from thesitting-room. 

O'Connell called twice every day during the first week, not because itwas necessary for him to visit his two patients, but because the infantfascinated him. He would wait for it to open its eyes, and then hewould get up and leave the room hurriedly. Always he intended to returnthe infant's stare, but when the opportunity was given to him, he alwaysrose and left the room--no matter how long and deliberately he hadbraced himself to another course of action. 

It was on a Thursday that the baby was born, and it was on the followingThursday that the circumstance of the household was reshaped. 

O'Connell came in the morning, full of resolution. After he hadpronounced Mrs. Stott well on the way to recovery, he paid the usualvisit to his younger patient. The child lay, relaxed, at full length, inthe little cot which had been provided for him. His eyes were, as usual, closed, and he had all the appearance of the ordinary hydrocephalicidiot. 

O'Connell sat down by the cot, listened to the child's breathing andheart-beat, lifted and let fall again the lax wrist, turned back theeyelid, revealing only the white of the upturned eyeball, and thencomposed himself to await the natural waking of the child, if it wereasleep--always a matter of uncertainty. 

The nurse stood near him, silent, but she looked away from the cot. 

"Hydrocephalus!" murmured O'Connell, staring at his tiny patient, "hydrocephalus, without a doubt. Eh? nurse!"

"Yes, perhaps! I don't know, doctor. "

"Oh, not a doubt of it, not a doubt, " repeated O'Connell, and then camea flicker of the child's eyelids and a weak crumpling of the tiny hand. 

O'Connell caught his breath and clawed at his beard. "Hydrocephalus, " hemuttered with set jaw and drawn eyebrows. 

The tiny hand straightened with a movement that suggested the recoveryof crushed grass, the mouth opened in a microscopic yawn, and then theeyelids were slowly raised and a steady unwavering stare of profoundestintelligence met O'Connell's gaze. 

He clenched his hands, shifted in his chair, and then rose abruptly andturned to the window. 

"I--it won't be necessary for me to come again, nurse, " he said curtly;"they are both doing perfectly well. "

"Not come again?" There was dismay in the nurse's question. 

"No! No! It's unnecessary . .. " He broke off, and made for the doorwithout another glance in the direction of the cot. 

Nurse followed him downstairs. 

"If I'm wanted--you can easily send for me, " said O'Connell, as he wentout. As he moved away he dragged at his beard and murmured:"Hydrocephalus, not a doubt of it. "

Following his departure, Mrs. Reade heard curious and most unwontedlaughter, and cautiously blundered downstairs to investigate. She foundthe nurse in an advanced condition of hysteria, laughing, gurgling, weeping, and intermittently crying in a shrill voice: "Oh! Lord havemercy; Lord ha' mercy!"

"Now, see you 'ere, my dear, " said Mrs. Reade, when nurse had beenrecovered to a red-eyed sanity, "it's time she was told. I've never 'eldwith keepin' it from 'er, myself, and I've 'ad more experience thanmany. .. . " Mrs. Reade argued with abundant recourse to parenthesis. 

"Is she strog edough?" asked the nurse, still with tears in her voice;"cad she bear the sight of hib?" She blew her nose vigorously, and thencontinued with greater clearness: "I'm afraid it may turn her head. "

Out of her deep store of wisdom, Mrs. Reade produced a fact which sheelaborated and confirmed by apt illustration, adducing more particularlythe instance of Mrs. Harrison's third. "She's 'is mother, " was theessence of her argument, a fact of deep and strange significance. 

The nurse yielded, and so the circumstance of Stott's household waschanged, and Stott himself was once more able to come home to meals. 

The nurse, wisely, left all diplomacy to the capable Mrs. Reade, a womanspecially fitted by nature for the breaking of news. She delivered along, a record-breaking circumlocution, and it seemed that Ellen Mary, who lay with closed eyes, gathered no hint of its import. But when theimpressive harangue was slowly rustling to collapse like an exhaustedballoon, she opened her eyes and said quite clearly, "What's wrong with 'im, then?"

The question had the effect of reinflation, but at last the child itselfwas brought, and it was open-eyed. 

The supreme ambition of all great women--and have not all women thepotentialities of greatness?--is to give birth to a god. That ambitionit is which is marred by the disappointing birth of a female child--whenthe man-child is born, there is always hope, and slow is the realisationof failure. That realisation never came to Ellen Mary. She accepted herchild with the fear that is adoration. When she dropped her eyes beforeher god's searching glance, she did it in reverence. She hid her faithfrom the world, but in her heart she believed that she was blessed aboveall women. In secret, she worshipped the inscrutable wonder that hadused her as the instrument of his incarnation. Perhaps she wasright. .. . 

FOOTNOTES:

[3] A study of genius shows that in a percentage of cases so large as toexclude the possibility of coincidence, the exceptional man, whether inthe world of action, of art, or of letters, seems to inherit hismagnificent powers through the female line. Sir Francis Galton, it istrue, did not make a great point of this curious observation, but thetendency of more recent analyses is all in the direction of confirmingthe hypothesis; and it would seem to hold good in the converseproposition, namely, that the exceptional woman inherits her qualitiesfrom her father. 

CHAPTER V

HIS DEPARTURE FROM STOKE-UNDERHILL

I

The village of Stoke was no whit intimidated by the news that Mrs. Readesowed abroad. The women exclaimed and chattered, the men gaped and shooktheir heads, the children hung about the ruinous gate that shut them outfrom the twenty-yard strip of garden which led up to Stott's cottage. Curiosity was the dominant emotion. Any excuse was good enough to makefriendly overtures, but the baby remained invisible to all save Mrs. Reade; and the village community kept open ears while the lust of itseyes remained, perforce, unsatisfied. If Stott's gate slammed in thewind, every door that commanded a view of that gate was opened, andheads appeared, and bare arms--the indications of women who nodded toeach other, shook their heads, pursed their lips and withdrew for thetime to attend the pressure of household duty. Later, even that gateslamming would reinvigorate the gossip of backyards and front doorways. 

The first stranger to force an entry was the rector. He was an Oxfordman who, in his youth, had been an ardent disciple of the school thatattempts the reconciliation of Religion and Science. He had beenambitious, but nature had predetermined his career by giving him a headof the wrong shape. At Oxford his limitations had not been clearlydefined, and on the strength of a certain speech at the Union, he creptinto a London west-end curacy. There he attempted to demonstrate theprinciple of reconciliation from the pulpit, but his vicar and hisbishop soon recognised that excellent as were his intentions, he wasdoing better service to agnosticism than to his own religion. As aresult of this clerical intrigue he was vilely marooned on the savageisland of Stoke-Underhill, where he might preach as much science as hewould to the natives, for there was no fear of their comprehending him. Fifteen years of Stoke had brought about a reaction. Nature had made hima feeble fanatic, and he was now as ardent an opponent of science as hehad once been a defender. In his little mind he believed that his earlyreading had enabled him to understand all the weaknesses of thescientific position. His name was Percy Crashaw. 

Mrs. Stott could not deny her rector the right of entry, and he insistedon seeing the infant, who was not yet baptised--a shameful neglect, according to Crashaw, for the child was nearly six weeks old. Nor hadMrs. Stott been "churched. " Crashaw had good excuse for pressing hiscall. 

Mrs. Stott refused to face the village. She knew that the place was allagape, eager to stare at what they considered some "new kind of idiot. "Let them wait, was Ellen Mary's attitude. Her pride was a laterdevelopment. In those early weeks she feared criticism. 

But she granted Crashaw's request to see the child, and after theinterview (the term is precise) the rector gave way on the question of aprivate ceremony, though he had indignantly opposed the scheme when itwas first mooted. It may be that he conceived an image of himself withthat child in his arms, the cynosure of a packed congregation. .. . 

Crashaw was one of the influences that hastened the Stotts' departurefrom Stoke. He was so indiscreet. After the christening he would talk. His attitude is quite comprehensible. He, the lawgiver of Stoke, hadbeen thwarted. He had to find apology for the private baptism he haddenied to many a sickly infant. Moreover, the Stotts had broken anotherof his ordinances, for father and mother had stood as godparents totheir own child, and Crashaw himself had been the second godfatherordained as necessary by the rubric. He had given way on these importantpoints so weakly; he had to find excuse, and he talked himself into afalse belief with regard to the child he had baptised. 

He began with his wife. "I would allow more latitude to medical men, " hesaid. "In such a case as this child of the Stotts, for instance; itbecomes a burden on the community, I might say a danger, yes, a positivedanger. I am not sure whether I was right in administering the holysacrament of baptism. .. . "

"Oh! Percy! Surely . .. " began Mrs. Crashaw. 

"One moment, my dear, " protested the rector, "I have not fully explainedthe circumstances of the case. " And as he warmed to his theme the imageof Victor Stott grew to a fearful grotesqueness. It loomed as a threatover the community and the church. Crashaw quoted, inaccurately, statistics of the growth of lunacy, and then went off at a tangent intothe theory of possession by evil spirits. Since his rejection ofscience, he had lapsed into certain forms of mediævalism, and he nowbegan to dally with the theory of a malign incarnation which heelaborated until it became an article of his faith. 

To his poorer parishioners he spoke in vague terms, but he changed theirattitude; he filled them with overawed terror. They were intenselycurious still, but, now, when the gate was slammed, one saw a facepressed to the window, the door remained fast; and the children nolonger clustered round that gate, but dared each other to run past it;which they did, the girls with a scream, the boys with a jeering"Yah--ah!" a boast of intrepidity. 

This change of temper was soon understood by the persons most concerned. Stott grumbled and grew more morose. He had never been intimate with thevillagers, and now he avoided any intercourse with them. His wife keptherself aloof, and her child sheltered from profane observation. Naturally, this attitude of the Stotts fostered suspicion. Even thehardiest sceptic in the taproom of the Challis Arms began to shake hishead, to concede that there "moight be soomething in it. "

Yet the departure from Stoke might have been postponed indefinitely, ifit had not been for another intrusion. Both Stott and his wife wereready to take up a new idea, but they were slow to conceive it. 

II

The intruder was the local magnate, the landlord of Stoke, Wenderby, Chilborough, a greater part of Ailesworth, two or three minor parishes, and, incidentally, of Pym. 

This magnate, Henry Challis, was a man of some scholarship, whoseambition had been crushed by the weight of his possessions. He had aremarkably fine library at Challis Court, but he made little use of it, for he spent the greater part of his time in travel. In appearance hewas rather an ungainly man; his great head and the bulk of his bigshoulders were something too heavy for his legs. 

Crashaw regarded his patron with mixed feelings. For Challis, the man ofproperty, the man of high connections, of intimate associations with theworld of science and letters, Crashaw had a feeling of awed respect; butin private he inveighed against the wickedness of Challis, the agnostic, the decadent. 

When Victor Stott was nearly three months old, the rector met his patronone day on the road between Chilborough and Stoke. It was three yearssince their last meeting, and Crashaw noticed that in the intervalChallis's pointed beard had become streaked with grey. 

"Hallo! How d'ye do, Crashaw?" was the squire's casual greeting. "How isthe Stoke microcosm?"

Crashaw smiled subserviently; he was never quite at his ease inChallis's presence. "Rari nantes in gurgite vasto, " was the tag he foundin answer to the question put. However great his contempt for Challis'sway of life, in his presence Crashaw was often oppressed with a feelingof inferiority, a feeling which he fought against but could not subdue. The Latin tag was an attempt to win appreciation, it represented a boastof equality. 

Challis correctly evaluated the rector's attitude; it was with somethingof pity in his mind that he turned and walked beside him. 

There was but one item of news from Stoke, and it soon came to thesurface. Crashaw phrased his description of Victor Stott in terms otherthan those he used in speaking to his wife or to his parishioners; butthe undercurrent of his virulent superstition did not escape Challis, and the attitude of the villagers was made perfectly plain. 

"Hm!" was Challis's comment, when the flow of words ceased, "nigroquesimillima cygno, eh?"

"Ah! of course, you sneer at our petty affairs, " said Crashaw. 

"By no means. I should like to see this black swan of Stoke, " repliedChallis. "Anything so exceptional interests me. "

"No doubt Mrs. Stott would be proud to exhibit the horror, " saidCrashaw. He had a gleam of satisfaction in the thought that even thegreat Henry Challis might be scared. That would, indeed, be a triumph. 

"If Mrs. Stott has no objection, of course, " said Challis. "Shall we gothere, now?"

III

The visit of Henry Challis marked the first advent of Ellen Mary's pridein the exhibition of her wonder. After the King and the RoyalFamily--superhuman beings, infinitely remote--the great landlord of theneighbourhood stood as a symbol of temporal power to the whole district. The budding socialist of the taproom might sneer, and make threat thatthe time was coming when he, the boaster, and Challis, the landlord, would have equal rights; but in public the socialist kow-towed to hismaster with a submission no less obsequious than that of the humblestconservative on the estate. 

Mrs. Stott dropped a deep curtsy when, opening the door to theautocratic summons of Crashaw's rat-a-tat, she saw the great man of thedistrict at her threshold. Challis raised his hat. Crashaw did notimitate his example; he was all officiousness, he had the air of a chiefsuperintendent of police. 

"Oh! Mrs. Stott, we should like to come in for a few minutes. Mr. Challis would like to see your child. "

"Damn the fool!" was Challis's thought, but he gave it less abruptexpression. "That is, of course, if it is quite convenient to you, Mrs. Stott. I can come at some other time. .. . "

"Please walk in, sir, " replied Mrs. Stott, and curtsied again as shestood aside. 

Superintendent Crashaw led the way. .. . 

Challis called again next day, by himself this time; and the day afterhe dropped in at six o'clock while Mr. And Mrs. Stott were at tea. Heput them at their ease by some magic of his personality, and insistedthat they should continue their meal while he sat among the collapsedsprings of the horsehair armchair. He leaned forward, swinging his stickas a pendulum between his knees, and shot out questions as to theStotts' relations with the neighbours. And always he had an attentiveeye on the cradle that stood near the fire. 

"The neighbours are not highly intelligent, I suspect, " said Challis. "Even Mr. Crashaw, I fancy, does not appreciate the--peculiarities ofthe situation. "

"He's worse than any, " interpolated Stott. Ellen Mary sat in the shadow;there was a new light in her eyes, a foretaste of glory. 

"Ah! a little narrow, a little dogmatic, no doubt, " replied Challis. "Iwas going to propose that you might prefer to live at Pym. "

"Much farther for me, " muttered Stott. He had mixed with nobility on thecricket field, and was not overawed. 

"No doubt; but you have other interests to consider, interests of fargreater importance. " Challis shifted his gaze from the cradle, andlooked Stott in the face. "I understand that Mrs. Stott does not care totake her child out in the village. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, sir, " replied Ellen, to whom this question was addressed. "I don'tcare to make an exhibition of 'im. "

"Quite right, quite right, " went on Challis, "but it is very necessarythat the child should have air. I consider it very necessary, a matterof the first importance that the child should have air, " he repeated. His gaze had shifted back to the cradle again. The child lay with openeyes, staring up at the ceiling. 

"Now, there is an excellent cottage at Pym which I will have put inrepair for you at once, " continued Challis. "It is one of two together, but next door there are only old Metcalfe and his wife and daughter, whowill give you no trouble. And really, Mrs. Stott, " he tore his regardfrom the cradle for a moment, "there is no reason in the world why youshould fear the attention of your neighbours. Here, in Stoke, I admit, they have been under a complete misapprehension, but I fancy that therewere special reasons for that. In Pym you will have few neighbours, andyou need not, I'm sure, fear their criticism. "

"They got one idiot there, already, " Stott remarked somewhat sulkily. 

"You surely do not regard your own child as likely to develop into anidiot, Stott!" Challis's tone was one of rebuke. 

Stott shifted in his chair and his eyes flickered uncertainly in thedirection of the cradle. "Dr. O'Connell says 'twill, " he said. 

"When did he see the child last?" asked Challis. 

"Not since 'twere a week old, sir, " replied Ellen. 

"In that case his authority goes for nothing, and, then, by the way, Isuppose the child has not been vaccinated?"

"Not yet, sir. "

"Better have that done. Get Walters. I'll make myself responsible. I'llget him to come. "

Before Challis left, it was decided that the Stotts should move to Pymin February. 

When the great landowner had gone, Mrs. Stott looked wistfully at herhusband. 

"You ain't fair to the child, George, " she said. "There's more than youor any one sees, more than Mr. Challis, even. "

Stott stared moodily into the fire. 

"And it won't be so out of the way far for you, at Pym, with your bike, "she continued; "and we _can't_ stop 'ere. "

"We might 'a took a place in Ailesworth, " said Stott. 

"But it'll be so much 'ealthier for 'im up at Pym, " protested Ellen. "It'll be fine air up there for 'im. "

"Oh! _'im_. Yes, all right for _'im_, " said Stott, and spat into thefire. Then he took his cap and went out. He kept his eyes away from thecradle. 

IV

Harvey Walters lived in Wenderby, but his consulting-rooms were inHarley Street, and he did not practise in his own neighbourhood;nevertheless he vaccinated Victor Stott to oblige Challis. 

"Well?" asked Challis a few days later, "what do you make of him, Walters? No clichés, now, and no professional jargon. "

"Candidly, I don't know, " replied Walters, after a thoughtful interval. 

"How many times have you seen him?"

"Four, altogether. "

"Good patient? Healthy flesh and that sort of thing?"

"Splendid. "

"Did he look you in the eyes?"

"Once, only once, the first time I visited the house. "

Challis nodded. "My own experience, exactly. And did you return thatlook of his?"

"Not willingly. It was, I confess, not altogether a pleasantexperience. "

"Ah!"

Challis was silent for a few moments, and it was Walters who took up theinterrogatory. 

"Challis!"

"Yes?"

"Have you, now, some feeling of, shall I say, distaste for the child? Doyou feel that you have no wish to see it again?"

"Is it that exactly?" parried Challis. 

"If not, what is it?" asked Walters. 

"In my own case, " said Challis, "I can find an analogy only in myattitude towards my 'head' at school. In his presence I was alwaysintimidated by my consciousness of his superior learning. I feltunpleasantly ignorant, small, negligible. Curiously enough, I seesomething of the same expression of feeling in the attitude of thatfeeble Crashaw to myself. Well, one makes an attempt at self-assertion, a kind of futile bragging; and one knows the futility of it--at thetime. But, afterwards, one finds excuse and seeks to belittle thepersonality and attainment of the person one feared. At school we didnot love the 'head, ' and, as schoolboys will, we were always trying torun him down. 'Next time he rags me, I'll cheek him, ' was our usualboast--but we never did. Let's be honest, Walters, are not you and Iexhibiting much the same attitude towards this extraordinary child?Didn't he produce the effect upon you that I've described? Didn't youhave a little of the 'fifth form' feeling, --a boy under examination?"

Walters smiled and screwed his mouth on one side. "The thing is soabsurd, " he said. 

"That is what we used to say at school, " replied Challis. 

V

The Stotts' move to Pym was not marked by any incident. Mrs. Stott andher boy were not unduly stared upon as they left Stoke--the childrenwere in school--and their entry into the new cottage was uneventful. 

They moved on a Thursday. On Sunday morning they had their firstvisitor. 

He came mooning round the fence that guarded the Stotts' garden from thelittle lane--it was hardly more than a footpath. He had a greatshapeless head that waggled heavily on his shoulders, his eyes werelustreless, and his mouth hung open, frequently his tongue lagged out. He made strange, inhuman noises. "A-ba-ba, " was his nearest approach tospeech. 

"Now, George, " called Mrs. Stott, "look at that. It's Mrs. 'Arrison'sboy what Mrs. Reade's spoke about. Now, is 'e anythink like . .. " shepaused, "anythink like 'im?" and she indicated the cradle in thesitting-room. 

"What's 'e want, 'angin' round 'ere?" replied Stott, disregarding thecomparison. "'Ere, get off, " he called, and he went into the garden andpicked up a stick. 

The idiot shambled away. 

CHAPTER VI

HIS FATHER'S DESERTION

I

The strongest of all habits is that of acquiescence. It is this habit ofsubmission that explains the admired patience and long-suffering of theabjectly poor. The lower the individual falls, the more unconquerablebecomes the inertia of mind which interferes between him and revoltagainst his condition. All the miseries of the flesh, even starvation, seem preferable to the making of an effort great enough to break thishabit of submission. 

Ginger Stott was not poor. For a man in his station of life he wasunusually well provided for, but in him the habit of acquiescence wasstrongly rooted. Before his son was a year old, Stott had grown toloathe his home, to dread his return to it, yet it did not occur to himuntil another year had passed that he could, if he would, set up anotherestablishment on his own account; that he could, for instance, take aroom in Ailesworth, and leave his wife and child in the cottage. For twoyears he did not begin to think of this idea, and then it was suddenlyforced upon him. 

Ever since they had overheard those strangely intelligentself-communings, the Stotts had been perfectly aware that theirwonderful child could talk if he would. Ellen Mary, pondering thatsingle expression, had read a world of meaning into her son's murmurs of"learning. " In her simple mind she understood that his deliberatewithholding of speech was a reserve against some strange manifestation. 

The manifestation, when it came, was as remarkable as it was unexpected. 

The armchair in which Henry Challis had once sat was a valuedpossession, dedicated by custom to the sole use of George Stott. Eversince he had been married, Stott had enjoyed the full and undisputed useof that chair. Except at his meals, he never sat in any other, and hehad formed a fixed habit of throwing himself into that chair immediatelyon his return from his work at the County Ground. 

One evening in November, however, when his son was just over two yearsold, Stott found his sacred chair occupied. He hesitated a moment, andthen went in to the kitchen to find his wife. 

"That child's in my chair, " he said. 

Ellen was setting the tray for her husband's tea. "Yes . .. I know, " shereplied. "I--I did mention it, but 'e 'asn't moved. "

"Well, take 'im out, " ordered Stott, but he dropped his voice. 

"Does it matter?" asked his wife. "Tea's just ready. Time that's done'e'll be ready for 'is bath. "

"Why can't you move 'im?" persisted Stott gloomily. "'E knows it's mychair. "

"There! kettle's boilin', come in and 'ave your tea, " equivocated thediplomatic Ellen. 

During the progress of the meal, the child still sat quietly in hisfather's chair, his little hands resting on his knees, his eyes wideopen, their gaze abstracted, as usual, from all earthly concerns. 

But after tea Stott was heroic. He had reached the limit of hisendurance. One of his deep-seated habits was being broken, and with itsnapped his habit of acquiescence. He rose to his feet and faced his sonwith determination, and Stott had a bull-dog quality about him that wasnot easily defeated. 

"Look 'ere! Get out!" he said. "That's _my_ chair!"

The child very deliberately withdrew his attention from infinity andregarded the dogged face and set jaw of his father. Stott returned thestare for the fraction of a second, and then his eyes wavered anddropped, but he maintained his resolution. 

"You got to get out, " he said, "or I'll make you. "

Ellen Mary gripped the edge of the table, but she made no attempt tointerfere. 

There was a tense, strained silence. Then Stott began to breatheheavily. He lifted his long arms for a moment and raised his eyes, heeven made a tentative step towards the usurped throne. 

The child sat calm, motionless; his eyes were fixed upon his father'sface with a sublime, undeviating confidence. 

Stott's arms fell to his sides again, he shuffled his feet. One moreeffort he made, a sudden, vicious jerk, as though he would do the thingquickly and be finished with it; then he shivered, his resolution broke, and he shambled evasively to the door. 

"God damn, " he muttered. At the door he turned for an instant, sworeagain in the same words, and went out into the night. 

To Stott, moodily pacing the Common, this thing was incomprehensible, some horrible infraction of the law of normal life, something to becondemned; altered, if possible. It was unprecedented, and it was, therefore, wrong, unnatural, diabolic, a violation of the soundprinciples which uphold human society. 

To Ellen Mary it was merely a miracle, the foreshadowing of greatermiracles to come. And to her was manifested, also, a minor miracle, forwhen his father had gone, the child looked at his mother and gave outhis first recorded utterance. 

"'Oo _is_ God?" he said. 

Ellen Mary tried to explain, but before she had stammered out manywords, her son abstracted his gaze, climbed down out of the chair, andintimated with his usual grunt that he desired his bath and his bed. 

II

The depths of Stott were stirred that night. He had often said that "hewouldn't stand it much longer, " but the words were a mere formula: hehad never even weighed their intention. As he paced the Common, hemuttered them again to the night, with new meaning; he saw newpossibilities, and saw that they were practicable. "I've 'ad enough, "was his new phrase, and he added another that gave evidence of a newattitude. "Why not?" he said again and again. "And why not?"

Stott's mind was not analytical. He did not examine his problem, weighthis and that and draw a balanced deduction. He merely saw a picture ofpeace and quiet, in a room at Ailesworth, in convenient proximity to hiswork (he made an admirable groundsman and umpire, his work absorbed him)and, perhaps, he conceived some dim ideal of pleasant evenings spent inthe companionship of those who thought in the same terms as himself;who shared in his one interest; whose speech was of form, averages, thepreparation of wickets, and all the detail of cricket. 

Stott's ambition to have a son and to teach him the mysteries of hisfather's success had been dwindling for some time past. On this night itwas finally put aside. Stott's "I've 'ad enough" may be taken to includethat frustrated ideal. No more experiments for him, was thepronouncement that summed up his decision. 

Still there were difficulties. Economically he was free, he could allowhis wife thirty shillings a week, more than enough for her support andthat of her child; but--what would she say, how would she take hisdetermination? A determination it was, not a proposal. And theneighbours, what would they say? Stott anticipated a fuss. "She'll sayI've married 'er, and it's my duty to stay by 'er, " was his anticipationof his wife's attitude. He did not profess to understand the ways of thesex, but some rumours of misunderstandings between husbands and wives ofhis own class had filtered through his absorption in cricket. 

He stumbled home with a mind prepared for dissension. 

He found his wife stitching by the fire. The door at the foot of thestairs was closed. The room presented an aspect of cleanly, cheerfulcomfort; but Stott entered with dread, not because he feared to meet hiswife, but because there was a terror sleeping in that house. 

His armchair was empty now, but he hesitated before he sat down in it. He took off his cap and rubbed the seat and back of the chairvigorously: a child of evil had polluted it, the chair might still holdenchantment. .. . 

"I've 'ad enough, " was his preface, and there was no need for anyfurther explanation. 

Ellen Mary let her hands fall into her lap, and stared dreamily at thefire. 

"I'm sorry it's come to this, George, " she said, "but it 'asn't been myfault no more'n it's been your'n. Of course I've seen it a-comin', and Iknowed it _'ad_ to be, some time; but I don't think there need be any'ard words over it. I don't expec' you to understand 'im, no more'n I domyself--it isn't in nature as you should, but all said and done, there'sno bones broke, and if we 'ave to part, there's no reason as weshouldn't part peaceable. "

That speech said nearly everything. Afterwards it was only a question ofmaking arrangements, and in that there was no difficulty. 

Another man might have felt a little hurt, a little neglected by theabsence of any show of feeling on his wife's part, but Stott passed itby. He was singularly free from all sentimentality; certain primitive, human emotions seem to have played no part in his character. At thismoment he certainly had no thought that he was being carelessly treated;he wanted to be free from the oppression of that horror upstairs--so hefigured it--and the way was made easy for him. 

He nodded approval, and made no sign of any feeling. 

"I shall go to-morrer, " he said, and then, "I'll sleep down 'ereto-night. " He indicated the sofa upon which he had slept for so manynights at Stoke, after his tragedy had been born to him. 

Ellen Mary had said nearly everything, but when she had made up a bedfor her husband in the sitting-room, she paused, candle in hand, beforeshe bade him good-night. 

"Don't wish 'im 'arm, George, " she said. "'E's different from us, and wedon't understand 'im proper, but some day----"

"I don't wish 'im no 'arm, " replied Stott, and shuddered. "I don't wish'im no 'arm, " he repeated, as he kicked off the boot he had beenunlacing. 

"You mayn't never see 'im again, " added Ellen Mary. 

Stott stood upright. In his socks, he looked noticeably shorter than hiswife. "I suppose not, " he said, and gave a deep sigh of relief. "Well, thank Gawd for that, anyway. "

Ellen Mary drew her lips together. For some dim, unrealised reason, shewished her husband to leave the cottage with a feeling of goodwilltowards the child, but she saw that her wish was little likely to befulfilled. 

"Well, good-night, George, " she said, after a few seconds of silence, and she added pathetically, as she turned at the foot of the stairs:"Don't wish 'im no harm. "

"I won't, " was all the assurance she received. 

When she had gone, and the door was closed behind her, Stott paddedsilently to the window and looked out. A young moon was dipping into abank of cloud, and against the feeble brightness he could see anuncertain outline of bare trees. He pulled the curtain across thewindow, and turned back to the warm cheerfulness of the room. 

"Shan't never see 'im again, " he murmured, "thank Gawd!" He undressedquietly, blew out the lamp and got between the sheets of his improvisedbed. For some minutes he stared at the leaping shadows on the ceiling. He was wondering why he had ever been afraid of the child. "After all, 'e's only a blarsted freak, " was the last thought in his mind before hefell asleep. 

And with that pronouncement Stott passes out of the history of theHampdenshire Wonder. He was in many ways an exceptional man, and hisname will always be associated with the splendid successes ofHampdenshire cricket, both before and after the accident that destroyedhis career as a bowler. He was not spoiled by his triumphs: those twoyears of celebrity never made Stott conceited, and there are undoubtedlymany traits in his character which call for our admiration. He is stillin his prime, an active agent in finding talent for his county, and indeveloping that talent when found. Hampdenshire has never come into thefield with weak bowling, and all the credit belongs to Ginger Stott. 

One sees that he was not able to appreciate the wonderful gifts of hisown son, but Stott was an ignorant man, and men of intellectualattainment failed even as Stott failed in this respect. Ginger Stott wasa success in his own walk of life, and that fact should command ouradmiration. It is not for us to judge whether his attainments were moreor less noble than the attainments of his son. 

III

One morning, two days after Stott had left the cottage, Ellen Mary wasstartled by the sudden entrance of her child into the sitting-room. Hetoddled in hastily from the garden, and pointed with excitement throughthe window. 

Ellen Mary was frightened; she had never seen her child other thandeliberate, calm, judicial, in all his movements. In a sudden spasm ofmotherly love she bent to pick him up, to caress him. 

"No, " said the Wonder, with something that approached disgust in histone and attitude. "No, " he repeated. "What's 'e want 'angin' round'ere? Send 'im off. " He pointed again to the window. 

Ellen Mary looked out and saw a grinning, slobbering obscenity at thegate. Stott had scared the idiot away, but in some curious, inexplicablemanner he had learned that his persecutor and enemy had gone, and he hadreturned, and had made overtures to the child that walked so sedately upand down the path of the little garden. 

Ellen Mary went out. "You be off, " she said. 

"A-ba, a-ba-ba, " bleated the idiot, and pointed at the house. 

"Be off, I tell you!" said Ellen Mary fiercely. But still the idiotbabbled and pointed. 

Ellen Mary stooped to pick up a stick. The idiot blenched; he understoodthat movement well enough, though it was a stone he anticipated, not astick; with a foolish cry he dropped his arms and slouched away down thelane. 

CHAPTER VII

HIS DEBT TO HENRY CHALLIS

I

Challis was out of England for more than three years after that onebrief intrusion of his into the affairs of Mr. And Mrs. Stott. Duringthe interval he was engaged upon those investigations, the results ofwhich are embodied in his monograph on the primitive peoples of theMelanesian Archipelago. It may be remembered that he followed Dr. W. H. R. Rivers' and Dr. C. G. Seligmann's inquiry into the practice andtheory of native customs. Challis developed his study more particularlywith reference to the earlier evolution of Totemism, and he was able byhis patient work among the Polynesians of Tikopia and Ontong Java, andhis comparisons of those sporadic tribes with the Papuasians of EasternNew Guinea, to correct some of the inferences with regard to the originsof exogamy made by Dr. J. G. Frazer in his great work on that subject, published some years before. A summary of Challis's argument may befound in vol. Li. Of the _Journal of the Royal AnthropologicalInstitute_. 

When he returned to England, Challis shut himself up at Chilborough. Hehad engaged a young Cambridge man, Gregory Lewes, as his secretary andlibrarian, and the two devoted all their time to planning, writing, andpreparing the monograph referred to. 

In such circumstances it is hardly remarkable that Challis should havecompletely forgotten the existence of the curious child which hadintrigued his interest nearly four years earlier, and it was not untilhe had been back at Challis Court for more than eight months, that theincursion of Percy Crashaw revived his memory of the phenomenon. 

The library at Challis Court occupies a suite of three rooms. The firstand largest of the three is part of the original structure of the house. Its primitive use had been that of a chapel, a one-storey buildingjutting out from the west wing. This Challis had converted into a verypracticable library with a continuous gallery running round at a heightof seven feet from the floor, and in it he had succeeded in arrangingsome 20, 000 volumes. But as his store of books grew--and at one periodit had grown very rapidly--he had been forced to build, and so he hadadded first one and then the other of the two additional rooms whichbecame necessary. Outside, the wing had the appearance of an undulyelongated chapel, as he had continued the original roof over hisaddition, and copied the style of the old chapel architecture. The onlyexternal alteration he had made had been the lowering of the sills ofthe windows. 

It was in the furthest of these three rooms that Challis and hissecretary worked, and it was from here that they saw the gloomy figureof the Rev. Percy Crashaw coming up the drive. 

This was the third time he had called. His two former visits had beenunrewarded, but that morning a letter had come from him, couched incareful phrases, the purport of which had been a request for aninterview on a "matter of some moment. "

Challis frowned, and rose from among an ordered litter of manuscripts. 

"I shall have to see this man, " he said to Lewes, and strode hastily outof the library. 

Crashaw was perfunctorily apologetic, and Challis, looking somewhat outof place, smoking a heavy wooden pipe in the disused, bleakdrawing-room, waited, almost silent, until his visitor should come tothe point. 

". .. And the--er--matter of some moment, I mentioned, " Crashaw mumbledon, "is, I should say, not altogether irrelevant to the work you are atpresent engaged upon. "

"Indeed!" commented Challis, with a lift of his thick eyebrows, "noPolynesians come to settle in Stoke, I trust?"

"On broad lines, relevant on broad, anthropological lines, I mean, " saidCrashaw. 

Challis grunted. "Go on!" he said. 

"You may remember that curious--er--abnormal child of the Stotts?" askedCrashaw. 

"Stotts? Wait a minute. Yes! Curious infant with an abnormallyintelligent expression and the head of a hydrocephalic?"

Crashaw nodded. "Its development has upset me in a most unusual way, " hecontinued. "I must confess that I am entirely at a loss, and I reallybelieve that you are the only person who can give me any intelligentassistance in the matter. "

"Very good of you, " murmured Challis. 

"You see, " said Crashaw, warming to his subject and interlacing hisfingers, "I happen, by the merest accident, I may say, to be the child'sgodfather. "

"Ah! you have responsibilities!" commented Challis, with the first glintof amusement in his eyes. 

"I have, " said Crashaw, "undoubtedly I have. " He leaned forward with hishands still clasped together, and rested his forearms on his thighs. Ashe talked he worked his hands up and down from the wrists, by way ofemphasis. "I am aware, " he went on, "that on one point I can expectlittle sympathy from you, but I make an appeal to you, nevertheless, asa man of science and--and a magistrate; for . .. For assistance. "

He paused and looked up at Challis, received a nod of encouragement anddeveloped his grievance. 

"I want to have the child certified as an idiot, and sent to an asylum. "

"On what grounds?"

"He is undoubtedly lacking mentally, " said Crashaw, "and his influenceis, or may be, malignant. "

"Explain, " suggested Challis. 

For a few seconds Crashaw paused, intent on the pattern of the carpet, and worked his hands slowly. Challis saw that the man's knuckles werewhite, that he was straining his hands together. 

"He has denied God, " he said at last with great solemnity. 

Challis rose abruptly, and went over to the window; the next words werespoken to his back. 

"I have, myself, heard this infant of four years use the most abhorrentblasphemy. "

Challis had composed himself. "Oh! I say; that's bad, " he said as heturned towards the room again. 

Crashaw's head was still bowed. "And whatever may be your ownphilosophic doubts, " he said, "I think you will agree with me that insuch a case as this, something should be done. To me it is horrible, most horrible. "

"Couldn't you give me any details?" asked Challis. 

"They are most repugnant to me, " answered Crashaw. 

"Quite, quite! I understand. But if you want any assistance. .. . Or doyou expect me to investigate?"

"I thought it my duty, as his godfather, to see to the child's spiritualwelfare, " said Crashaw, ignoring the question put to him, "although heis not, now, one of my parishioners. I first went to Pym some few monthsago, but the mother interposed between me and the child. I was notpermitted to see him. It was not until a few weeks back that I methim--on the Common, alone. Of course, I recognised him at once. He isquite unmistakable. "

"And then?" prompted Challis. 

"I spoke to him, and he replied with, with--an abstracted air, withoutlooking at me. He has not the appearance in any way of a normal child. Imade a few ordinary remarks to him, and then I asked him if he knew hiscatechism. He replied that he did not know the word 'catechism. ' I maymention that he speaks the dialect of the common people, but he has amuch larger vocabulary. His mother has taught him to read, it appears. "

"He seems to have a curiously apt intelligence, " interpolated Challis. 

Crashaw wrung his clasped hands and put the comment on one side. "Ithen spoke to him of some of the broad principles of the Church'steaching, " he continued. "He listened quietly, without interruption, andwhen I stopped, he prompted me with questions. "

"One minute!" said Challis. "Tell me; what sort of questions? That ismost important. "

"I do not remember precisely, " returned Crashaw, "but one, I think, wasas to the sources of the Bible. I did not read anything beyond simpleand somewhat unusual curiosity into those questions, I may say. .. . Italked to him for some considerable time--I dare say for more than anhour. .. . "

"No signs of idiocy, apparently, during all this?"

"I consider it less a case of idiocy than one of possession, maleficentpossession, " replied Crashaw. He did not see his host's grim smile. 

"Well, and the blasphemy?" prompted Challis. 

"At the end of my instruction, the child, still looking away from me, shook his head and said that what I had told him was not true. I confessthat I was staggered. Possibly I lost my temper, somewhat. I may havegrown rather warm in my speech. And at last . .. " Crashaw clenched hishands and spoke in such a low voice that Challis could hardly hear him. "At last he turned to me and said things which I could not possiblyrepeat, which I pray that I may never hear again from the mouth of anyliving being. "

"Profanities, obscenities, er--swear-words, " suggested Challis. 

"Blasphemy, _blasphemy_, " cried Crashaw. "Oh! I wonder that I did notinjure the child. "

Challis moved over to the window again. For more than a minute there wassilence in that big, neglected-looking room. Then Crashaw's feelingsbegan to find vent in words, in a long stream of insistentasseverations, pitched on a rising note that swelled into a diapason ofindignation. He spoke of the position and power of his Church, of itsinfluence for good among the uneducated, agricultural population amongwhich he worked. He enlarged on the profound necessity for a livingreligion among the poorer classes; and on the revolutionary tendencytowards socialism, which would be encouraged if the great restrainingpower of a creed that enforced subservience to temporal power was onceshaken. And, at last, he brought his arguments to a head by saying thatthe example of a child of four years old, openly defying a minister ofthe Church, and repudiating the very conception of the Deity, was anexample which might produce a profound effect upon the minds of aslow-thinking people; that such an example might be the leaven whichwould leaven the whole lump; and that for the welfare of the wholeneighbourhood it was an instant necessity that the child should be putunder restraint, his tongue bridled, and any opportunity to proclaim hisblasphemous doctrines forcibly denied to him. Long before he hadconcluded, Crashaw was on his feet, pacing the room, declaiming, wavinghis arms. 

Challis stood, unanswering, by the window. He did not seem to hear; hedid not even shrug his shoulders. Not till Crashaw had brought hisargument to a culmination, and boomed into a dramatic silence, didChallis turn and look at him. 

"But you cannot confine a child in an asylum on those grounds, " he said;"the law does not permit it. "

"The Church is above the law, " replied Crashaw. 

"Not in these days, " said Challis; "it is by law established!"

Crashaw began to speak again, but Challis waved him down. "Quite, quite. I see your point, " he said, "but I must see this child myself. Believeme, I will see what can be done. I will, at least, try to prevent hisspreading his opinions among the yokels. " He smiled grimly. "I quiteagree with you that that is a consummation which is not to be desired. "

"You will see him soon?" asked Crashaw. 

"To-day, " returned Challis. 

"And you will let me see you again, afterwards?"

"Certainly. "

Crashaw still hesitated for a moment. "I might, perhaps, come with you, "he ventured. 

"On no account, " said Challis. 

II

Gregory Lewes was astonished at the long absence of his chief; he wasmore astonished when his chief returned. 

"I want you to come up with me to Pym, Lewes, " said Challis; "one of mytenants has been confounding the rector of Stoke. It is a matter thatmust be attended to. "

Lewes was a fair-haired, hard-working young man, with a bent for sciencein general that had not yet crystallised into any special study. He hada curious sense of humour, that proved something of an obstacle in theway of specialisation. He did not take Challis's speech seriously. 

"Are you going as a magistrate?" he asked; "or is it a matter forscientific investigation?"

"Both, " said Challis. "Come along!"

"Are you serious, sir?" Lewes still doubted. 

"Intensely. I'll explain as we go, " said Challis. 

It is not more than a mile and a half from Challis Court to Pym. Thenearest way is by a cart track through the beech woods, that winds upthe hill to the Common. In winter this track is almost impassable, overboot-top in heavy mud; but the early spring had been fairly dry, andChallis chose this route. 

As they walked, Challis went through the early history of Victor Stott, so far as it was known to him. "I had forgotten the child, " he said; "Ithought it would die. You see, it is by way of being an extraordinaryfreak of nature. It has, or had, a curious look of intelligence. Youmust remember that when I saw it, it was only a few months old. But eventhen it conveyed in some inexplicable way a sense of power. Every onefelt it. There was Harvey Walters, for instance--he vaccinated it; Imade him confess that the child made him feel like a school-boy. Only, you understand, it had not spoken then----"

"What conveyed that sense of power?" asked Lewes. 

"The way it had of looking at you, staring you out of countenance, sizing you up and rejecting you. It did that, I give you my word; it didall that at a few months old, and without the power of speech. Only, yousee, I thought it was merely a freak of some kind, some abnormality thatdisgusted one in an unanalysed way. And I thought it would die. Icertainly thought it would die. I am most eager to see this newdevelopment. "

"I haven't heard. It confounded Crashaw, you say? And it cannot be morethan four or five years old now?"

"Four; four and a half, " returned Challis, and then the conversation wasinterrupted by the necessity of skirting a tiny morass of wet leaf-mouldthat lay in a hollow. 

"Confounded Crashaw? I should think so, " Challis went on, when they hadfound firm going again. "The good man would not soil his devoted tongueby any condescension to oratio recta, but I gathered that the child hadmade light of his divine authority. "

"Great Cæsar!" ejaculated Lewes; "but that is immense. What did Crashawdo--shake him?"

"No; he certainly did not lay hands on him at all. His own expressionwas that he did not know how it was he did not do the child an injury. That is one of the things that interest me enormously. That power Ispoke of must have been retained. Crashaw must have been blue withanger; he could hardly repeat the story to me, he was so agitated. Itwould have surprised me less if he had told me he had murdered thechild. That I could have understood, perfectly. "

"It is, of course, quite incomprehensible to me, as yet, " commentedLewes. 

When they came out of the woods on to the stretch of common from whichyou can see the great swelling undulations of the Hampden Hills, Challisstopped. A spear of April sunshine had pierced the load of cloud towardsthe west, and the bank of wood behind them gave shelter from the coldwind that had blown fiercely all the afternoon. 

"It is a fine prospect, " said Challis, with a sweep of his hand. "Isometimes feel, Lewes, that we are over-intent on our own little narrowinterests. Here are you and I, busying ourselves in an attempt to throwsome little light--a very little it must be--on some petty problems ofthe origin of our race. We are looking downwards, downwards always;digging in old muck-heaps; raking up all kinds of unsavoury rubbish toprove that we are born out of the dirt. And we have never a thought forthe future in all our work, --a future that may be glorious, who knows?Here, perhaps in this village, insignificant from most points of view, but set in a country that should teach us to raise our eyes from theground; here, in this tiny hamlet, is living a child who may become agreater than Socrates or Shakespeare, a child who may revolutionise ourconceptions of time and space. There have been great men in the past whohave done that, Lewes; there is no reason for us to doubt that stillgreater men may succeed them. "

"No; there is no reason for us to doubt that, " said Lewes, and theywalked on in silence towards the Stotts' cottage. 

III

Challis knocked and walked in. They found Ellen Mary and her son at thetea-table. 

The mother rose to her feet and dropped a respectful curtsy. The boyglanced once at Gregory Lewes and then continued his meal as if he wereunaware of any strange presence in the room. 

"I'm sorry. I am afraid we are interrupting you, " Challis apologised. "Pray sit down, Mrs. Stott, and go on with your tea. "

"Thank you, sir. I'd just finished, sir, " said Ellen Mary, and remainedstanding with an air of quiet deference. 

Challis took the celebrated armchair, and motioned Lewes to thewindow-sill, the nearest available seat for him. "Please sit down, Mrs. Stott, " he said, and Ellen Mary sat, apologetically. 

The boy pushed his cup towards his mother, and pointed to the teapot; hemade a grunting sound to attract her attention. 

"You'll excuse me, sir, " murmured Ellen Mary, and she refilled the cupand passed it back to her son, who received it without anyacknowledgment. Challis and Lewes were observing the boy intently, buthe took not the least notice of their scrutiny. He discovered no traceof self-consciousness; Henry Challis and Gregory Lewes appeared to haveno place in the world of his abstraction. 

The figure the child presented to his two observers was worthy ofcareful scrutiny. 

At the age of four and a half years, the Wonder was bald, save for a fewstraggling wisps of reddish hair above the ears and at the base of theskull, and a weak, sparse down, of the same colour, on the top of hishead. The eyebrows, too, were not marked by any line of hair, but theeyelashes were thick, though short, and several shades darker than thehair on the skull. 

The face is not so easily described. The mouth and chin were relativelysmall, overshadowed by that broad cliff of forehead, but they were firm, the chin well moulded, the lips thin and compressed. The nose wasunusual when seen in profile. There was no sign of a bony bridge, but itwas markedly curved and jutted out at a curious angle from the line ofthe face. The nostrils were wide and open. None of these featuresproduced any effect of childishness; but this effect was partly achievedby the contours of the cheeks, and by the fact that there was noindication of any lines on the face. 

The eyes nearly always wore their usual expression of abstraction. Itwas very rarely that the Wonder allowed his intelligence to be exhibitedby that medium. When he did, the effect was strangely disconcerting, blinding. One received an impression of extraordinary concentration: itwas as though for an instant the boy was able to give one a glimpse ofthe wonderful force of his intellect. When he looked one in the facewith intention, and suddenly allowed one to realise, as it were, all thedominating power of his brain, one shrank into insignificance, one feltas an ignorant, intelligent man may feel when confronted with someelaborate theorem of the higher mathematics. "Is it possible that anyone can really understand these things?" such a man might think withawe, and in the same way one apprehended some vast, inconceivablepossibilities of mind-function when the Wonder looked at one with, as Ihave said, intention. 

He was dressed in a little jacket-suit, and wore a linen collar; theknickerbockers, loose and badly cut, fell a little below the knees. Hisstockings were of worsted, his boots clumsy and thick-soled, thoughrelatively tiny. One had the impression always that his body was fragileand small, but as a matter of fact the body and limbs were, if anything, slightly better developed than those of the average child of four and ahalf years. 

Challis had ample opportunity to make these observations at variousperiods. He began them as he sat in the Stotts' cottage. At first he didnot address the boy directly. 

"I hear your son has been having a religious controversy with Mr. Crashaw, " was his introduction to the object of his visit. 

"Indeed, sir!" Plainly this was not news to Mrs. Stott. 

"Your son told you?" suggested Challis. 

"Oh! no, sir, 'e never told me, " replied Mrs. Stott, "'twas Mr. Crashaw. 'E's been 'ere several times lately. "

Challis looked sharply at the boy, but he gave no sign that he heardwhat was passing. 

"Yes; Mr. Crashaw seems rather upset about it. "

"I'm sorry, sir, but----"

"Yes; speak plainly, " prompted Challis. "I assure you that you will haveno cause to regret any confidence you may make to me. "

"I can't see as it's any business of Mr. Crashaw's, sir, if you'llforgive me for sayin' so. "

"He has been worrying you?"

"'E 'as, sir, but 'e . .. " she glanced at her son--she laid a stress onthe pronoun always when she spoke of him that differentiated itssignificance--"'e 'asn't seen Mr. Crashaw again, sir. "

Challis turned to the boy. "You are not interested in Mr. Crashaw, Isuppose?" he asked. 

The boy took no notice of the question. 

Challis was piqued. If this extraordinary child really had anintelligence, surely it must be possible to appeal to that intelligencein some way. He made another effort, addressing Mrs. Stott. 

"I think we must forgive Mr. Crashaw, you know, Mrs. Stott. As Iunderstand it, your boy at the age of four years and a half hasdefied--his cloth, if I may say so. " He paused, and as he received noanswer, continued: "But I hope that matter may be easily arranged. "

"Thank you, sir, " said Mrs. Stott. "It's very kind of you. I'm sure, I'mgreatly obliged to you, sir. "

"That's only one reason of my visit to you, however, " Challis hesitated. "I've been wondering whether I might not be able to help you and yourson in some other way. I understand that he has unusual power of--ofintelligence. "

"Indeed 'e 'as, sir, " responded Mrs. Stott. 

"And he can read, can't he?"

"I've learned 'im what I could, sir: it isn't much. "

"Well, perhaps I could lend him a few books. "

Challis made a significant pause, and again he looked at the boy; but asthere was no response, he continued: "Tell me what he has read. "

"We've no books, sir, and we never 'ardly see a paper now. All we 'avein the 'ouse is a Bible and two copies of Lillywhite's cricket annual asmy 'usband left be'ind. "

Challis smiled. "Has he read those?" he asked. 

"The Bible 'e 'as, I believe, " replied Mrs. Stott. 

It was a conversation curious in its impersonality. Challis wasconscious of the anomaly that he was speaking in the boy's presence, crediting him with a remarkable intelligence, and yet addressing afrankly ignorant woman as though the boy was not in the room. Yet howcould he break that deliberate silence? It seemed to him as though theremust, after all, be some mistake; yet how account for Crashaw's story ifthe boy were indeed an idiot?

With a slight show of temper he turned to the Wonder. 

"Do you want to read?" he asked. "I have between forty and fiftythousand books in my library. I think it possible that you might findone or two which would interest you. "

The Wonder lifted his hand as though to ask for silence. For a minute, perhaps, no one spoke. All waited, expectant; Challis and Lewes withintent eyes fixed on the detached expression of the child's face, EllenMary with bent head. It was a strange, yet very logical question thatcame at last:

"What should I learn out of all them books?" asked the Wonder. He didnot look at Challis as he spoke. 

IV

Challis drew a deep breath and turned towards Lewes. "A difficultquestion, that, Lewes, " he said. 

Lewes lifted his eyebrows and pulled at his fair moustache. "If you takethe question literally, " he muttered. 

"You might learn--the essential part . .. Of all the knowledge that hasbeen . .. Discovered by mankind, " said Challis. He phrased his sentencecarefully, as though he were afraid of being trapped. 

"Should I learn what I am?" asked the Wonder. 

Challis understood the question in its metaphysical acceptation. He hadthe sense of a powerful but undirected intelligence working from thesimple premisses of experience; of a cloistered mind that had functionedprofoundly; a mind unbound by the tradition of all the speculations anddiscoveries of man, the essential conclusions of which were contained inthat library at Challis Court. 

"No!" said Challis, after a perceptible interval, "that you will notlearn from any books in my possession, but you will find grounds forspeculation. "

"Grounds for speculation?" questioned the Wonder. He repeated the wordsquite clearly. 

"Material--matter from which you can--er--formulate theories of yourown, " explained Challis. 

The Wonder shook his head. It was evident that Challis's sentenceconveyed little or no meaning to him. 

He got down from his chair and took up an old cricket cap of hisfather's, a cap which his mother had let out by the addition of anothergore of cloth that did not match the original material. He pulled thiscap carefully over his bald head, and then made for the door. 

At the threshold the strange child paused, and without looking at anyone present said: "I'll coom to your library, " and went out. 

Challis joined Lewes at the window, and they watched the boy make hisdeliberate way along the garden path and up the lane towards the fieldsbeyond. 

"You let him go out by himself?" asked Challis. 

"He likes to be in the air, sir, " replied Ellen Mary. 

"I suppose you have to let him go his own way?"

"Oh! yes, sir. "

"I will send the governess cart up for him to-morrow morning, " saidChallis, "at ten o'clock. That is, of course, if you have no objectionto his coming. "

"'E said 'e'd coom, sir, " replied Ellen Mary. Her tone implied thatthere was no appeal possible against her son's statement of his wishes. 

V

"His methods do not lack terseness, " remarked Lewes, when he and Challiswere out of earshot of the cottage. 

"His methods and manners are damnable, " said Challis, "but----"

"You were going to say?" prompted Lewes. 

"Well, what is your opinion?"

"I am not convinced, as yet, " said Lewes. 

"Oh, surely, " expostulated Challis. 

"Not from objective, personal evidence. Let us put Crashaw out of ourminds for the moment. "

"Very well; go on, state your case. "

"He has, so far, made four remarks in our presence, " said Lewes, gesticulating with his walking stick. "Two of them can be neglected; hisrepetition of your words, which he did not understand, and hiscondescending promise to study your library. "

"Yes; I'm with you, so far. "

"Now, putting aside the preconception with which we entered the cottage, was there really anything in the other two remarks? Were they not thetype of simple, unreasoning questions which one may often hear from themouth of a child of that age? 'What shall I learn from your books?'Well, it is the natural question of the ignorant child, who has noconception of the contents of books, no experience which would furnishmaterial for his imagination. "

"Well?"

"The second remark is more explicable still. It is a remark we all makein childhood, in some form or another. I remember quite well at the ageof six or seven asking my mother: 'Which is me, my soul or my body?' Iwas brought up on the Church catechism. But you at once accepted thesequestions--which, I maintain, were questions possible in the mouth of asimple, ignorant child--in some deep, metaphysical acceptation. Don'tyou think, sir, we should wait for further evidence before we attributeany phenomenal intelligence to this child?"

"Quite the right attitude to take, Lewes--the scientific attitude, "replied Challis. "Let's go by the lane, " he added, as they reached theentrance to the wood. 

For some few minutes they walked in silence; Challis with his head down, his heavy shoulders humped. His hands were clasped behind him, dragginghis stick as it were a tail, which he occasionally cocked. He walkedwith a little stumble now and again, his eyes on the ground. Lewesstrode with a sure foot, his head up, and he slashed at the tangle oflast year's growth on the bank whenever he passed some tempting butt forthe sword-play of his stick. 

"Do you think, then, " said Challis at last, "that much of theatmosphere--you must have marked the atmosphere--of the child'spersonality, was a creation of our own minds, due to ourpreconceptions?"

"Yes, I think so, " Lewes replied, a touch of defiance in his tone. 

"Isn't that what you _want_ to believe?" asked Challis. 

Lewes hit at a flag of dead bracken and missed. "You mean. .. ?" heprevaricated. 

"I mean that that is a much stronger influence than any preconception, my dear Lewes. I'm no pragmatist, as you know; but there can be no doubtthat with the majority of us the wish to believe a thing is trueconstitutes the truth of that thing for us. And that is, in my opinion, the wrong attitude for either scientist or philosopher. Now, in the casewe are discussing, I suppose at bottom I should like to agree with you. One does not like to feel that a child of four and a half has greaterintellectual powers than oneself. Candidly, I do not like it at all. "

"Of course not! But I can't think that----"

"You can if you try; you would at once if you wished to, " returnedChallis, anticipating the completion of Lewes's sentence. 

"I'll admit that there are some remarkable facts in the case of thischild, " said Lewes, "but I do not see why we should, as yet, take thewhole proposition for granted. "

"No! I am with you there, " returned Challis. And no more was said untilthey were nearly home. 

Just before they turned into the drive, however, Challis stopped. "Doyou know, Lewes, " he said, "I am not sure that I am doing a wise thingin bringing that child here!"

Lewes did not understand. "No, sir? Why not?" he asked. 

"Why, think of the possibilities of that child, if he has all the powersI credit him with, " said Challis. "Think of his possibilities fororiginal thought if he is kept away from all the traditions of thisfutile learning. " He waved an arm in the direction of the elongatedchapel. 

"Oh! but surely, " remonstrated Lewes, "that is a necessary groundwork. Knowledge is built up step by step. "

"Is it? I wonder. I sometimes doubt, " said Challis. "Yes, I sometimesdoubt whether we have ever learned anything at all that is worthknowing. And, perhaps, this child, if he were kept away from books. .. . However, the thing is done now, and in any case he would never have beenable to dodge the School attendance officer. "

CHAPTER VIII

HIS FIRST VISIT TO CHALLIS COURT

I

"Shall you be able to help me in collating your notes of the Tikopiaobservations to-day, sir?" Lewes asked next morning. He rose from thebreakfast-table and lit a cigarette. There was no ceremony betweenChallis and his secretary. 

"You forget our engagement for ten o'clock, " said Challis. 

"Need that distract us?"

"It need not, but doesn't it seem to you that it may furnish us withvaluable material?"

"Hardly pertinent, sir, is it?"

"What line do you think of taking up, Lewes?" asked Challis withapparent irrelevance. 

"With regard to this--this phenomenon?"

"No, no. I was speaking of your own ambitions. " Challis had saunteredover to the window; he stood, with his back to Lewes, looking out at theblue and white of the April sky. 

Lewes frowned. He did not understand the gist of the question. "Isuppose there is a year's work on this book before me yet, " he said. 

"Quite, quite, " replied Challis, watching a cloud shadow swarm up theslope of Deane Hill. "Yes, certainly a year's work. I was thinking ofthe future. "

"I have thought of laboratory work in connection with psychology, " saidLewes, still puzzled. 

"I thought I remembered your saying something of the kind, " murmuredChallis absently. "We are going to have more rain. It will be a latespring this year. "

"Had the question any bearing on our engagement of this morning?" Leweswas a little anxious, uncertain whether this inquiry as to his futurehad not some particular significance; a hint, perhaps, that his serviceswould not be required much longer. 

"Yes; I think it had, " said Challis. "I saw the governess cart go up theroad a few minutes since. "

"I suppose the boy will be here in a quarter of an hour?" said Lewes byway of keeping up the conversation. He was puzzled; he did not knowChallis in this mood. He did not conceive it possible that Challis couldbe nervous about the arrival of so insignificant a person as this Stottchild. 

"It's all very ridiculous, " broke out Challis suddenly; and he turnedaway from the window, and joined Lewes by the fire. "Don't you thinkso?"

"I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir. "

Challis laughed. "I'm not surprised, " he said; "I was a trifleinconsecutive. But I wish you were more interested in this child, Lewes. The thought of him engrosses me, and yet I don't want to meet him. Ishould be relieved to hear that he wasn't coming. Surely you, as astudent of psychology . .. " he broke off with a lift of his heavyshoulders. 

"Oh! Yes! I _am_ interested, certainly, as you say, as a student ofpsychology. We ought to take some measurements. The configuration of theskull is not abnormal otherwise than in its relation to the developmentof the rest of his body, but . .. " Lewes meandered off into somewhatabstruse speculation with regard to the significance of craniology. 

Challis nodded his head and murmured: "Quite, quite, " occasionally. Heseemed glad that Lewes should continue to talk. 

The lecture was interrupted by the appearance of the governess cart. 

"By Jove, he _has_ come, " ejaculated Challis in the middle of one ofLewes's periods. "You'll have to see me through this, my boy. I'm damnedif I know how to take the child. "

Lewes flushed, annoyed at the interruption of his lecture. He hadbelieved that he had been interesting. "Curse the kid, " was the thoughtin his mind as he followed Challis to the window. 

II

Jessop, the groom deputed to fetch the Wonder from Pym, looked a littleuneasy, perhaps a little scared. When he drew up at the porch, the childpointed to the door of the cart and indicated that it was to be openedfor him. He was evidently used to being waited upon. When this commandhad been obeyed, he descended deliberately and then pointed to the frontdoor. 

"Open!" he said clearly, as Jessop hesitated. The Wonder knew nothing ofbells or ceremony. 

Jessop came down from the cart and rang. 

The butler opened the door. He was an old servant and accustomed to hismaster's eccentricities, but he was not prepared for the vision of thatstrange little figure, with a large head in a parti-colouredcricket-cap, an apparition that immediately walked straight by him intothe hall, and pointed to the first door he came to. 

"Oh, dear! Well, to be sure, " gasped Heathcote. "Why, whatever----"

"Open!" commanded the Wonder, and Heathcote obeyed, weak-kneed. 

The door chanced to be the right one, the door of the breakfast-room, and the Wonder walked in, still wearing his cap. 

Challis came forward to meet him with a conventional greeting. "I'mglad you were able to come . .. " he began, but the child took no notice;he looked rapidly round the room, and not finding what he wanted, signified his desire by a single word. 

"Books, " he said, and looked at Challis. 

Heathcote stood at the door, hesitating between amazement anddisapproval. "I've never seen the like, " was how he phrased hisastonishment later, in the servants' hall, "never in all my born days. To see that melon-'eaded himp in a cricket-cap hordering the masterabout. Well, there----"

"Jessop says he fair got the creeps drivin' 'im over, " said the cook. "'E says the child's not right in 'is 'ead. "

Much embroidery followed in the servants' hall. 

INTERLUDE

This brief history of the Hampdenshire Wonder is marked by a stereotypeddivision into three parts, an arbitrary arrangement dependent on theexperience of the writer. The true division becomes manifest at thispoint. The life of Victor Stott was cut into two distinct sections, between which there is no correlation. The first part should tell thestory of his mind during the life of experience, the time occupied inobservation of the phenomena of life presented to him in fact, withoutany specific teaching on the theories of existence and progress, or onthe speculation as to ultimate destiny. The second part should deal withhis entry into the world of books; into that account of a long series ofcollated experiments and partly verified hypotheses we call science;into the imperfectly developed system of inductive and deductive logicwhich determines mathematics and philosophy; into the long, inaccurateand largely unverifiable account of human blindness and error known ashistory; and into the realm of idealism, symbol, and pitiful pride wefind in the story of poetry, letters, and religion. 

I will confess that I once contemplated the writing of such a history. It was Challis who, in his courtly, gentle way, pointed out to me thatno man living had the intellectual capacity to undertake so profound awork. 

For some three months before I had this conversation with Challis, I hadbeen wrapped in solitude, dreaming, speculating. I had been uplifted inthought, I had come to believe myself inspired as a result of myseparation from the world of men, and of the deep introspection andmeditation in which I had been plunged. I had arrived at a point, perhaps not far removed from madness, at which I thought myself capableof setting out the true history of Victor Stott. 

Challis broke the spell. He cleared away the false glamour which wasblinding and intoxicating me and brought me back to a condition ofopen-eyed sanity. To Challis I owe a great debt. 

Yet at the moment I was sunk in depression. All the glory of my visionhad faded; the afterglow was quenched in the blackness of a night thatdrew out of the east and fell from the zenith as a curtain of utterdarkness. 

Again Challis came to my rescue. He brought me a great sheaf of notes. 

"Look here, " he said, "if you can't write a true history of that strangechild, I see no reason why you should not write his story as it isknown to you, as it impinges on your own life. After all, you, in manyways, know more of him than any one. You came nearest to receiving hisconfidence. "

"But only during the last few months, " I said. 

"Does that matter?" said Challis with an upheaval of hisshoulders--"shrug" is far too insignificant a word for that mountainoushumping. "Is any biography founded on better material than you have atcommand?"

He unfolded his bundle of notes. "See here, " he said, "here is somemagnificent material for you--first-hand observations made at the time. Can't you construct a story from that?"

Even then I began to cast my story in a slightly biographical form. Iwrote half a dozen chapters, and read them to Challis. 

"Magnificent, my dear fellow, " was his comment, "magnificent; but no onewill believe it. "

I had been carried away by my own prose, and with the natural vanity ofthe author, I resented intensely his criticism. 

For some weeks I did not see Challis again, and I persisted in my futileendeavour, but always as I wrote that killing suggestion insinuateditself: "No one will believe you. " At times I felt as a man may feel whohas spent many years in a lunatic asylum; and after his release is forever engaged in a struggle to allay the doubts of a leering suspicion. 

I gave up the hopeless task at last, and sought out Challis again. 

"Write it as a story, " he suggested, "and give up the attempt to carryconviction. "

And in that spirit, adopting the form of a story, I did begin, and inthat form I hope to finish. 

But here as I reach the great division, the determining factor of VictorStott's life, I am constrained to pause and apologise. I have becomeuncomfortably conscious of my own limitations, and the feeble, ephemeralmethods I am using. I am trifling with a wonderful story, embroideringmy facts with the tawdry detail of my own imagining. 

I saw--I see--no other way. 

This is, indeed, a preface, yet I prefer to put it in this place, sinceit was at this time I wrote it. 

 * * * * *

On the Common a faint green is coming again like a mist among theash-trees, while the oak is still dead and bare. Last year the oak camefirst. 

They say we shall have a wet summer. 

PART TWO (_Continued_)

THE WONDER AMONG BOOKS

PART TWO (_Continued_)

THE WONDER AMONG BOOKS

CHAPTER IX

HIS PASSAGE THROUGH THE PRISON OF KNOWLEDGE

I

Challis led the way to the library; Lewes, petulant and mutinous, hungin the rear. 

The Wonder toddled forward, unabashed, to enter his new world. On thethreshold, however, he paused. His comprehensive stare took in asweeping picture of enclosing walls of books, and beyond was a vista offurther rooms, of more walls all lined from floor to ceiling withrecords of human discovery, endeavour, doubt, and hope. 

The Wonder stayed and stared. Then he took two faltering steps into theroom and stopped again, and, finally, he looked up at Challis with doubtand question; his gaze no longer quelling and authoritative, buthesitating, compliant, perhaps a little child-like. 

"'Ave you read all these?" he asked. 

It was a curious picture. The tall figure of Challis, stooping, asalways, slightly forward; Challis, with his seaman's eyes and scholar'shead, his hands loosely clasped together behind his back, paying suchscrupulous attention to that grotesque representative of a higherintellectuality, clothed in the dress of a villager, a patchedcricket-cap drawn down over his globular skull, his little arms hangingloosely at his sides; who, nevertheless, even in this new, strangeaspect of unwonted humility bore on his face the promise of someultimate development which differentiated him from all other humanity, as the face of humanity is differentiated from the face of itsprognathous ancestor. 

The scene is set in a world of books, and in the background lingers theathletic figure and fair head of Lewes, the young Cambridgeundergraduate, the disciple of science, hardly yet across the thresholdwhich divides him from the knowledge of his own ignorance. 

"'Ave you read all these?" asked the Wonder. 

"A greater part of them--in effect, " replied Challis. "There is muchrepetition, you understand, and much record of experiment which becomes, in a sense, worthless when the conclusions are either finally acceptedor rejected. "

The eyes of the Wonder shifted and their expression became abstracted;he seemed to lose consciousness of the outer world; he wore the lookwhich you may see in the eyes of Jakob Schlesinger's portrait of themature Hegel, a look of profound introspection and analysis. 

There was an interval of silence, and then the Wonder unknowingly gaveexpression to a quotation from Hamlet. "Words, " he whisperedreflectively, and then again "words. "

II

Challis understood him. "You have not yet learned the meaning of words?"he asked. 

The brief period--the only one recorded--of amazement and submission wasover. It may be that he had doubted during those few minutes of timewhether he was well advised to enter into that world of books, whetherhe would not by so doing stunt his own mental growth. It may be that thedecision of so momentous a question should have been postponed for ayear--two years; to a time when his mind should have had furtherpossibilities for unlettered expansion. However that may be, he decidednow and finally. He walked to the table and climbed up on a chair. 

"Books about words, " he commanded, and pointed at Challis and Lewes. 

They brought him the latest production of the twentieth century in manyvolumes, the work of a dozen eminent authorities on the etymology of theEnglish language, and they seated him on eight volumes of the_Encyclopædia Britannica_ (India paper edition) in order that he mightreach the level of the table. 

At first they tried to show him how his wonderful dictionary should beused, but he pushed them on one side, neither then nor at any futuretime would he consent to be taught--the process was too tedious for him, his mind worked more fluently, rapidly, and comprehensively than themind of the most gifted teacher that could have been found for him. 

So Challis and Lewes stood on one side and watched him, and he was nomore embarrassed by their presence than if they had been in anotherworld, as, possibly, they were. 

He began with volume one, and he read the title page and theintroduction, the list of abbreviations, and all the preliminary matterin due order. 

Challis noted that when the Wonder began to read, he read no faster thanthe average educated man, but that he acquired facility at a mostastounding rate, and that when he had been reading for a few days hiseye swept down the column, as it were at a single glance. 

Challis and Lewes watched him for, perhaps, half an hour, and then, seeing that their presence was of an entirely negligible value to theWonder, they left him and went into the farther room. 

"Well?" asked Challis, "what do you make of him?"

"Is he reading or pretending to read?" parried Lewes. "Do you think itpossible that he could read so fast? Moreover, remember that he hasadmitted that he knows few words of the English language, yet he doesnot refer from volume to volume; he does not look up the meanings of themany unknown words which must occur even in the introduction. "

"I know. I had noticed that. "

"Then you think he _is_ humbugging--pretending to read?"

"No; that solution seems to me altogether unlikely. He could not, forone thing, simulate that look of attention. Remember, Lewes, the childis not yet five years old. "

"What is your explanation, then?"

"I am wondering whether the child has not a memory beside which thememory of a Macaulay would appear insignificant. "

Lewes did not grasp Challis's intention. "Even so . .. " he began. 

"And, " continued Challis, "I am wondering whether, if that is the case, he is, in effect, prepared to learn the whole dictionary by heart, and, so to speak, collate its contents later, in his mind. "

"Oh! Sir!" Lewes smiled. The supposition was too outrageous to be takenseriously. "Surely, you can't mean that. " There was something in Lewes'stone which carried a hint of contempt for so far-fetched a hypothesis. 

Challis was pacing up and down the library, his hands clasped behindhim. "Yes, I mean it, " he said, without looking up. "I put it forward asa serious theory, worthy of full consideration. "

Lewes sneered. "Oh, surely not, sir, " he said. 

Challis stopped and faced him. "Why not, Lewes; why not?" he asked, witha kindly smile. "Think of the gap which separates your intellectualpowers from those of a Polynesian savage. Why, after all, should it beimpossible that this child's powers should equally transcend our own? Afreak, if you will, an abnormality, a curious effect of nature's, likethe giant puff-ball--but still----"

"Oh! yes, sir, I grant you the thing is not impossible from atheoretical point of view, " argued Lewes, "but I think you aretheorising on altogether insufficient evidence. I am willing to admitthat such a freak is theoretically possible, but I have not yet foundthe indications of such a power in the child. "

Challis resumed his pacing. "Quite, quite, " he assented; "your methodis perfectly correct--perfectly correct. We must wait. "

At twelve o'clock Challis brought a glass of milk and some biscuits, andset them beside the Wonder--he was apparently making excellent progresswith the letter "A. "

"Well, how are you getting on?" asked Challis. 

The Wonder took not the least notice of the question, but he stretchedout a little hand and took a biscuit and ate it, without looking up fromhis reading. 

"I wish he'd answer questions, " Challis remarked to Lewes, later. 

"I should prescribe a sound shaking, " returned Lewes. 

Challis smiled. "Well, see here, Lewes, " he said, "I'll take theresponsibility; you go and experiment; go and shake him. "

Lewes looked through the folding doors at the picture of the Wonder, intent on his study of the great dictionary. "Since you've franked me, "he said, "I'll do it--but not now. I'll wait till he gives me someoccasion. "

"Good, " replied Challis, "my offer holds . .. And, by the way, I have nodoubt that an occasion will present itself. Doesn't it strike you aslikely, Lewes, that we shall see a good deal of the child here?"

They stood for some minutes, watching the picture of that intentstudent, framed in the written thoughts of his predecessors. 

III

The Wonder ignored an invitation to lunch; he ignored, also, the traythat was sent in to him. He read on steadily till a quarter to six, bywhich time he was at the end of "B, " and then he climbed down from hisEncyclopædia, and made for the door. Challis, working in the fartherroom, saw him and came out to open the door. 

"Are you going now?" he asked. 

The child nodded. 

"I will order the cart for you, if you will wait ten minutes, " saidChallis. 

The child shook his head. "It's very necessary to have air, " he said. 

Something in the tone and pronunciation struck Challis, and awoke a longdormant memory. The sentence spoken, suddenly conjured up a vision ofthe Stotts' cottage at Stoke, of the Stotts at tea, of a cradle in theshadow, and of himself, sitting in an uncomfortable armchair andswinging his stick between his knees. When the child had gone--walkingdeliberately, and evidently regarding the mile-and-a-half walk throughthe twilight wood and over the deserted Common as a trivial incident inthe day's business--Challis set himself to analyse that curiousassociation. 

As he strolled back across the hall to the library, he tried toreconstruct the scene of the cottage at Stoke, and to recall the outlineof the conversation he had had with the Stotts. 

"Lewes!" he said, when he reached the room in which his secretary wasworking. "Lewes, this is curious, " and he described the associationscalled up by the child's speech. "The curious thing is, " he continued, "that I had gone to advise Mrs. Stott to take a cottage at Pym, becausethe Stoke villagers were hostile, in some way, and she did not care totake the child out in the street. It is more than probable that I usedjust those words, 'It is very necessary to have air, ' very probable. Now, what about my memory theory? The child was only six months old atthat time. "

Lewes appeared unconvinced. "There is nothing very unusual in thesentence, " he said. 

"Forgive me, " replied Challis, "I don't agree with you. It is notphrased as a villager would phrase it, and, as I tell you, it was notspoken with the local accent. "

"You may have spoken the sentence to-day, " suggested Lewes. 

"I may, of course, though I don't remember saying anything of the sort, but that would not account for the curiously vivid association which wasconjured up. "

Lewes pursed his lips. "No, no, no, " he said. "But that is hardly groundfor argument, is it?"

"I suppose not, " returned Challis thoughtfully; "but when you take uppsychology, Lewes, I should much like you to specialise on a carefulinquiry into association in connection with memory. I feel certain thatif one can reproduce, as nearly as may be, any complex sensation one hasexperienced, no matter how long ago, one will stimulate what I may callan abnormal memory of all the associations connected with thatexperience. Just now I saw the interior of that room in the Stotts'cottage so clearly that I had an image of a dreadful oleograph ofDisraeli hanging on the wall. But, now, I cannot for the life of meremember whether there was such an oleograph or not. I do not remembernoticing it at the time. "

"Yes, that's very interesting, " replied Lewes. "There is certainly awide field for research in that direction. "

"You might throw much light on our mental processes, " replied Challis. 

(It was as the outcome of this conversation that Gregory Lewes did, twoyears afterwards, take up this line of study. The only result up to thepresent time is his little brochure _Reflexive Associations_, which hasadded little to our knowledge of the subject. )

IV

Challis's anticipation that he and Lewes would be greatly favoured bythe Wonder's company was fully realised. 

The child put in an appearance at half-past nine the next morning, justas the governess cart was starting out to fetch him. When he wasadmitted he went straight to the library, climbed on to the chair, uponwhich the volumes of the Encyclopædia still remained, and continued hisreading where he had left off on the previous evening. 

He read steadily throughout the day without giving utterance to speechof any kind. 

Challis and Lewes went out in the afternoon, and left the child deep instudy. They came in at six o'clock, and went to the library. The Wonder, however, was not there. 

Challis rang the bell. 

"Has little Stott gone?" he asked when Heathcote came. 

"I 'aven't seen 'im, sir, " said Heathcote. 

"Just find out if any one opened the door for him, will you?" saidChallis. "He couldn't possibly have opened that door for himself. "

"No one 'asn't let Master Stott hout, sir, " Heathcote reported on hisreturn. 

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, sir. I've made full hinquiries, " said Heathcote withdignity. 

"Well, we'd better find him, " said Challis. 

"The window is open, " suggested Lewes. 

"He would hardly . .. " began Challis, walking over to the low sill of theopen window, but he broke off in his sentence and continued, "By Jove, he did, though; look here!"

It was, indeed, quite obvious that the Wonder had made his exit by thewindow; the tiny prints of his feet were clearly marked in the mould ofthe flower-bed; he had, moreover, disregarded all results of earlyspring floriculture. 

"See how he has smashed those daffodils, " said Lewes. "What aninfernally cheeky little brute he is!"

"What interests me is the logic of the child, " returned Challis. "Iwould venture to guess that he wasted no time in trying to attractattention. The door was closed, so he just got out of the window. Irather admire the spirit; there is something Napoleonic about him. Don'tyou think so?"

Lewes shrugged his shoulders. Heathcote's expression was quitenon-committal. 

"You'd better send Jessop up to Pym, Heathcote, " said Challis. "Let himfind out whether the child is safe at home. "

Jessop reported an hour afterwards that Master Stott had arrived homequite safely, and Mrs. Stott was much obliged. 

V

Altogether the Wonder spent five days, or about forty hours, on hisstudy of the dictionary, and in the evening of his last day's work heleft again by the open window. Challis, however, had been keeping himunder fairly close observation, and knew that the preliminary task wasfinished. 

"What can I give that child to read to-day?" he asked at breakfast nextmorning. 

"I should reverse the arrangement; let him sit on the Dictionary andread the Encyclopædia. " Lewes always approached the subject of theWonder with a certain supercilious contempt. 

"You are not convinced yet that he isn't humbugging?"

"No! Frankly, I'm not. "

"Well, well, we must wait for more evidence, before we argue about it, "said Challis, but they sat on over the breakfast-table, waiting for thechild to put in an appearance, and their conversation hovered over thetopic of his intelligence. 

"Half-past ten?" Challis ejaculated at last, with surprise. "We aregetting into slack habits, Lewes. " He rose and rang the bell. 

"Apparently the Stott infant has had enough of it, " suggested Lewes. "Perhaps he has exhausted the interest of dictionary illustrations. "

"We shall see, " replied Challis, and then to a deferentially appearingHeathcote he said: "Has Master Stott come this morning?"

"No, sir. Leastways, no one 'asn't let 'im in, sir. "

"It may be that he is mentally collating the results of the past twodays' reading, " said Challis, as he and Lewes made their way to thelibrary. 

"Oh!" was all Lewes's reply, but it conveyed much of impatient contemptfor his employer's attitude. 

Challis only smiled. 

When they entered the library they found the Wonder hard at work, and hehad, of his own initiative, adopted the plan ironically suggested byLewes, for he had succeeded in transferring the Dictionary volumes tothe chair, and he was deep in volume one, of the eleventh edition of the_Encyclopædia Britannica_. 

The library was never cleared up by any one except Challis or hisdeputy, but an early housemaid had been sent to dust, and she had leftthe casement of one of the lower lights of the window open. The meansof the Wonder's entrance was thus clearly in evidence. 

"It's Napoleonic, " murmured Challis. 

"It's most infernal cheek, " returned Lewes in a loud voice, "I shouldnot be at all surprised if that promised shaking were not administeredto-day. "

The Wonder took no notice. Challis says that on that morning his eyeswere travelling down the page at about the rate at which one could countthe lines. 

"He isn't reading, " said Lewes. "No one could read as fast as that, andmost certainly not a child of four and a half. "

"If he would only answer questions . .. " hesitated Challis. 

"Oh! of course he won't do that, " said Lewes. "He's clever enough not togive himself away. "

The two men went over to the table and looked down over the child'sshoulder. He was in the middle of the article on "Aberration"--atechnical treatise on optical physics. 

Lewes made a gesture. "Now do you believe he's humbugging?" he askedconfidently, and made no effort to modulate his voice. 

Challis drew his eyebrows together. "My boy, " he said, and laid his handlightly on Victor Stott's shoulder, "can you understand what you arereading there?"

But no answer was vouchsafed. Challis sighed. "Come along, Lewes, " hesaid; "we must waste no more time. "

Lewes wore a look of smug triumph as they went to the farther room, buthe was clever enough to refrain from expressing his triumph in speech. 

VI

Challis gave directions that the window which the Wonder had found to behis most convenient method of entry and exit should be kept open, exceptat night; and a stool was placed under the sill inside the room, and alow bench was fixed outside to facilitate the child's goings andcomings. Also, a little path was made across the flower-bed. 

The Wonder gave no trouble. He arrived at nine o'clock every morning, Sunday included, and left at a quarter to six in the evening. On wetdays he was provided with a waterproof which had evidently been made byhis mother out of a larger garment. This he took off when he entered theroom and left on the stool under the window. 

He was given a glass of milk and a plate of bread-and-butter at twelveo'clock; and except for this he demanded and received no attention. 

For three weeks he devoted himself exclusively to the study of theEncyclopædia. 

Lewes was puzzled. 

Challis spoke little of the child during these three weeks, but he oftenstood at the entrance to the farther rooms and watched the Wonder's eyestravelling so rapidly yet so intently down the page. That sight had acurious fascination for him; he returned to his own work by an effort, and an hour afterwards he would be back again at the door of the largerroom. Sometimes Lewes would hear him mutter: "If he would only answer afew questions. .. . " There was always one hope in Challis's mind. He hopedthat some sort of climax might be reached when the Encyclopædia wasfinished. The child must, at least, ask then for another book. Even ifhe chose one for himself, his choice might furnish some sort of a test. 

So Challis waited and said little; and Lewes was puzzled, because he wasbeginning to doubt whether it were possible that the child could sustaina pose so long. That, in itself, would be evidence of extraordinaryabnormality. Lewes fumbled in his mind for another hypothesis. 

This reading craze may be symptomatic of some form of idiocy, hethought; "and I don't believe he does read, " was his illogicaldeduction. 

Mrs. Stott usually came to meet her son, and sometimes she would comeearly in the afternoon and stand at the window watching him at his work;but neither Challis nor Lewes ever saw the Wonder display by any signthat he was aware of his mother's presence. 

During those three weeks the Wonder held himself completely detachedfrom any intercourse with the world of men. At the end of that period heonce more manifested his awareness of the human factor in existence. 

Challis, if he spoke little to Lewes of the Wonder during this time, maintained a strict observation of the child's doings. 

The Wonder began his last volume of the Encyclopædia one Wednesdayafternoon soon after lunch, and on Thursday morning, Challis wascontinually in and out of the room watching the child's progress, andnoting his nearness to the end of the colossal task he had undertaken. 

At a quarter to twelve he took up his old position in the doorway, andwith his hands clasped behind his back he watched the reading of thelast forty pages. 

There was no slackening and no quickening in the Wonder's rate ofprogress. He read the articles under "Z" with the same attention he hadgiven to the remainder of the work, and then, arrived at the last page, he closed the volume and took up the Index. 

Challis suffered a qualm; not so much on account of the possiblepostponement of the crisis he was awaiting, as because he saw that thereading of the Index could only be taken as a sign that the whole studyhad been unintelligent. No one could conceivably have any purpose inreading through an index. 

And at this moment Lewes joined him in the doorway. 

"What volume has he got to now?" asked Lewes. 

"The Index, " returned Challis. 

Lewes was no less quick in drawing his inference than Challis had been. 

"Well, that settles it, I should think, " was Lewes's comment. 

"Wait, wait, " returned Challis. 

The Wonder turned a dozen pages at once, glanced at the new opening, made a further brief examination of two or three headings near the endof the volume, closed the book, and looked up. 

"Have you finished?" asked Challis. 

The Wonder shook his head. "All this, " he said--he indicated with asmall and dirty hand the pile of volumes that were massed roundhim--"all this . .. " he repeated, hesitated for a word, and again shookhis head with that solemn, deliberate impressiveness which marked allhis actions. 

Challis came towards the child, leaned over the table for a moment, andthen sat down opposite to him. Between the two protagonists hoveredLewes, sceptical, inclined towards aggression. 

"I am most interested, " said Challis. "Will you try to tell me, my boy, what you think of--all this?"

"So elementary . .. Inchoate . .. A disjunctive . .. Patchwork, " repliedthe Wonder. His abstracted eyes were blind to the objective world of ourreality; he seemed to be profoundly analysing the very elements ofthought. 

VII

Then that almost voiceless child found words. Heathcote's announcementof lunch was waved aside, the long afternoon waned, and still that thintrickle of sound flowed on. 

The Wonder spoke in odd, pedantic phrases; he used the technicalities ofevery science; he constructed his sentences in unusual ways, and oftenhe paused for a word and gave up the search, admitting that his meaningcould not be expressed through the medium of any language known to him. 

Occasionally Challis would interrupt him fiercely, would even rise fromhis chair and pace the room, arguing, stating a point of view, combatingsome suggestion that underlay the trend of that pitiless wisdom which inthe end bore him down with its unanswerable insistence. 

During those long hours much was stated by that small, thin voice whichwas utterly beyond the comprehension of the two listeners; indeed, it isdoubtful whether even Challis understood a tithe of the theory that wasactually expressed in words. 

As for Lewes, though he was at the time non-plussed, quelled, he was inthe outcome impressed rather by the marvellous powers of memoryexhibited than by the far finer powers shown in the superhuman logic ofthe synthesis. 

One sees that Lewes entered upon the interview with a mind predisposedto criticise, to destroy. There can be no doubt that as he listened hisuninformed mind was endeavouring to analyse, to weigh, and to oppose;and this antagonism and his own thoughts continually interposed betweenhim and the thought of the speaker. Lewes's account of what was spokenon that afternoon is utterly worthless. 

Challis's failure to comprehend was not, at the outset, due to hisantagonistic attitude. He began with an earnest wish to understand: hefailed only because the thing spoken was beyond the scope of hisintellectual powers. But he did, nevertheless, understand the trend ofthat analysis of progress; he did in some half-realised way apprehendthe gist of that terrible deduction of a final adjustment. 

He must have apprehended, in part, for he fiercely combated theargument, only to quaver, at last, into a silence which permitted againthat trickle of hesitating, pedantic speech, which was yet sooverwhelming, so conclusive. 

As the afternoon wore on, however, Challis's attitude must have changed;he must have assumed an armour of mental resistance not unlike theresistance of Lewes. Challis perceived, however dimly, that life wouldhold no further pleasure for him if he accepted that theory of origin, evolution, and final adjustment; he found in this cosmogony no place forhis own idealism; and he feared to be convinced even by that fraction ofthe whole argument which he could understand. 

We see that Challis, with all his apparent devotion to science, wasnever more than a dilettante. He had another stake in the world which, at the last analysis, he valued more highly than the acquisition ofknowledge. Those means of ease, of comfort, of liberty, of opportunityto choose his work among various interests, were the ruling influence ofhis life. With it all Challis was an idealist, and unpractical. Hisgenial charity, his refinement of mind, his unthinking generosity, indicate the bias of a character which inclined always towards apicturesque optimism. It is not difficult to understand that he darednot allow himself to be convinced by Victor Stott's appallingsynthesis. 

At last, when the twilight was deepening into night, the voice ceased, the child's story had been told, and it had not been understood. TheWonder never again spoke of his theory of life. He realised from thattime that no one could comprehend him. 

As he rose to go, he asked one question that, simple as was itsexpression, had a deep and wonderful significance. 

"Is there none of my kind?" he said. "Is this, " and he laid a hand onthe pile of books before him, "is this all?"

"There is none of your kind, " replied Challis; and the little figureborn into a world that could not understand him, that was not ready toreceive him, walked to the window and climbed out into the darkness. 

 * * * * *

(Henry Challis is the only man who could ever have given any account ofthat extraordinary analysis of life, and he made no effort to recall thefundamental basis of the argument, and so allowed his memory of theessential part to fade. Moreover, he had a marked disinclination tospeak of that afternoon or of anything that was said by Victor Stottduring those six momentous hours of expression. It is evident thatChallis's attitude to Victor Stott was not unlike the attitude ofCaptain Wallis to Victor Stott's father on the occasion ofHampdenshire's historic match with Surrey. "This man will have to bebarred, " Wallis said. "It means the end of cricket. " Challis, in effect, thought that if Victor Stott were encouraged, it would mean the end ofresearch, philosophy, all the mystery, idealism, and joy of life. Once, and once only, did Challis give me any idea of what he had learnedduring that afternoon's colloquy, and the substance of what Challis thentold me will be found at the end of this volume. )

CHAPTER X

HIS PASTORS AND MASTERS

I

For many months after that long afternoon in the library, Challis wasaffected with a fever of restlessness, and his work on the book stoodstill. He was in Rome during May, and in June he was seized by a suddenwhim and went to China by the Trans-Siberian railway. Lewes did notaccompany him. Challis preferred, one imagines, to have no intercoursewith Lewes while the memory of certain pronouncements was still fresh. He might have been tempted to discuss that interview, and if, as waspractically certain, Lewes attempted to pour contempt on the wholeaffair, Challis might have been drawn into a defence which would haverevived many memories he wished to obliterate. 

He came back to London in September--he made the return journey bysteamer--and found his secretary still working at the monograph on theprimitive peoples of Melanesia. 

Lewes had spent the whole summer in Challis's town house in EatonSquare, whither all the material had been removed two days after thatmomentous afternoon in the library of Challis Court. 

"I have been wanting your help badly for some time, sir, " Lewes said onthe evening of Challis's return. "Are you proposing to take up the workagain? If not . .. " Gregory Lewes thought he was wasting valuable time. 

"Yes, yes, of course; I am ready to begin again now, if you care to goon with me, " said Challis. He talked for a few minutes of the bookwithout any great show of interest. Presently they came to a pause, andLewes suggested that he should give some account of how his time hadbeen spent. 

"To-morrow, " replied Challis, "to-morrow will be time enough. I shallsettle down again in a few days. " He hesitated a moment, and then said:"Any news from Chilborough?"

"N-no, I don't think so, " returned Lewes. He was occupied with his owninterests; he doubted Challis's intention to continue his work on thebook--the announcement had been so half-hearted. 

"What about that child?" asked Challis. 

"That child?" Lewes appeared to have forgotten the existence of VictorStott. 

"That abnormal child of Stott's?" prompted Challis. 

"Oh! Of course, yes. I believe he still goes nearly every day to thelibrary. I have been down there two or three times, and found himreading. He has learned the use of the index-catalogue. He can get anybook he wants. He uses the steps. "

"Do you know what he reads?"

"No; I can't say I do. "

"What do you think will become of him?"

"Oh! these infant prodigies, you know, " said Lewes with a large air ofauthority, "they all go the same way. Most of them die young, of course, the others develop into ordinary commonplace men rather under than overthe normal ability. After all, it is what one would expect. Naturealways maintains her average by some means or another. If a child likethis with his abnormal memory were to go on developing, there would beno place for him in the world's economy. The idea is inconceivable. "

"Quite, quite, " murmured Challis, and after a short silence he added:"You think he will deteriorate, that his faculties will decayprematurely?"

"I should say there could be no doubt of it, " replied Lewes. 

"Ah! well. I'll go down and have a look at him, one day next week, " saidChallis; but he did not go till the middle of October. 

The immediate cause of his going was a letter from Crashaw, who offeredto come up to town, as the matter was one of "really peculiar urgency. "

"I wonder if young Stott has been blaspheming again, " Challis remarkedto Lewes. "Wire the man that I'll go down and see him this afternoon. Ishall motor. Say I'll be at Stoke about half-past three. "

II

Challis was ushered into Crashaw's study on his arrival, and found therector in company with another man--introduced as Mr. Forman--ajolly-looking, high-complexioned man of sixty or so, with a greatquantity of white hair on his head and face; he was wearing anold-fashioned morning-coat and grey trousers that were noticeably tooshort for him. 

Crashaw lost no time in introducing the subject of "really peculiarurgency, " but he rambled in his introduction. 

"You have probably forgotten, " he said, "that last spring I had to bringa most horrible charge against a child called Victor Stott, who hassince been living, practically, as I may say, under your ægis, that is, he has, at least, spent a greater part of his day, er--playing in yourlibrary at Challis Court. "

"Quite, quite; I remember perfectly, " said Challis. "I made myselfresponsible for him up to a certain point. I gave him an occupation. Itwas intended, was it not, to divert his mind from speaking againstreligion to the yokels?"

"Quite a character, if I may say so, " put in Mr. Forman cheerfully. 

Crashaw was seated at his study table; the affair had something theeffect of an examining magistrate taking the evidence of witnesses. 

"Yes, yes, " he said testily; "I did ask your help, Mr. Challis, and Idid, in a way, receive some assistance from you. That is, the child hasto some extent been isolated by spending so much of his time at yourhouse. "

"Has he broken out again?" asked Challis. 

"If I understand you to mean has the child been speaking openly on anysubject connected with religion, I must say 'No, '" said Crashaw. "But henever attends any Sunday school, or place of worship; he has received noinstruction in--er--any sacred subject, though I understand he is ableto read; and his time is spent among books which, pardon me, would not, I suppose, be likely to give a serious turn to his thoughts. "

"Serious?" questioned Challis. 

"Perhaps I should say 'religious, '" replied Crashaw. "To me the twowords are synonymous. "

Mr. Forman bowed his head slightly with an air of reverence, and noddedtwo or three times to express his perfect approval of the rector'ssentiments. 

"You think the child's mind is being perverted by his intercourse withthe books in the library where he--he--'plays' was your word, Ibelieve?"

"No, not altogether, " replied Crashaw, drawing his eyebrows together. "We can hardly suppose that he is able at so tender an age to read, muchless to understand, those works of philosophy and science which wouldproduce an evil effect on his mind. I am willing to admit, since I, too, have had some training in scientific reading, that writers on thosesubjects are not easily understood even by the mature intelligence. "

"Then why, exactly, do you wish me to prohibit the child from coming toChallis Court?"

"Possibly you have not realised that the child is now five years old?"said Crashaw with an air of conferring illumination. 

"Indeed! Yes. An age of some discretion, no doubt, " returned Challis. 

"An age at which the State requires that he should receive the elementsof education, " continued Crashaw. 

"Eh?" said Challis. 

"Time he went to school, " explained Mr. Forman. "I've been after him, you know. I'm the attendance officer for this district. "

Challis for once committed a breach of good manners. The import of thething suddenly appealed to his sense of humour: he began to chuckle andthen he laughed out a great, hearty laugh, such as had not been stirredin him for twenty years. 

"Oh! forgive me, forgive me, " he said, when he had recovered hisself-control. "But you don't know; you can't conceive the utter, childish absurdity of setting that child to recite the multiplicationtable with village infants of his own age. Oh! believe me, if you couldonly guess, you would laugh with me. It's so funny, so inimitablyfunny. "

"I fail to see, Mr. Challis, " said Crashaw, "that there is anything inany way absurd or--or unusual in the proposition. "

"Five is the age fixed by the State, " said Mr. Forman. He had relaxedinto a broad smile in sympathy with Challis's laugh, but he had nowrelapsed into a fair imitation of Crashaw's intense seriousness. 

"Oh! How can I explain?" said Challis. "Let me take an instance. Youpropose to teach him, among other things, the elements of arithmetic?"

"It is a part of the curriculum, " replied Mr. Forman. 

"I have only had one conversation with this child, " went on Challis--andat the mention of that conversation his brows drew together and hebecame very grave again; "but in the course of that conversation thischild had occasion to refer, by way of illustration, to some abstrusetheorem of the differential calculus. He did it, you will understand, byway of making his meaning clear--though the illustration was utterlybeyond me: that reference represented an act of intellectualcondescension. "

"God bless me, you don't say so?" said Mr. Forman. 

"I cannot see, " said Crashaw, "that this instance of yours, Mr. Challis, has any real bearing on the situation. If the child is a mathematicalgenius--there have been instances in history, such as Blaise Pascal--hewould not, of course, receive elementary instruction in a subject withwhich he was already acquainted. "

"You could not find any subject, believe me, Crashaw, in which he couldbe instructed by any teacher in a Council school. "

"Forgive me, I don't agree with you, " returned Crashaw. "He is sadly inneed of some religious training. "

"He would not get that at a Council school, " said Challis, and Mr. Forman shook his head sadly, as though he greatly deprecated the fact. 

"He must learn to recognise authority, " said Crashaw. "When he has beentaught the necessity of submitting himself to all his governors, teachers, spiritual pastors, and masters: ordering himself lowly andreverently to all his betters; when, I say, he has learnt that lesson, he may be in a fit and proper condition to receive the teachings of theHoly Church. "

Mr. Forman appeared to think he was attending divine service. If therector had said "Let us pray, " there can be no doubt that he wouldimmediately have fallen on his knees. 

Challis shook his head. "You can't understand, Crashaw, " he said. 

"I _do_ understand, " said Crashaw, rising to his feet, "and I intend tosee that the statute is not disobeyed in the case of this child, VictorStott. "

Challis shrugged his shoulders; Mr. Forman assumed an expression ofstern determination. 

"In any case, why drag me into it?" asked Challis. 

Crashaw sat down again. The flush which had warmed his sallow skinsubsided as his passion died out. He had worked himself into a conditionof righteous indignation, but the calm politeness of Challis rebukedhim. If Crashaw prided himself on his devotion to the Church, he did notwish that attitude to overshadow the pride he also took in the beliefthat he was Challis's social equal. Crashaw's father had been a lawyer, with a fair practice in Derby, but he had worked his way up to apartnership from the position of office-boy, and Percy Crashaw seldomforgot to be conscious that he was a gentleman by education andprofession. 

"I did not wish to _drag_ you into this business, " he said quietly, putting his elbows on the writing-table in front of him, and reassumingthe judicial attitude he had adopted earlier; "but I regard this childas, in some sense, your protégé. " Crashaw put the tips of his fingerstogether, and Mr. Forman watched him warily, waiting for his cue. Ifthis was to be a case for prayer, Mr. Forman was ready, with a cleanwhite handkerchief to kneel upon. 

"In some sense, perhaps, " returned Challis. "I haven't seen him for somemonths. "

"Cannot you see the necessity of his attending school?" asked Crashaw, this time with an insinuating suavity; he believed that Challis wascoming round. 

"Oh!" Challis sighed with a note of expostulation. "Oh! the thing'sgrotesque, ridiculous. "

"If that's so, " put in Mr. Forman, who had been struck by a brilliantidea, "why not bring the child here, and let the Reverend Mr. Crashaw, or myself, put a few general questions to 'im?"

"Ye-es, " hesitated Crashaw, "that might be done; but, of course, thedecision does not rest with us. "

"It rests with the Local Authority, " mused Challis. He was running overthree or four names of members of that body who were known to him. 

"Certainly, " said Crashaw, "the Local Education Authority alone has theright to prosecute, but----" He did not state his antithesis. They hadcome to the crux which Crashaw had wished to avoid. He had no influencewith the committee of the L. E. A. , and Challis's recommendation wouldhave much weight. Crashaw intended that Victor Stott should attendschool, but he had bungled his preliminaries; he had rested on his ownauthority, and forgotten that Challis had little respect for thatinfluence. Conciliation was the only card to play now. 

"If I brought him, he wouldn't answer your questions, " sighed Challis. "He's very difficult to deal with. "

"Is he, indeed?" sympathised Mr. Forman. "I've 'ardly seen 'im myself;not to speak to, that is. "

"He might come with his mother, " suggested Crashaw. 

Challis shook his head. "By the way, it is the mother whom you wouldproceed against?" he asked. 

"The parent is responsible, " said Mr. Forman. "She will be broughtbefore a magistrate and fined for the first offence. "

"I shan't fine her if she comes before me, " replied Challis. 

Crashaw smiled. He meant to avoid that eventuality. 

The little meeting lapsed into a brief silence. There seemed to benothing more to say. 

"Well, " said Crashaw, at last, with a rising inflexion that had aconciliatory, encouraging, now-my-little-man kind of air, "We-ll, ofcourse, no one wishes to proceed to extremes. I think, Mr. Challis, Ithink I may say that you are the person who has most influence in thismatter, and I cannot believe that you will go against the establishedauthority both of the Church and the State. If it were only for the sakeof example. "

Challis rose deliberately. He shook his head, and unconsciously hishands went behind his back. There was hardly room for him to pace up anddown, but he took two steps towards Mr. Forman, who immediately rose tohis feet; and then turned and went over to the window. It was from therethat he pronounced his ultimatum. 

"Regulations, laws, religious and lay authorities, " he said, "come intoexistence in order to deal with the rule, the average. That must be so. But if we are a reasoning, intellectual people we must have some meansof dealing with the exception. That means rests with a consensus ofintelligent opinion strong enough to set the rule upon one side. In anoverwhelming majority of cases there _is_ no such consensus of opinion, and the exceptional individual suffers by coming within the rule of alaw which should not apply to him. Now, I put it to you, as reasoning, intelligent men" ('ear, 'ear, murmured Mr. Forman automatically), "arewe, now that we have the power to perform a common act of justice, toexempt an unfortunate individual exception who has come within the ruleof a law that holds no application for him, or are we to exhibit a crassstupidity by enforcing that law? Is it not better to take the case intoour own hands, and act according to the dictates of common sense?"

"Very forcibly put, " murmured Mr. Forman. 

"I'm not finding any fault with the law or the principle of the law, "continued Challis; "but it is, it must be, framed for the average. Wemust use our discretion in dealing with the exception--and this is anexception such as has never occurred since we have had an EducationAct. "

"I don't agree with you, " said Crashaw, stubbornly. "I do not considerthis an exception. "

"But you _must_ agree with me, Crashaw. I have a certain amount ofinfluence and I shall use it. "

"In that case, " replied Crashaw, rising to his feet, "I shall fight youto the bitter end. I am _determined_"--he raised his voice and struckthe writing-table with his fist--"I am _determined_ that this infidelchild shall go to school. I am prepared, if necessary, to spend all myleisure in seeing that the law is carried out. "

Mr. Forman had also risen. "Very right, very right, indeed, " he said, and he knitted his mild brows and stroked his patriarchal white beardwith an appearance of stern determination. 

"I think you would be better advised to let the matter rest, " saidChallis. 

Mr. Forman looked inquiringly at the representative of the Church. 

"I shall fight, " replied Crashaw, stubbornly, fiercely. 

"Ha!" said Mr. Forman. 

"Very well, as you think best, " was Challis's last word. 

As Challis walked down to the gate, where his motor was waiting for him, Mr. Forman trotted up from behind and ranged himself alongside. 

"More rain wanted yet for the roots, sir, " he said. "September was agrand month for 'arvest, but we want rain badly now. "

"Quite, quite, " murmured Challis, politely. He shook hands with Mr. Forman before he got into the car. 

Mr. Forman, standing politely bareheaded, saw that Mr. Challis's carwent in the direction of Ailesworth. 

CHAPTER XI

HIS EXAMINATION

I

Challis's first visit was paid to Sir Deane Elmer, [4] that man of manyactivities, whose name inevitably suggests his favourite phrase of"Organised Progress"--with all its variants. 

This is hardly the place in which to criticise a man of such diverseabilities as Deane Elmer, a man whose name still figures so prominentlyin the public press in connection with all that is most modern ineugenics; with the Social Reform programme of the moderate party; withthe reconstruction of our penal system; with education, and so manykindred interests; and, finally, of course, with colour photography andprocess printing. This last Deane Elmer always spoke of as his hobby, but we may doubt whether all his interests were not hobbies in the samesense. He is the natural descendant of those earlier amateurscientists--the adjective conveys no reproach--of the nineteenthcentury, among whom we remember such striking figures as those of LordAvebury and Sir Francis Galton. 

In appearance Deane Elmer was a big, heavy, rather corpulent man, with ahigh complexion, and his clean-shaven jowl and his succession of chinshung in heavy folds. But any suggestion of material grossness wascontradicted by the brightness of his rather pale-blue eyes, by hisalertness of manner, and by his ready, whimsical humour. 

As chairman of the Ailesworth County Council, and its most prominentunpaid public official--after the mayor--Sir Deane Elmer was certainlythe most important member of the Local Authority, and Challis wiselysought him at once. He found him in the garden of his comparativelysmall establishment on the Quainton side of the town. Elmer was verymuch engaged in photographing flowers from nature through the ruledscreen and colour filter--in experimenting with the Elmer process, infact; by which the intermediate stage of a coloured negative is renderedunnecessary. His apparatus was complicated and cumbrous. 

"Show Mr. Challis out here, " he commanded the man who brought theannouncement. 

"You must forgive me, Challis, " said Elmer, when Challis appeared. "Wehaven't had such a still day for weeks. It's the wind upsets us in thisprocess. Screens create a partial vacuum. "

He was launched on a lecture upon his darling process before Challiscould get in a word. It was best to let him have his head, and Challistook an intelligent interest. 

It was not until the photographs were taken, and his two assistantscould safely be trusted to complete the mechanical operations, thatElmer could be divorced from his hobby. He was full of jubilation. "Weshould have excellent results, " he boomed--he had a tremendousvoice--"but we shan't be able to judge until we get the blocks made. Wedo it all on the spot. I have a couple of platens in the shops here; butwe shan't be able to take a pull until to-morrow morning, I'm afraid. You shall have a proof, Challis. We _should_ get magnificent results. "He looked benignantly at the vault of heaven, which had been soobligingly free from any current of air. 

Challis was beginning to fear that even now he would be allowed noopportunity to open the subject of his mission. But quite suddenly Elmerdropped the shutter on his preoccupation, and with that readyadaptability which was so characteristic of the man, forgot his hobbyfor the time being, and turned his whole attention to a new subject. 

"Well?" he said, "what is the latest news in anthropology?"

"A very remarkable phenomenon, " replied Challis. "That is what I havecome to see you about. "

"I thought you were in Paraguay pigging it with the Guaranis----"

"No, no; I don't touch the Americas, " interposed Challis. "I want allyour attention, Elmer. This is important. "

"Come into my study, " said Elmer, "and let us have the facts. What willyou have--tea, whisky, beer?"

Challis's résumé of the facts need not be reported. When it wasaccomplished, Elmer put several keen questions, and finally deliveredhis verdict thus:

"We must see the boy, Challis. Personally I am, of course, satisfied, but we must not give Crashaw opportunity to raise endless questions, ashe can and will. There is Mayor Purvis, the grocer, to be reckoned with, you must remember. He represents a powerful Nonconformist influence. Crashaw will get hold of him--and work him if we see Purvis first. Purvis always stiffens his neck against any breach of conventionalprocedure. If Crashaw saw him first, well and good, Purvis wouldimmediately jump to the conclusion that Crashaw intended some subtleattack on the Nonconformist position, and would side with us. "

"I don't think I know Purvis, " mused Challis. 

"Purvis & Co. In the Square, " prompted Elmer. "Black-and-white fellow;black moustache and side whiskers, black eyes and white face. There's asuggestion of the Methodist pulpit about him. Doesn't appear in the shopmuch, and when he does, always looks as if he'd sooner sell you a Biblethan a bottle of whisky. "

"Ah, yes! I know, " said Challis. "I daresay you're right, Elmer; but itwill be difficult to persuade this child to answer any questions hisexaminers may put to him. "

"Surely he must be open to reason, " roared Elmer. "You tell me he has anextraordinary intelligence, and in the next sentence you imply that thechild's a fool who can't open his mouth to serve his own interests. What's your paradox?"

"Sublimated material. Intellectual insight and absolute spiritualblindness, " replied Challis, getting to his feet. "The child has gonetoo far in one direction--in another he has made not one step. His mindis a magnificent, terrible machine. He has the imagination of amathematician and a logician developed beyond all conception, he has notone spark of the imagination of a poet. And so he cannot deal with men;he can't understand their weaknesses and limitations; they are geese andhens to him, creatures to be scared out of his vicinity. However, I willsee what I can do. Could you arrange for the members of the Authority tocome to my place?"

"I should think so. Yes, " said Elmer. "I say, Challis, are you sureyou're right about this child? Sounds to me like some--some freak. "

"You'll see, " returned Challis. "I'll try and arrange an interview. I'lllet you know. "

"And, by the way, " said Elmer, "you had better invite Crashaw to bepresent. He will put Purvis's back up, and that'll enlist the difficultgrocer on our side probably. "

When Challis had gone, Elmer stood for a few minutes, thoughtfullyscratching the ample red surface of his wide, clean-shaven cheek. "Idon't know, " he ejaculated at last, addressing his empty study, "I don'tknow. " And with that expression he put all thought of Victor Stott awayfrom him, and sat down to write an exhaustive article on the necessityfor a broader basis in primary education. 

II

Challis called at the rectory of Stoke-Underhill on the way back to hisown house. 

"I give way, " was the characteristic of his attitude to Crashaw, and therector suppled his back again, remembered the Derby office-boy'stendency to brag, and made the amende honorable. He even overdid hismagnanimity and came too near subservience--so lasting is the influenceof the lessons of youth. 

Crashaw did not mention that in the interval between the two interviewshe had called upon Mr. Purvis in the Square. The ex-mayor had refused tocommit himself to any course of action. 

But Challis forgot the rectory and all that it connoted before he waswell outside the rectory's front door. Challis had a task before himthat he regarded with the utmost distaste. He had warmly championed acause; he had been heated by the presentation of a manifest injusticewhich was none the less tyrannical because it was ridiculous. And now herealised that it was only the abstract question which had aroused hisenthusiastic advocacy, and he shrank from the interview with VictorStott--that small, deliberate, intimidating child. 

Henry Challis, the savant, the man of repute in letters, the respectedfigure in the larger world; Challis, the proprietor and landlord;Challis, the power among known men, knew that he would have to plead, tohumble himself, to be prepared for a rebuff--worst of all, toacknowledge the justice of taking so undignified a position. Anyaristocrat may stoop with dignity when he condescends of his own freewill; but there are few who can submit gracefully to deserved contempt. 

Challis was one of the few. He had many admirable qualities. Nevertheless, during that short motor ride from Stoke to his own house, he resented the indignity he anticipated, resented it intensely--andsubmitted. 

III

He was allowed no respite. Victor Stott was emerging from the librarywindow as Challis rolled up to the hall door. It was one of Ellen Mary'sdays--she stood respectfully in the background while her son descended;she curtsied to Challis as he came forward. 

He hesitated a moment. He would not risk insult in the presence of hischauffeur and Mrs. Stott. He confronted the Wonder; he stood before him, and over him like a cliff. 

"I must speak to you for a moment on a matter of some importance, " saidChallis to the little figure below him, and as he spoke he looked overthe child's head at the child's mother. "It is a matter that concernsyour own welfare. Will you come into the house with me for a fewminutes?"

Ellen Mary nodded, and Challis understood. He turned and led the way. Atthe door, however, he stood aside and spoke again to Mrs. Stott. "Won'tyou come in and have some tea, or something?" he asked. 

"No, sir, thank you, sir, " replied Ellen Mary; "I'll just wait 'ere till'e's ready. "

"At least come in and sit down, " said Challis, and she came in and satin the hall. The Wonder had already preceded them into the house. He hadwalked into the morning-room--probably because the door stood open, though he was now tall enough to reach the handles of the Challis Courtdoors. He stood in the middle of the room when Challis entered. 

"Won't you sit down?" said Challis. 

The Wonder shook his head. 

"I don't know if you are aware, " began Challis, "that there is a systemof education in England at the present time, which requires that everychild should attend school at the age of five years, unless the parentsare able to provide their children with an education elsewhere. "

The Wonder nodded. 

Challis inferred that he need proffer no further information with regardto the Education Act. 

"Now, it is very absurd, " he continued, "and I have, myself, pointed outthe absurdity; but there is a man of some influence in thisneighbourhood who insists that you should attend the elementary school. "He paused, but the Wonder gave no sign. 

"I have argued with this man, " continued Challis, "and I have also seenanother member of the Local Education Authority--a man of some note inthe larger world--and it seems that you cannot be exempted unless youconvince the Authority that your knowledge is such that to give you aCouncil school education would be the most absurd farce. "

"Cannot you stand in loco parentis?" asked the Wonder suddenly, in hisstill, thin voice. 

"You mean, " said Challis, startled by this outburst, "that I am in asense providing you with an education? Quite true; but there is Crashawto deal with. "

"Inform him, " said the Wonder. 

Challis sighed. "I have, " he said, "but he can't understand. " And then, feeling the urgent need to explain something of the motives that governthis little world of ours--the world into which this strangely logicalexception had been born--Challis attempted an exposition. 

"I know, " he said, "that these things must seem to you utterly absurd, but you must try to realise that you are an exception to the world aboutyou; that Crashaw or I, or, indeed, the greatest minds of the presentday, are not ruled by the fine logic which you are able to exercise. Weare children compared to you. We are swayed even in the making of ourlaws by little primitive emotions and passions, self-interests, desires. And at the best we are not capable of ordering our lives and ourgovernment to those just ends which we may see, some of us, areabstractly right and fine. We are at the mercy of that great mass of thepeople who have not yet won to an intellectual and discriminatingjudgment of how their own needs may best be served, and whoserepresentatives consider the interests of a party, a constituency, andespecially of their own personal ambitions and welfare, before the needsof humanity as a whole, or even the humanity of these little islands. 

"Above all, we are divided man against man. We are split into partiesand factions, by greed and jealousies, petty spites and self-seeking, byunintelligence, by education, and by our inability--a mentalinability--'to see life steadily and see it whole, ' and lastly, perhapschiefly, by our intense egotisms, both physical and intellectual. 

"Try to realise this. It is necessary, because whatever your wisdom, youhave to live in a world of comparative ignorance, a world which cannotappreciate you, but which can and will fall back upon the compellingpower of the savage--the resort to physical, brute force. "

The Wonder nodded. "You suggest----?" he said. 

"Merely that you should consent to answer certain elementary questionswhich the members of the Local Authority will put to you, " repliedChallis. "I can arrange that these questions be asked here--in thelibrary. Will you consent?"

The Wonder nodded, and made his way into the hall, without another word. His mother rose and opened the front door for him. 

As Challis watched the curious couple go down the drive, he sighedagain, perhaps with relief, perhaps at the impotence of the world ofmen. 

IV

There were four striking figures on the Education Committee selected bythe Ailesworth County Council. 

The first of these was Sir Deane Elmer, who was also chairman of theCouncil at this time. The second was the vice-chairman, Enoch Purvis, the ex-mayor, commonly, if incorrectly, known as "Mayor" Purvis. 

The third was Richard Standing, J. P. , who owned much property on theQuainton side of the town. He was a bluff, hearty man, devoted to sportand agriculture; a Conservative by birth and inclination, a staunchupholder of the Church and the Tariff Reform movement. 

The fourth was the Rev. Philip Steven, a co-opted member of theCommittee, head master of the Ailesworth Grammar School. Steven was atall, thin man with bent shoulders, and he had a long, thin face, thelength of which was exaggerated by his square brown beard. He woregold-mounted spectacles which, owing to his habit of dropping his head, always needed adjustment whenever he looked up. The movement of liftinghis head and raising his hand to his glasses had become so closelyassociated, that his hand went up even when there was no apparent needfor the action. Steven spoke of himself as a Broad Churchman, and in hisspeech on prize-day he never omitted some allusion to the necessity for"marching" or "keeping step" with the times. But Elmer was inclined tolaugh at this assumption of modernity. "Steven, " he said, on oneoccasion, "marks time and thinks he is keeping step. And every now andthen he runs a little to catch up. " The point of Elmer's satire lay inthe fact that Steven was usually to be seen either walking very slowly, head down, lost in abstraction; or--when aroused to a sense of presentnecessity--going with long-strides as if intent on catching up with thetimes without further delay. Very often, too, he might be seen runningacross the school playground, his hand up to those elusive glasses ofhis. "There goes Mr. Steven, catching up with the times, " had become anaccepted phrase. 

There were other members of the Education Committee, notably Mrs. PhilipSteven, but they were subordinate. If those four striking figures wereunanimous, no other member would have dreamed of expressing a contraryopinion. But up to this time they had not yet been agreed upon anyimportant line of action. 

This four, Challis and Crashaw met in the morning-room of Challis Courtone Thursday afternoon in November. Elmer had brought a stenographerwith him for scientific purposes. 

"Well, " said Challis, when they were all assembled. "The--the subject--Imean, Victor Stott is in the library. Shall we adjourn?" Challis had notfelt so nervous since the morning before he had sat for honours in theCambridge Senate House. 

In the library they found a small child, reading. 

V

He did not look up when the procession entered, nor did he remove hiscricket cap. He was in his usual place at the centre table. 

Challis found chairs for the Committee, and the members rangedthemselves round the opposite side of the table. Curiously, the effectproduced was that of a class brought up for a viva voce examination, andwhen the Wonder raised his eyes and glanced deliberately down the lineof his judges, this effect was heightened. There was an audiblefidgeting, a creak of chairs, an indication of small embarrassments. 

"Her--um!" Deane Elmer cleared his throat with noisy vigour; looked atthe Wonder, met his eyes and looked hastily away again; "Hm!--her--rum!"he repeated, and then he turned to Challis. "So this little fellow hasnever been to school?" he said. 

Challis frowned heavily. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable andunhappy. He was conscious that he could take neither side in thiscontroversy--that he was in sympathy with no one of the seven otherpersons who were seated in his library. 

He shook his head impatiently in answer to Sir Deane Elmer's question, and the chairman turned to the Rev. Philip Steven, who was gazingintently at the pattern of the carpet. 

"I think, Steven, " said Elmer, "that your large experience will probablyprompt you to a more efficient examination than we could conduct. Willyou initiate the inquiry?"

Steven raised his head slightly, put a readjusting hand up to hisglasses, and then looked sternly at the Wonder over the top of them. Even the sixth form quailed when the head master assumed thisexpression, but the small child at the table was gazing out of thewindow. 

Doubtless Steven was slightly embarrassed by the detachment of theexaminee, and blundered. "What is the square root of 226?" he asked--heprobably intended to say 225. 

"15·03329--to five places, " replied the Wonder. 

Steven started. Neither he nor any other member of the Committee wascapable of checking that answer without resort to pencil and paper. 

"Dear me!" ejaculated Squire Standing. 

Elmer scratched the superabundance of his purple jowl, and looked atChallis, who thrust his hands into his pockets and stared at theceiling. 

Crashaw leaned forward and clasped his hands together. He was biding histime. 

"Mayor" Purvis alone seemed unmoved. "What's that book he's got open infront of him?" he asked. 

"May I see?" interposed Challis hurriedly, and he rose from his chair, picked up the book in question, glanced at it for a moment, and thenhanded it to the grocer. The book was Van Vloten's Dutch text and Latintranslation of Spinoza's Short Treatise. 

The grocer turned to the title-page. "Ad--beany--dick--ti--de--Spy--nozer, "he read aloud and then: "What's it all about, Mr. Challis?" he asked. "German or something, I take it?"

"In any case it has nothing to do with elementary arithmetic, " repliedChallis curtly, "Mr. Steven will set your mind at ease on that point. "

"Certainly, certainly, " murmured Steven. 

Grocer Purvis closed the book carefully and replaced it on the desk. "What does half a stone o' loaf sugar at two-three-farthings come to?"he asked. 

The Wonder shook his head. He did not understand the grocer'sphraseology. 

"What is seven times two and three quarters?" translated Challis. 

"19·25, " answered the Wonder. 

"What's that in shillin's?" asked Purvis. 

"1·60416. "

"Wrong!" returned the grocer triumphantly. 

"Er--excuse me, Mr. Purvis, " interposed Steven, "I think not. The--the--er--examinee has given the correct mathematical answer to fiveplaces of decimals--that is, so far as I can check him mentally. "

"Well, it seems to me, " persisted the grocer, "as he's gone a long wayround to answer a simple question what any fifth-standard child could doin his head. I'll give him another. "

"Cast it in another form, " put in the chairman. "Give it as amultiplication sum. "

Purvis tucked his fingers carefully into his waistcoat pockets. "I putthe question, Mr. Chairman, " he said, "as it'll be put to the youngsterwhen he has to tot up a bill. That seems to be a sound and practicalform for such questions to be put in. "

Challis sighed impatiently. "I thought Mr. Steven had been delegated toconduct the first part of the examination, " he said. "It seems to methat we are wasting a lot of time. "

Elmer nodded. "Will you go on, Mr. Steven?" he said. 

Challis was ashamed for his compeers. "What children we are, " hethought. 

Steven got to work again with various arithmetical questions, which wereanswered instantly, and then he made a sudden leap and asked: "What isthe binomial theorem?"

"A formula for writing down the coefficient of any stated term in theexpansion of any stated power of a given binomial, " replied the Wonder. 

Elmer blew out his cheeks and looked at Challis, but met the gaze of Mr. Steven, who adjusted his glasses and said, "I am satisfied under thishead. "

"It's all beyond me, " remarked Squire Standing frankly. 

"I think, Mr. Chairman, that we've had enough theoretical arithmetic, "said Purvis. "There's a few practical questions I'd like to put. "

"No more arithmetic, then, " assented Elmer, and Crashaw exchanged aglance of understanding with the grocer. 

"Now, how old was our Lord when He began His ministry?" asked thegrocer. 

"Uncertain, " replied the Wonder. 

Mr. Purvis smiled. "Any Sunday-school child knows that!" he said. 

"Of course, of course, " murmured Crashaw. 

But Steven looked uncomfortable. "Are you sure you understand thepurport of the answer, Mr. Purvis?" he asked. 

"Can there be any doubt about it?" replied the grocer. "I asked how oldour Lord was when He began His ministry, and he"--he made an indicativegesture with one momentarily released hand towards the Wonder--"and hesays he's 'uncertain. '"

"No, no, " interposed Challis impatiently, "he meant that the answer toyour question was uncertain. "

"How's that?" returned the grocer. "I've always understood----"

"Quite, quite, " interrupted Challis. "But what we have always understooddoes not always correspond to the actual fact. "

"What did you intend by your answer?" put in Elmer quickly, addressingthe Wonder. 

"The evidence rests mainly on Luke's Gospel, " answered the Wonder, "butthe phrase 'ἀρχόμενος ὡσὲι ἐτῶν τριάκοντα' is vague--it allows latitudein either direction. According to the chronology of John's Gospel theage might have been about thirty-two. "

"It says 'thirty' in the Bible, and that's good enough for me, " said thegrocer, and Crashaw muttered "Heresy, heresy, " in an audible under tone. 

"Sounds very like blarsphemy to me, " said Purvis, "like doubtin' theword of God. I'm for sending him to school. "

Deane Elmer had been regarding the face of the small abstracted childwith considerable interest. He put aside for the moment the grocer'sintimation of his voting tendency. 

"How many elements are known to chemists?" asked Elmer of the examinee. 

"Eighty-one well characterised; others have been described, " replied theWonder. 

"Which has the greatest atomic weight?" asked Elmer. 

"Uranium. "

"And that weight is?"

"On the oxygen basis of 16--238·5. "

"Extraordinary powers of memory, " muttered Elmer, and there was silencefor a moment, a silence broken by Squire Standing, who, in a loud voice, asked suddenly and most irrelevantly, "What's your opinion of TariffReform?"

"An empirical question that cannot be decided from a theoretical basis, "replied the Wonder. 

Elmer laughed out, a great shouting guffaw. "Quite right, quite right, "he said, his cheeks shaking with mirth. "What have you to say to that, Standing?"

"I say that Tariff Reform's the only way to save the country, " repliedSquire Standing, looking very red and obstinate, "and if thisGovernment----"

Challis rose to his feet. "Oh! aren't you all satisfied?" he said. "Isthis Committee here to argue questions of present politics? What moreevidence do you need?"

"I'm not satisfied, " put in Purvis resolutely, "nor is the Rev. Mr. Crashaw, I fancy. "

"He has no vote, " said Challis. "Elmer, what do you say?"

"I think we may safely say that the child has been, and is being, provided with an education elsewhere, and that he need not thereforeattend the elementary school, " replied Elmer, still chuckling. 

"On a point of order, Mr. Chairman, is that what you put to themeeting?" asked Purvis. 

"This is quite informal, " replied Elmer. "Unless we are all agreed, thequestion must be put to the full Committee. "

"Shall we argue the point in the other room?" suggested Challis. 

"Certainly, certainly, " said Elmer. "We can return, if necessary. "

And the four striking figures of the Education Committee filed out, followed by Crashaw and the stenographer. 

Challis, coming last, paused at the door and looked back. 

The Wonder had returned to his study of Spinoza. 

Challis waved a hand to the unconscious figure. "I must join myfellow-children, " he said grimly, "or they will be quarrelling. "

VI

But when he joined his fellow-children, Challis stood at the window ofthe morning-room, attending little to the buzz of voices and the clatterof glasses which marked the relief from the restraint of theexamination-room. Even the stenographer was talking; he had joinedCrashaw and Purvis--a lemonade group; the other three were drinkingwhisky. The division, however, is arbitrary, and in no way significant. 

Challis caught a fragment of the conversation here and there: abull-roar from Elmer or Squire Standing; an occasional blatancy fromPurvis; a vibrant protest from Crashaw; a hesitating tenor pronouncementfrom Steven. 

"Extraordinary powers of memory. .. . It isn't facts, but what they standfor that I. .. . Don't know his Bible--that's good enough for me. .. . Heresy, heresy. .. . An astounding memory, of course, quite astounding, but----"

The simple exposition of each man's theme was dogmatically asserted, andthrough it all Challis, standing alone, hardly conscious of eachindividual utterance, was still conscious that the spirits of those sixmen were united in one thing, had they but known it. Each wasendeavouring to circumscribe the powers of the child they had justleft--each was insistent on some limitation he chose to regard as vital. 

They came to no decision that afternoon. The question as to whether theAuthority should prosecute or not had to be referred to the Committee. 

At the last, Crashaw entered his protest and announced once more that hewould fight the point to the bitter end. 

Crashaw's religious hatred was not, perhaps, altogether free from asense of affronted dignity, but it was nevertheless a force to becounted; and he had that obstinacy of the bigot which has in the pastcontributed much fire and food to the pyre of martyrdom. He had, too, apower of initiative within certain limits. It is true that the bird on afree wing could avoid him with contemptuous ease, but along his own pathhe was a terrifying juggernaut. Crashaw, thus circumscribed, was apower, a moving force. 

But now he was seeking to crush, not some paralysed rabbit on the road, but an elusive spirit of swiftness which has no name, but may be figuredas the genius of modernity. The thing he sought to obliterate ran aheadof him with a smiling facility and spat rearwards a vaporous jet ofridicule. 

Crashaw might crush his clerical wideawake over his frowning eyebrows, arm himself with a slightly dilapidated umbrella, and seek with long, determined strides the members of the Local Education Authority, but farahead of him had run an intelligence that represented the instructedcommon sense of modernity. 

It was for Crashaw to realise--as he never could and never didrealise--that he was no longer the dominant force of progress; that hehad been outstripped, left toiling and shouting vain words on a roadthat had served its purpose, and though it still remained and was usedas a means of travel, was becoming year by year more antiquated anddespised. 

Crashaw toiled to the end, and no one knows how far his personal purposeand spite were satisfied, but he could never impede any more thatelusive spirit of swiftness; it had run past him. 

FOOTNOTES:

[4] Afterwards Lord Quainton. 

CHAPTER XII

HIS INTERVIEW WITH HERR GROSSMANN

I

Crashaw must have suffered greatly just at that time; and theanticipation of his defeat by the Committee was made still more bitterby the wonderful visit of Herr Grossmann. It is true that that visitfeebly helped Crashaw's cause at the moment by further enlisting thesympathies and strenuous endeavour of the Nonconformist Purvis; but noeffort of the ex-mayor could avail to upset the majority of the LocalEducation Authority and the grocer, himself, was not a person acceptableto Crashaw. The two men were so nearly allied by their manner of thoughtand social origin; and Crashaw instinctively flaunted the splendidthrone of his holy office, whenever he and Purvis were together. Purviswas what the rector might have described as an ignorant man. It is afact that, until Crashaw very fully and inaccurately informed him, hehad never even heard of Hugo Grossmann. 

In that conversation between Crashaw and Purvis, the celebrated GermanProfessor figured as the veritable Anti-Christ, the Devil's personalrepresentative on earth; but Crashaw was not a safe authority on Scienceand Philosophy. 

Herr Grossmann's world-wide reputation was certainly not won in thefield of religious controversy. He had not at that time reached thepinnacle of achievement which placed him so high above his brilliantcontemporaries, and now presents him as the unique figure andrepresentative of twentieth-century science. But his very considerablecontributions to knowledge had drawn the attention of Europe for tenyears, and he was already regarded by his fellow-scientists with thatmixture of contempt and jealousy which inevitably precedes the world'sacceptance of its greatest men. 

Sir Deane Elmer, for example, was a generous and kindly man; he hadnever been involved in any controversy with the professional scientistswhose ground he continually encroached upon, and yet he could not hearthe name of Grossmann without frowning. Grossmann had the German vice ofthoroughness. He took up a subject and exhausted it, as far as ispossible within the limits of our present knowledge; and his monographon Heredity had demonstrated with a detestable logic that much ofElmer's treatise on Eugenics was based on evidence that must be viewedwith the gravest suspicion. Not that Grossmann had directly attackedthat treatise; he had made no kind of reference to it in his own book;but his irrefutable statements had been quoted by every reviewer of"Eugenics" who chanced to have come across the English translation of"Heredity and Human Development, " to the confounding of Elmer's somewhattoo optimistic prophecies concerning the possibility of breeding a racethat should approximate to a physical and intellectual perfection. 

And it happened that Elmer met Grossmann at an informal gathering ofmembers of the Royal Society a few days after the examination of theWonder in the Challis Court Library. Herr Grossmann was delivering animpromptu lecture on the limits of variation from the normal type, whenElmer came in and joined the group of the great Professor's listeners, every one of whom was seeking some conclusive argument to confute theirguest's overwhelmingly accurate collation of facts. 

Elmer realised instantly that his opportunity had come at last. Helistened patiently for a few minutes to the flow of the German'sargument, and then broke in with a loud exclamation of dissent. All thelearned members of the Society turned to him at once, with a movement ofprofound relief and expectation. 

"You said what?" asked Grossmann with a frown of great annoyance. 

Elmer thrust out his lower lip and looked at his antagonist with theexpression of a man seeking a vital spot for the coup de grace. 

"I said, Herr Professor, " Elmer returned, "that there are exceptionswhich confound your argument. "

"For example?" Grossmann said, putting his hands behind him and gentlynodding his head like a tolerant schoolmaster awaiting the inevitableconfusion of the too intrepid scholar. 

"Christian Heinecken?" suggested Elmer. 

"Ah! You have not then read my brochure on certain abnormalitiesreported in history?" Grossmann said, and continued, "Mr. Aylmer, is itnot? To whom I am speaking? Yes? We have met, I believe, once inLeipzig. I thought so. But in my brochure, Mr. Aylmer, I have examinedthe Heinecken case and shown my reasons to regard it as not so departingfrom the normal. "

Elmer shook his head. "Your reasons are not valid, Herr Professor, " hesaid and held up a corpulent forefinger to enforce Grossmann's furtherattention. "They seemed convincing at the time, I admit, but this newprodigy completely upsets your case. "

"Eh! What is that? What new prodigy?" sneered Grossmann; and two orthree savants among the little ring of listeners, although they had notthat perfect confidence in Elmer which would have put them at ease, nodded gravely as if they were aware of the validity of his instance. 

Elmer blew out his cheeks and raised his eyebrows. "Ah! you haven'theard of him!" he remarked with a rather fleshy surprise. "Victor Stott, you know, son of a professional cricketer, protégé of Henry Challis, theanthropologist. Oh! you ought to investigate that case, Herr Professor. It is most remarkable, most remarkable. "

"Ach! What form does the abnormality take?" asked Grossmannsuspiciously, and his tone made it clear that he had little confidencein the value of any report made to him by such an observer as Sir DeaneElmer. 

"I can't pretend to give you anything like a full account of it, " Elmerreturned. "I have only seen the child once. But, honestly, HerrProfessor, you cannot use that brochure of yours in any future argumentuntil you have investigated this case of young Stott. It confutes you. "

"I can see him, then?" Grossmann asked, frowning. In that company hecould not afford to decline the challenge that had been thrown down. There were, at least, five men present who would, he believed, immediately conduct the examination on their own account, should herefuse the opportunity; men who would not fail to use their material forthe demolition of that pamphlet on the type of abnormality, moreparticularly represented by the amazing precocity of ChristianHeinecken. 

To the layman such an attack may seem a small matter, and likely to havelittle effect on such a reputation as that already won by HugoGrossmann; and it should be explained that in the Professor's great workon "Heredity and Human Development, " an essential argument was based onthe absence of any considerable _progressive_ variation from the normal. Indeed it was from this premise that he developed the celebrated"variation" theory which is, now, generally admitted to have compromisedthe whole principle of "Natural Selection" while it has given awonderful impetus to all recent investigations and experiments on thelines first indicated by Mendel. 

"I can see him, then?" asked Grossmann, with the faintly annoyed air ofone who is compelled by circumstances to undertake a futile task. 

"Certainly, I will arrange an interview for you, " Elmer replied, andwent on to give an account of his own experience, an account that lostnothing in the telling. 

Elmer created a mild sensation in the rooms of the Royal Society thatevening. 

II

He found Challis at his house in Eaton Square the next morning, but itbecame evident from the outset that the plan of confounding Grossmanndid not appeal to the magnate of Stoke-Underhill. Challis frowned andprevaricated. "It's a thousand to one, the child won't condescend toanswer, " was his chief evasion. 

Elmer was not to be frustrated in the development of his scheme by anysuch trivial excuse as that. He began to display a considerableannoyance at last. 

"Oh! nonsense; nonsense, Challis, " he said. "You make altogether toomuch fuss about this prodigy of yours. "

"Not mine, " Challis interrupted. "Take him over yourself, Elmer. Bringhim out. Exhibit him. I make you a gift of all my interest in him. "

Elmer looked thoughtful for a moment, as if he were seriouslyconsidering that proposition, and then he said, "I recognise that thereare--difficulties. The child seems--er--to have a queer, morose temper, doesn't he?"

Challis shook his head. "It isn't that, " he said. 

Elmer scratched his cheek. "I understand, " he began, and then broke offand went on, "I'm putting this as a personal favour, Challis; but it ismore than that. You know my theories with regard to the future of therace. I have a steady faith in our enormous potentialities for realprogress. But it must be organised, and Grossmann is just now standingin our way. That stubborn materialism of his has infected many fineintelligences; and I would make very great sacrifices in order to clearthis great and terrible obstacle out of the way. "

"And you believe that this interview . .. " interrupted Challis. 

"I do, indeed, " Elmer said. "It will destroy one of Grossmann's mostvital premisses. This prodigy of yours--he is unquestionably aprodigy--demonstrates the fact of an immense progressive variation. Oncethat is conceded, the main argument of Grossmann's 'Heredity' isinvalidated. We shall have knocked away the keystone of his mechanistictheory of evolution. .. . "

"But suppose that the boy refuses. .. . "

"He did not refuse to see us. "

"That was to save himself from further trouble. "

"But isn't he susceptible to argument?"

"Not the kind of argument you have been using to me, " Challis saidgravely. 

Elmer blew like a porpoise; looked very thoughtful for a moment, andthen said:

"You could represent Grossmann as the final court of appeal--the HighLord Muck-a-muck of the L. E. A. "

"I should have to do something of the sort, " Challis admitted, andcontinued with a spurt of temper. "But understand, Elmer, I don't do itagain; no, not to save the reputation of the Royal Society. "

III

Unhappily, no record exists of the conversation between the Wonder andHerr Grossmann. 

The Professor seems at the last moment to have had some misgiving as tothe nature of the interview that was before him, and refused to have awitness to the proceedings. 

Challis made the introduction, and he says that the Wonder regardedGrossmann with perhaps rather more attention than he commonly concededto strangers; and that the Professor exhibited the usual signs ofembarrassment. 

Altogether, Grossmann was in the library for about half an hour, and hedisplayed no sign of perturbation when he rejoined Challis and Elmer inthe breakfast-room. Indeed, only one fact of any significance emerges tothrow suspicion on Grossmann's attitude during the progress of thatsecluded half-hour with the greatest intellect of all time--theProfessor's spectacles had been broken. 

He spoke of the accident with a casual air when he was in thebreakfast-room, but Challis remarked a slight flush on the greatscientist's face as he referred, perhaps a trifle too ostentatiously, tothe incident. And although it is worthless as evidence, there issomething rather suspicious in Challis's discovery of finely powderedglass in his library--a mere pinch on the parquet near the furtherwindow of the big room, several feet away from the table at which theWonder habitually sat. Challis would never have noticed the glass, hadnot one larger atom that had escaped pulverisation, caught the lightfrom the window and drawn his attention. 

But even this find is in no way conclusive. The Professor may quite wellhave walked over to the window, taken off his spectacles to wipe themand dropped them as he, himself, explained. While the crushing of somefragment of one of the lenses was probably due to the chance of hisstepping upon it, as he turned on his heel to continue the momentarilyinterrupted conversation. It is hard to believe that so great a man asGrossmann could have been convulsed by a petty rage that foundexpression in some act of wanton destruction. 

His own brief account of the interview accords very well with the singlereference to the Wonder which exists in the literature of the world. This reference is a footnote to a second edition of Grossmann'sbrochure entitled "An Explanation of Certain Intellectual Abnormalitiesreported in History" ("Eine Erklärung gewisser Intellektuellergeschichtlich überlieferter Anormalen Erscheinungen"). This footnotecomes at the end of Grossmann's masterly analysis of the Heinecken caseand reads: "I recently examined a similar case of abnormality inEngland, but found that it presented no such marked divergence from thetype as would demand serious investigation. "

And in his brief account of the interview rendered to Challis and Elmer, Herr Grossmann, in effect, did no more than draft that footnote. 

IV

It must remain uncertain, now, whether or not Elmer would have persistedin his endeavour to exploit the Wonder to the confounding of Grossmann, despite Challis's explicit statement that he would do no more, not evenif it were to save the reputation of the Royal Society. Elmer certainlyhad the virtue of persistence and might have made the attempt. But inone of his rare moments of articulate speech, the Wonder decided thefate of that threatened controversy beyond the possibility of appeal. 

He spoke to Challis that same afternoon. He put up his tiny hand tocommand attention and made the one clear statement on record of his owninterests and ambitions in the world. 

Challis, turning from his discovery of the Professor's crushed glasses, listened in silence. 

"This Grossmann, " the Wonder said, "was not concerned in my exemption?"

Challis shook his head. "He is the last, " the Wonder concluded with afine brevity. "You and your kind have no interest in truth. "

That last statement may have had a double intention. It is obvious fromthe Wonder's preliminary question, --which had, indeed, also the qualityof an assertion, --how plainly he had recognised that Grossmann had beenintroduced under false pretences. But, it is permissible to infer thatthe pronouncement went deeper than that. The Wonder's logic penetratedfar into the mysteries of life and he may have seen that Grossmann'sattitude was warped by the human limitations of his ambition to shine asa great exponent of science; that he dared not follow up a line ofresearch which might end in the invalidation of his great theory ofheredity. 

Victor Stott had once before expounded his philosophy and Challis, onthat occasion, had deliberately refused to listen. And we may guess thatGrossmann, also, might have received some great illumination, had hechosen to pay deference to a mind so infinitely greater than his own. 

CHAPTER XIII

FUGITIVE

Meanwhile a child of five--all unconscious that his quiet refusal toparticipate in the making and breaking of reputations was temporarily amatter of considerable annoyance to a Fellow of the Royal Society--ranthrough a well-kept index of the books in the library of ChallisCourt--an index written clearly on cards that occupied a great nest ofaccessible drawers; two cards with a full description to each book, alphabetically arranged, one card under the title of the work and oneunder the author's name. 

The child made no notes as he studied--he never wrote a single line inall his life; but when a drawer of that delightful index had beensearched, he would walk here and there among the three rooms at hisdisposal, and by the aid of the flight of framed steps that ran smoothlyon rubber-tyred wheels, he would take down now and again some book oranother until, returning to the table at last to read, he sat in anenceinte of piled volumes that had been collected round him. 

Sometimes he read a book from beginning to end, more often he glancedthrough it, turning a dozen pages at a time, and then pushed it on oneside with a gesture displaying the contempt that was not shown by anychange of expression. 

On many afternoons the sombrely clad figure of a tall, gaunt woman wouldstand at the open casement of a window in the larger room, and keep amystic vigil that sometimes lasted for hours. She kept her gaze fixed onthat strange little figure whenever it roved up and down the suite ofrooms or clambered the pyramid of brown steps that might have made sucha glorious plaything for any other child. And even when her son washidden behind the wall of volumes he had built, the woman would stillstare in his direction, but then her eyes seemed to look inwards; atsuch times she appeared to be wrapped in an introspective devotion. 

Very rarely, the heavy-shouldered figure of a man would come to thedoorway of the larger room, and also keep a silent vigil--a man whowould stand for some minutes with thoughtful eyes and bent brows andthen sigh, shake his head and move away, gently closing the door behindhim. 

There were few other interruptions to the silence of that chapel-likelibrary. Half a dozen times in the first few months a fair-haired, rather supercilious young man came and fetched away a few volumes; buteven he evidenced an inclination to walk on tiptoe, a tendency thatmastered him whenever he forgot for a moment his self-imposed rôle ofscorn. .. . 

Outside, over the swelling undulations of rich grass the sheep came backwith close-cropped, ungainly bodies to a land that was yellow withbuttercups. But when one looked again, their wool hung about them, andthey were snatching at short turf that was covered at the woodside by asprinkle of brown leaves. Then the sheep have gone, and the wood isblack with February rain. And, again, the unfolding of the year is aboutus; a thickening of high twigs in the wood, a glint of green on theblackthorn. .. . 

Nearly three cycles of death and birth have run their course, and thenthe strange little figure comes no more to the library at ChallisCourt. 

PART THREE

MY ASSOCIATION WITH THE WONDER

PART THREE

MY ASSOCIATION WITH THE WONDER

CHAPTER XIV

HOW I WENT TO PYM TO WRITE A BOOK

I

The circumstance that had intrigued me for so long was determined withan abruptness only less remarkable than the surprise of the onset. Twodeaths within six months brought to me, the first, a competence, thesecond, release from gall and bitterness. For the first time in my lifeI was a free man. At forty one can still look forward, and I put thepast behind me and made plans for the future. There was that book ofmine still waiting to be written. 

It was wonderful how the detail of it all came back to me--the plan ofit, the thread of development, even the very phrases that I had toyedwith. The thought of the book brought back a train of associations. There was a phrase I had coined as I had walked out from Ailesworth toStoke-Underhill; a chapter I had roughed out the day I went to seeGinger Stott at Pym. It seemed to me that the whole conception of thebook was associated in some way with that neighbourhood. I remembered atlast that I had first thought of writing it after my return fromAmerica, on the day that I had had that curious experience with thechild in the train. It occurred to me that by a reversal of the process, I might regain many more of my original thoughts; that by going to live, temporarily perhaps, in the neighbourhood of Ailesworth, I might reviveother associations. 

The picture of Pym presented itself to me very clearly. I rememberedthat I had once thought that Pym was a place to which I might retire oneday in order to write the things I wished to write. I decided to makethe dream a reality, and I wrote to Mrs. Berridge at the Wood Farm, asking her if she could let me have her rooms for the spring, summer, and autumn. 

II

I was all aglow with excitement on the morning that I set out for theHampden Hills. This was change, I thought, freedom, adventure. This wasthe beginning of life, my real entry into the joy of living. 

The world was alight with the fire of growth. May had come with a clearsky and a torrent of green was flowing over field, hedge, and wood. Iremember that I thanked "whatever gods there be, " that one could live sorichly in the enjoyment of these things. 

III

Farmer Bates met me at Great Hittenden Station. His was the onlyavailable horse and cart at Pym, for the Berridges were in a very smallway, and it is doubtful if they could have made both ends meet if Mrs. Berridge had not done so well by letting her two spare rooms. 

I have a great admiration for Farmer Bates and Mrs. Berridge. I regretintensely that they should both have been unhappily married. If they hadmarried each other they would undoubtedly have made a success of life. 

Bates was a Cockney by birth, but always he had had an ambition to takea farm, and after twenty years of work as a skilled mechanic he hadthrown up a well-paid job, and dared the uncertainties which beset theEnglish farmer. That venture was a constant bone of strife between himand his wife. Mrs. Bates preferred the town. It has always seemed to methat there was something fine about Bates and his love for the land. 

"Good growing weather, Mr. Bates, " I said, as I climbed up into thecart. 

"Shouldn't be sorry to see some more rain, " replied Bates, and damped myardour for a moment. 

Just before we turned into the lane that leads up the long hill to Pym, we passed a ramshackle cart, piled up with a curious miscellany ofruinous furniture. A man was driving, and beside him sat a slatternlywoman and a repulsive-looking boy of ten or twelve years old, with agreat swollen head and an open, slobbering mouth. 

I was startled. I jumped to the conclusion that this was the child I hadseen in the train, the son of Ginger Stott. 

As we slowed down to the ascent of the long hill, I said to Bates: "Isthat Stott's boy?"

Bates looked at me curiously. "Why, no, " he said. "Them's the 'Arrisons. 'Arrison's dead now; he was a wrong 'un, couldn't make a job of it, nohow. They used to live 'ere, five or six year ago, and now 'er'usband's dead, Mrs. 'Arrison's coming back with the boy to live. Worseluck. We thought we was shut of 'em. "

"Oh!" I said. "The boy's an idiot, I suppose. "

"'Orrible, " replied Bates, shaking his head, "'orrible; can't speak nornothing; goes about bleating and baa-ing like an old sheep. "

I looked round, but the ramshackle cart was hidden by the turn of theroad. "Does Stott still live at Pym?" I asked. 

"Not Ginger, " replied Bates. "He lives at Ailesworth. Mrs. Stott and 'erson lives here. "

"The boy's still alive then?" I asked. 

"Yes, " said Bates. 

"Intelligent child?" I asked. 

"They say, " replied Bates. "Book-learnin' and such. They say 'e's readevery book in Mr. Challis's librairy. "

"Does he go to school?"

"No. They let 'im off. Leastways Mr. Challis did. They say the ReverendCrashaw, down at Stoke, was fair put out about it. "

I thought that Bates emphasised the "on dit" nature of his informationrather markedly. "What do _you_ think of him?" I asked. 

"Me?" said Bates. "I don't worry my 'ead about him. I've got too much to_do_. " And he went off into technicalities concerning the abundance ofcharlock on the arable land of Pym. He called it "garlic. " I saw that itwas typical of Bates that he should have too much to _do_. I reflectedthat his was the calling which begot civilisation. 

IV

The best and surest route from Pym to the Wood Farm is, appropriately, by way of the wood; but in wet weather the alternative of various carttracks that wind among the bracken and shrub of the Common, ispreferable in many ways. May had been very dry that year, however, andFarmer Bates chose the wood. The leaves were still light on the beeches. I remember that as I tried to pierce the vista of stems that dipped overthe steep fall of the hill, I promised myself many a romanticexploration of the unknown mysteries beyond. 

Everything was so bright that afternoon that nothing, I believe, couldhave depressed me. When I had reached the farm and looked round the low, dark room with its one window, a foot from the ground and two from theceiling, I only thought that I should be out-of-doors all the time. Itamused me that I could touch the ceiling with my head by standing ontiptoe, and I laughed at the framed "presentation plates" from oldChristmas numbers on the walls. These things are merely curious when thesun is shining and it is high May, and one is free to do the desiredwork after twenty years in a galley. 

V

At a quarter to eight that evening I saw the sun set behind the hills. As I wandered reflectively down the lane that goes towards ChallisCourt, a blackbird was singing ecstatically in a high elm; here andthere a rabbit popped out and sat up, the picture of precociouscuriosity. Nature seemed to be standing in her doorway for a carelesshalf-hour's gossip, before putting up the shutters to bar the robberswho would soon be about their work of the night. 

It was still quite light as I strolled back over the Common, and I chosea path that took me through a little spinney of ash, oak, and beech, treading carefully to avoid crushing the tender crosiers of bracken thatwere just beginning to break their way through the soil. 

As I emerged from the little clump of wood, I saw two figures going awayfrom me in the direction of Pym. 

One was that of a boy wearing a cricket-cap; he was walkingdeliberately, his hands hanging at his sides; the other figure was ataller boy, and he threw out his legs in a curious, undisciplined way, as though he had little control over them. At first sight I thought hewas not sober. 

The two passed out of sight behind a clump of hawthorn, but once I sawthe smaller figure turn and face the other, and once he made a repellinggesture with his hands. 

It occurred to me that the smaller boy was trying to avoid hiscompanion; that he was, in one sense, running away from him, that hewalked as one might walk away from some threatening animal, deliberately--to simulate the appearance of courage. 

I fancied the bigger boy was the idiot Harrison I had seen thatafternoon, and Farmer Bates's "We hoped we were shut of him" recurred tome. I wondered if the idiot were dangerous or only a nuisance. 

I took the smaller boy to be one of the villagers' children. I noticedthat his cricket-cap had a dark patch as though it had been mended withsome other material. 

The impression which I received from this trivial affair was one ofdisappointment. The wood and the Common had been so deserted byhumanity, so given up to nature, that I felt the presence of the idiotto be a most distasteful intrusion. "If that horrible thing is going tohaunt the Common there will be no peace or decency, " was the idea thatpresented itself. "I must send him off, the brute, " was the corollary. But I disliked the thought of being obliged to drive him away. 

VI

The next morning I did not go on the Common; I was anxious to avoid ameeting with the Harrison idiot. I had been debating whether I shoulddrive him away if I met him. Obviously I had no more right on the Commonthan he had--on the other hand, he was a nuisance, and I did not see whyI should allow him to spoil all my pleasure in that ideal stretch ofwild land which pressed on three sides of the Wood Farm. It was a stupidquandary of my own making; but I am afraid it was rather typical of mymental attitude. I am prone to set myself tasks, such as this evictionof the idiot from common ground, and equally prone to avoid them by aprocess of procrastination. 

By way of evasion I walked over to Deane Hill and surveyed the wonderfulpanorama of neat country that fills the basin between the Hampden andthe Quainton Hills. Seen from that height, it has something the effectof a Dutch landscape, it all looks so amazingly tidy. Away to the left Ilooked over Stoke-Underhill. Ailesworth was a blur in the hollow, but Icould distinguish the high fence of the County Ground. 

I sat all the morning on Deane Hill, musing and smoking, thinking ofsuch things as Ginger Stott, and the match with Surrey. I decided that Imust certainly go and see Stott's queer son, the phenomenon who had, they say, read all the books in Mr. Challis's library. I wondered whatsort of a library this Challis had, and who he was. I had never heard ofhim before. I think I must have gone to sleep for a time. 

When Mrs. Berridge came to clear away my dinner--I dined, without shame, at half-past twelve--I detained her with conversation. Presently I askedabout little Stott. 

"He's a queer one, that's what he is, " said Mrs. Berridge. She was aneat, comely little woman, rather superior to her station, and it seemedto me, certainly superior to her clod of a husband. 

"A great reader, Farmer Bates tells me, " I said. 

Mrs. Berridge passed that by. "His mother's in trouble about him thismorning, " she said. "She's such a nice, respectable woman, and has allher milk and eggs and butter off of us. She was here this morning whileyou were out, sir, and, what I could make of it that 'Arrison boy hadbeen chasing her boy on the Common last night. "

"Oh!" I said with sudden enlightenment. "I believe I saw them. " At theback of my mind I was struggling desperately with a vague remembrance. It may sound incredible, but I had only the dimmest memory of my laterexperience of the child. The train incident was still fresh in my mind, but I could not remember what Stott had told me when I talked with himby the pond. I seemed to have an impression that the child had somestrange power of keeping people at a distance; or was I mixing upreality with some Scandinavian fairy tale?

"Very likely, sir, " Mrs. Berridge went on. "What upset Mrs. Stott wasthat her boy's never upset by anything--he has a curious way of lookingat you, sir, that makes you wish you wasn't there; but from what Mrs. Stott says, this 'Arrison boy wasn't to be drove off, anyhow, and herson came in quite flurried like. Mrs. Stott seemed quite put out aboutit. "

Doubtless I might have had more information from my landlady, but I wasstruggling to reconstruct that old experience which had slipped awayfrom me, and I nodded and turned back to the book I had been pretendingto read. Mrs. Berridge was one of those unusual women--for her stationin life--who know when to be silent, and she finished her clearing awaywithout initiating any further remarks. 

When she had finished I went out onto the Common and looked for the pondwhere I had talked with Ginger Stott. 

I found it after a time, and then I began to gather up the threads I haddropped. 

It all came back to me, little by little. I remembered that talk I hadhad with him, his very gestures; I remembered how he had spoken ofhabits, or the necessity for the lack of them, and that took me back tothe scene in the British Museum Reading Room, and to my theory. I wassuddenly alive to that old interest again. 

I got up and walked eagerly in the direction of Mrs. Stott's cottage. 

CHAPTER XV

THE INCIPIENCE OF MY SUBJECTION TO THE WONDER

I

Victor Stott was in his eighth year when I met him for the third time. Imust have stayed longer than I imagined by the pond on the Common, forMrs. Stott and her son had had tea, and the boy was preparing to go out. He stopped when he saw me coming; an unprecedented mark of recognition, so I have since learned. 

As I saw him then, he made a remarkable, but not a repulsively abnormalfigure. His baldness struck one immediately, but it did not give him alook of age. Then one noticed that his head was unmistakably out ofproportion to his body, yet the disproportion was not nearly so markedas it had been in infancy. These two things were conspicuous; the lesssalient peculiarities were observed later; the curious little beaky nosethat jutted out at an unusual angle from the face, the lips that weretoo straight and determined for a child, the laxity of the limbs whenthe body was in repose--lastly, the eyes. 

When I met Victor Stott on this, third, occasion, there can be no doubtthat he had lost something of his original power. This may have been dueto his long sojourn in the world of books, a sojourn that had, perhaps, altered the strange individuality of his thought; or it may have beendue, in part at least, to his recent recognition of the fact that thepower of his gaze exercised no influence over creatures such as theHarrison idiot. Nevertheless, though something of the original force hadabated, he still had an extraordinary, and, so far as I can learn, altogether unprecedented power of enforcing his will without word orgesture; and I may say here that in those rare moments when Victor Stottlooked me in the face, I seemed to see a rare and wonderful personalitypeering out through his eyes, --the personality which had, no doubt, spoken to Challis and Lewes through that long afternoon in the libraryof Challis Court. Normally one saw a curious, unattractive, ratherrepulsive figure of a child; when he looked at one with that rare lookof intention, the man that lived within that unattractive body wasrevealed, his insight, his profundity, his unexampled wisdom. If we markthe difference between man and animals by a measure of intelligence, then surely this child was a very god among men. 

II

Victor Stott did not look at me when I entered his mother's cottage; Isaw only the unattractive exterior of him, and I blundered into an airof patronage. 

"Is this your boy?" I said, when I had greeted her. "I hear he is agreat scholar. "

"Yes, sir, " replied Ellen Mary quietly. She never boasted to strangers. 

"You don't remember me, I suppose?" I went on, foolishly; trying, however, to speak as to an equal. "You were in petticoats the last timeI saw you. "

The Wonder was standing by the window, his arms hanging loosely at hissides; he looked out aslant up the lane; his profile was turned towardsme. He made no answer to my question. 

"Oh yes, sir, he remembers, " replied Ellen Mary. "He never forgetsanything. "

I paused, uncomfortably. I was slightly huffed by the boy's silence. 

"I have come to spend the summer here, " I said at last. "I hope he willcome to see me. I have brought a good many books with me; perhaps hemight care to read some of them. "

I had to talk _at_ the boy; there was no alternative. Inwardly I wasthinking that I had Kant's Critique and Hegel's Phenomenology among mybooks. "He may put on airs of scholarship, " I thought; "but I fancy thathe will find those two works rather above the level of his comprehensionas yet. " I did not recognise the fact that it was I who was putting onairs, not Victor Stott. 

"'E's given up reading the past six weeks, sir, " said Ellen Mary, "but Idaresay he will come and see your books. "

She spoke demurely, and she did not look at her son; I received theimpression that her statements were laid before him to take up, reject, or pass unnoticed as he pleased. 

I was slightly exasperated. I turned to the Wonder. "Would you care tocome?" I asked. 

He nodded without looking at me, and walked out of the cottage. 

I hesitated. 

"'E'll go with you now, sir, " prompted Ellen Mary. "That's what 'emeans. "

I followed the Wonder in a condition of suppressed irritation. "Hismother might be able to interpret his rudeness, " I thought, "but I wouldteach him to convey his intentions more clearly. The child had beenspoilt. "

III

The Wonder chose the road over the Common. I should have gone by thewood, but when we came to the entrance of the wood, he turned up on tothe Common. He did not ask me which way I preferred. Indeed, we neitherof us spoke during the half-mile walk that separated the Wood Farm fromthe last cottage in Pym. 

I was fuming inwardly. I had it in my mind at that time to put theWonder through some sort of an examination. I was making plans tocontribute towards his education, to send him to Oxford, later. I hadadumbrated a scheme to arouse interest in his case among certainscholars and men of influence with whom I was slightly acquainted. I hadbeen very much engrossed with these plans as I had made my way to theStotts' cottage. I was still somewhat exalted in mind with my dreams ofa vicarious brilliance. I had pictured the Wonder's magnificent passagethrough the University; I had acted, in thought, as the generous andkindly benefactor. .. . It had been a grandiose dream, and the reality wasso humiliating. Could I make this mannerless child understand hispossibilities? Had he any ambition?

Thinking of these things, I had lagged behind as we crossed the Common, and when I came to the gate of the farmyard, the Wonder was at the doorof the house. He did not wait for me, but walked straight into mysitting-room. When I entered, I found him seated on the low window-sill, turning over the top layer of books in the large case which had beenopened, but not unpacked. There was no place to put the books; in fact, I was proposing to have some shelves put up, if Mrs. Berridge had noobjection. 

I entered the room in a condition of warm indignation. "Cheek" was theword that was in my mind. "Confounded cheek, " I muttered. Nevertheless Idid not interrupt the boy; instead, I lit a cigarette, sat down andwatched him. 

I was sceptical at first. I noted at once the sure touch with which theboy handled my books, the practised hand that turned the pages, thequick examination of title-page and the list of contents, the occasionalswift reference to the index, but I did not believe it possible that anyone could read so fast as he read when he did condescend for a fewmoments to give his attention to a few consecutive pages. "Was it apose?" I thought, yet he was certainly an adept in handling the books. Iwas puzzled, yet I was still sceptical--the habit of experience wastowards disbelief--a boy of seven and a half could not possibly have themental equipment to skim all that philosophy. .. . 

My books were being unpacked very quickly. Kant, Hegel, Schelling, Fichte, Leibnitz, Nietzsche, Hume, Bradley, William James had all beenrejected and were piled on the floor, but he had hesitated longer overBergson's _Creative Evolution_. He really seemed to be giving that someattention, though he read it--if he were reading it--so fast that thehand which turned the pages hardly rested between each movement. 

When Bergson was sent to join his predecessors, I determined that Iwould get some word out of this strange child--I had never yet heard himspeak, not a single syllable. I determined to brave all rebuffs. I wasprepared for that. 

"Well?" I said, when Bergson was laid down. "Well! What do you make ofthat?"

He turned and looked out of the window. 

I came and sat on the end of the table within a few feet of him. Fromthat position I, too, could see out of the window, and I saw the figureof the Harrison idiot slouching over the farmyard gate. 

A gust of impatience whirled over me. I caught up my stick and went outquickly. 

"Now then, " I said, as I came within speaking distance of the idiot, "get away from here. Out with you!"

The idiot probably understood no word of what I said, but like a dog hewas quick to interpret my tone and gesture. He made a revoltinglyinhuman sound as he shambled away, a kind of throaty yelp. I walked backto the house. I could not avoid the feeling that I had beenunnecessarily brutal. 

When I returned the Wonder was still staring out of the window; butthough I did not guess it then, the idiot had served my purpose betterthan my determination. It was to the idiot that I owed my subsequentknowledge of Victor Stott. The Wonder had found a use for me. He wasresigned to bear with my feeble mental development, because I was strongenough to keep at bay that half-animal creature who appeared to believethat Victor Stott was one of his own kind--the only one he had ever met. The idiot in some unimaginable way had inferred a likeness betweenhimself and the Wonder--they both had enormous heads--and the idiot wasthe only human being over whom the Wonder was never able to exercise theleast authority. 

IV

I went in and sat down again on the end of the table. I was ratherheated. I lit another cigarette and stared at the Wonder, who was stilllooking out of the window. 

There was silence for a few seconds, and then he spoke of his owninitiative. 

"Illustrates the weakness of argument from history and analogy, " he saidin a clear, small voice, addressing no one in particular. "Hegel'slimitations are qualitatively those of Harrison, who argues that I andhe are similar in kind. "

The proposition was so astounding that I could find no answerimmediately. If the statement had been made in boyish language I shouldhave laughed at it, but the phraseology impressed me. 

"You've read Hegel, then?" I asked evasively. 

"Subtract the endeavour to demonstrate a preconceived hypothesis fromany known philosophy, " continued the Wonder, without heeding myquestion, "and the remainder, the only valuable material, is found to bedistorted. " He paused as if waiting for my reply. 

How could one answer such propositions as these offhand? I tried, however, to get at the gist of the sentence, and, as the silencecontinued, I said with some hesitation: "But it is impossible, surely, to approach the work of writing, say a philosophy, without someapprehension of the end in view?"

"Illogical, " replied the Wonder, "not philosophy; a system of trial anderror--to evaluate a complex variable function. " He paused a moment, andthen glanced down at the pile of books on the floor. "More millions, " hesaid. 

I think he meant that more millions of books might be written on thissystem without arriving at an answer to the problem, but I admit that Iam at a loss, that I cannot interpret his remarks. I wrote them down anhour or two after they were uttered, but I may have made mistakes. Themathematical metaphor is beyond me. I have no acquaintance with thehigher mathematics. 

The Wonder had a very expressionless face, but I thought at this momentthat he wore a look of sadness; and that look was one of the factorswhich helped me to understand the unbridgeable gulf that lay between hisintellect and mine. I think it was at this moment that I first began tochange my opinion. I had been regarding him as an unbearable littleprig, but it flashed across me as I watched him now, that his mind andmy own might be so far differentiated that he was unable to convey histhoughts to me. "Was it possible, " I wondered, "that he had been tryingto talk down to my level?"

"I am afraid I don't quite follow you, " I said. I had intended toquestion him further, to urge him to explain, but it came to me that itwould be quite hopeless to go on. How can one answer the unreasoningquestions of a child? Here I was the child, though a child of slightlyadvanced development. I could appreciate that it was useless to persistin a futile "Why, why?" when the answer could only be given in termsthat I could not comprehend. Therefore I hesitated, sighed, and thenwith that obstinacy of vanity which creates an image of self-protectionand refuses to relinquish it, I said:

"I wish you could explain yourself; not on this particular point ofphilosophy, but your life----" I stopped, because I did not know how tophrase my demand. What was it, after all, that I wanted to learn?

"That I can't explain, " said the Wonder. "There are no data. "

I saw that he had accepted my request for explanation in a much widersense than I had intended, and I took him up on this. 

"But haven't you any hypothesis?"

"I cannot work on the system of trial and error, " replied the Wonder. 

Our conversation went no further this afternoon, for Mrs. Berridge camein to lay the cloth. She looked askance, I thought, at the figure on thewindow-sill, but she ventured no remark save to ask if I was ready formy supper. 

"Yes, oh! yes!" I said. 

"Shall I lay for two, sir?" asked Mrs. Berridge. 

"Will you stay and have supper?" I said to the Wonder, but he shook hishead, got up and walked out of the room. I watched him cross thefarmyard and make his way over the Common. 

"Well!" I said to Mrs. Berridge, when the boy was out of sight, "thatchild is what in America they call 'the limit, ' Mrs. Berridge. "

My landlady put her lips together, shook her head, and shiveredslightly. "He gives me the shudders, " she said. 

V

I neither read nor wrote that evening. I forgot to go out for a walk atsunset. I sat and pondered until it was time for bed, and then Ipondered myself to sleep. No vision came to me, and I had no relevantdreams. 

The next morning at seven o'clock I saw Mrs. Stott come over the Commonto fetch her milk from the farm. I waited until her business was done, and then I went out and walked back with her. 

"I want to understand about your son, " I said by way of making anopening. 

She looked at me quickly. "You know, 'e 'ardly ever speaks to me, sir, "she said. 

I was staggered for a moment. "But you understand him?" I said. 

"In some ways, sir, " was her answer. 

I recognised the direction of the limitation. "Ah! we none of usunderstand him in all ways, " I said, with a touch of patronage. 

"No, sir, " replied Ellen Mary. She evidently agreed to that statementwithout qualification. 

"But what is he going to do?" I asked. "When he grows up, I mean?"

"I can't say, sir. We must leave that to 'im. "

I accepted the rebuke more mildly than I should have done on theprevious day. "He never speaks of his future?" I said feebly. 

"No, sir. "

There seemed to be nothing more to say. We had only gone a couple ofhundred yards, but I paused in my walk. I thought I might as well goback and get my breakfast. But Mrs. Stott looked at me as though she hadsomething more to say. We stood facing each other on the cart track. 

"I suppose I can't be of any use?" I asked vaguely. 

Ellen Mary became suddenly voluble. 

"I 'ope I'm not askin' too much, sir, " she said, "but there is a way youcould 'elp if you would. 'E 'ardly ever speaks to me, as I've said, butI've been opset about that 'Arrison boy. 'E's a brute beast, sir, if youknow what I mean, and _'e_" (she differentiated her pronouns only byaccent, and where there is any doubt I have used italics to indicatethat her son is referred to) "doesn't seem to 'ave the same 'old on 'imas _'e_ does over others. It's truth, I am not easy in my mind about it, sir, although _'e_ 'as never said a word to me, not being afraid ofanything like other children, but 'e seems to have took a sort of afancy to you, sir" (I think this was intended as the subtlest flattery), "and if you was to go with 'im when 'e takes 'is walks--'e's much in theair, sir, and a great one for walkin'--I think 'e'd be glad of yourcump'ny, though maybe 'e won't never say it in so many words. Youmustn't mind 'im being silent, sir; there's some things we can'tunderstand, and though, as I say, 'e 'asn't said anything to me, it'snot that I'm scheming be'ind 'is back, for I know 'is meaning withoutwords being necessary. "

She might have said more, but I interrupted her at this point. "Certainly, I will come and fetch him, "--I lapsed unconsciously into hersystem of denomination--"this morning, if you are sure he would like tocome out with me. "

"I'm quite sure, sir, " she said. 

"About nine o'clock?" I asked. 

"That would do nicely, sir, " she answered. 

As I walked back to the farm I was thinking of the life of those twooccupants of the Stotts' cottage. The mother who watched her son insilence, studying his every look and action in order to gather hismeaning; who never asked her son a question nor expected from him anystatement of opinion; and the son wrapped always in that profoundspeculation which seemed to be his only mood. What a household!

It struck me while I was having breakfast that I seemed to have letmyself in for a duty that might prove anything but pleasant. 

VI

There is nothing to say of that first walk of mine with the Wonder. Ispoke to him once or twice and he answered by nodding his head; eventhis notice I now know to have been a special mark of favour, acondescension to acknowledge his use for me as a guardian. He did notspeak at all on this occasion. 

I did not call for him in the afternoon; I had made other plans. Iwanted to see the man Challis, whose library had been at the disposal ofthis astonishing child. Challis might be able to give me furtherinformation. The truth of the matter is that I was in two minds as towhether I would stay at Pym through the summer, as I had originallyintended. I was not in love with the prospect which the sojourn now heldout for me. If I were to be constituted head nursemaid to Master VictorStott, there would remain insufficient time for the progress of my ownbook on certain aspects of the growth of the philosophic method. 

I see now, when I look back, that I was not convinced at that time, thatI still doubted the Wonder's learning. I may have classed it as afreakish pedantry, the result of an unprecedented memory. 

Mrs. Berridge had much information to impart on the subject of HenryChallis. He was her husband's landlord, of course, and his was ahallowed name, to be spoken with decency and respect. I am afraid Ishocked Mrs. Berridge at the outset by my casual "Who's this manChallis?" She certainly atoned by her own manner for my irreverence; shevery obviously tried to impress me. I professed submission, but was notintimidated, rather my curiosity was aroused. 

Mrs. Berridge was not able to tell me the one thing I most desired toknow, whether the lord of Challis Court was in residence; but it was notfar to walk, and I set out about two o'clock. 

VII

Challis was getting into his motor as I walked up the drive. I hurriedforward to catch him before the machine was started. He saw me comingand paused on the doorstep. 

"Did you want to see me?" he asked, as I came up. 

"Mr. Challis?" I asked. 

"Yes, " he said. 

"I won't keep you now, " I said, "but perhaps you could let me know sometime when I could see you. "

"Oh, yes, " he said, with the air of a man who is constantly subjected toannoyance by strangers. "But perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me whatit is you wish to see me about? I might be able to settle it now, atonce. "

"I am staying at the Wood Farm, " I began. "I am interested in a veryremarkable child----"

"Ah! take my advice, leave him alone, " interrupted Challis quickly. 

I suppose I looked my amazement, for Challis laughed. "Oh, well, " hesaid, "of course you won't take such spontaneous advice as that. I'm inno hurry. Come in. " He took off his heavy overcoat and threw it into thetonneau. "Come round again in an hour, " he said to the chauffeur. 

"It's very good of you, " I protested, "I could come quite well at anyother time. "

"I'm in no hurry, " he repeated. "You had better come to the scene ofVictor Stott's operations. He hasn't been here for six weeks, by theway. Can you throw any light on his absence?"

I made a friend that afternoon. When the car came back at four o'clock, Challis sent it away again. "I shall probably stay down here to-night, "he said to the butler, and to me: "Can you stay to dinner? I mustconvince you about this child. "

"I have dined once to-day, " I said. "At half-past twelve. I have noother excuse. "

"Oh! well, " said Challis, "you needn't eat, but I must. Get ussomething, Heathcote, " he said to the butler, "and bring tea here. "

Much of our conversation after dinner was not relevant to the subject ofthe Wonder; we drifted into a long argument upon human origins which hasno place here. But by that time I had been very well informed as to allthe essential facts of the Wonder's childhood, of his entry into theworld of books, of his earlier methods, and of the significance of thatlong speech in the library. But at that point Challis became reserved. He would give me no details. 

"You must forgive me; I can't go into that, " he said. 

"But it is so incomparably important, " I protested. 

"That may be, but you must not question me. The truth of the matter isthat I have a very confused memory of what the boy said, and the littleI might remember, I prefer to leave undisturbed. "

He piqued my curiosity, but I did not press him. It was so evident thathe did not wish to speak on that head. 

He walked up with me to the farm at ten o'clock and came into my room. 

"We need not keep you out of bed, Mrs. Berridge, " he said to myflustered landlady. "I daresay we shall be up till all hours. We promiseto see that the house is locked up. " Mr. Berridge stood a figure ofsubservience in the background. 

My books were still heaped on the floor. Challis sat down on thewindow-sill and looked over some of them. "Many of these Master Stottprobably read in my library, " he remarked, "in German. Language is nobar to him. He learns a language as you or I would learn a page ofhistory. "

Later on, I remember that we came down to essentials. "I must try andunderstand something of this child's capacities, " I said in answer to ahint of Challis's that I should leave the Wonder alone. "It seems to methat here we have something which is of the first importance, of greaterimportance, indeed, than anything else in the history of the world. "

"But you can't make him speak, " said Challis. 

"I shall try, " I said. "I recognise that we cannot compel him, but Ihave a certain hold over him. I see from what you have told me that hehas treated me with most unusual courtesy. I assure you that severaltimes when I spoke to him this morning he nodded his head. "

"A good beginning, " laughed Challis. 

"I can't understand, " I went on, "how it is that you are not moreinterested. It seems to me that this child knows many things which wehave been patiently attempting to discover since the dawn ofcivilisation. "

"Quite, " said Challis. "I admit that, but . .. Well, I don't think I wantto know. "

"Surely, " I said, "this key to all knowledge----"

"We are not ready for it, " replied Challis. "You can't teach metaphysicsto children. "

Nevertheless my ardour was increased, not abated, by my long talk withChallis. 

"I shall go on, " I said, as I went out to the farm gate with him athalf-past two in the morning. 

"Ah! well, " he answered, "I shall come over and see you when I getback. " He had told me earlier that he was going abroad for some months. 

We hesitated a moment by the gate, and instinctively we both looked upat the vault of the sky and the glimmering dust of stars. 

The same thought was probably in both our minds, the thought of theinsignificance of this little system that revolves round one of thelesser lights of the Milky Way, but that thought was not to be expressedsave by some banality, and we did not speak. 

"I shall certainly look you up when I come back, " said Challis. 

"Yes; I hope you will, " I said lamely. 

I watched the loom of his figure against the vague background till Icould distinguish it no longer. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE PROGRESS AND RELAXATION OF MY SUBJECTION

I

The memory of last summer is presented to me now as a series ofpictures, some brilliant, others vague, others again so uncertain that Icannot be sure how far they are true memories of actual occurrences, andhow far they are interwoven with my thoughts and dreams. I have, forinstance, a recollection of standing on Deane Hill and looking down overthe wide panorama of rural England, through a driving mist of fine rain. This might well be counted among true memories, were it not for the factthat clearly associated with the picture is an image of myself grown toenormous dimensions, a Brocken spectre that threatened the world withtitanic gestures of denouncement, and I seem to remember that thisfigure was saying: "All life runs through my fingers like a handful ofdry sand. " And yet the remembrance has not the quality of a dream. 

I was, undoubtedly, overwrought at times. There were days when thesight of a book filled me with physical nausea, with contempt for thelittleness, the narrow outlook, that seemed to me to characterise everywritten work. I was fiercely, but quite impotently, eager at such timesto demonstrate the futility of all the philosophy ranged on the roughwooden shelves in my gloomy sitting-room. I would walk up and down andgesticulate, struggling, fighting to make clear to myself what a truephilosophy should set forth. I felt at such times that all the knowledgeI needed for so stupendous a task was present with me in someinexplicable way, was even pressing upon me, but that my brain was soclogged and heavy that not one idea of all that priceless wisdom couldbe expressed in clear thought. "I have never been taught to think, " Iwould complain, "I have never perfected the machinery of thought, " andthen some dictum thrown out haphazard by the Wonder--his conception oflight conversation--would recur to me, and I would realise that howeverwell I had been trained, my limitations would remain, that I was anundeveloped animal, only one stage higher than a totem-fearing savage, acreature of small possibilities, incapable of dealing with greatproblems. 

Once the Wonder said to me, in a rare moment of lucid condescension tomy feeble intellect, "You figure space as a void in three dimensions, and time as a line that runs across it, and all other conceptions yourelegate to that measure. " He implied that this was a cumbrous machinerywhich had no relation to reality, and could define nothing. He told methat his idea of force, for example, was a pure abstraction, for whichthere was no figure in my mental outfit. 

Such pronouncements as these left me struggling like a drowning man indeep water. I felt that it _must_ be possible for me to come to thesurface, but I could do nothing but flounder; beating fiercely withlimbs that were so powerful and yet so utterly useless. I saw that myvery metaphors symbolised my feebleness; I had no terms for my ownmental condition; I was forced to resort to some inapplicable physicalanalogy. 

These fits of revolt against the limitations of human thought grew morefrequent as the summer progressed. Day after day my self-sufficiency andconceit were being crushed out of me. I was always in the society of aboy of seven whom I was forced to regard as immeasurably my intellectualsuperior. There was no department of useful knowledge in which I couldcompete with him. Compete indeed! I might as well speak of athird-standard child competing with Macaulay in a general knowledgepaper. 

"_Useful_ knowledge, " I have written, but the phrase needs definition. Imight have taught the Wonder many things, no doubt; the habits of menin great cities, the aspects of foreign countries, or the subtleties ofcricket; but when I was with him I felt--and my feelings must have beentypical--that such things as these were of no account. 

Towards the end of the summer, the occasions upon which I was able tostimulate myself into a condition of bearable complacency were veryrare. I often thought of Challis's advice to leave the Wonder alone. Ishould have gone away if I had been free, but Victor Stott had a use forme, and I was powerless to disobey him. I feared him, but he controlledme at his will. I feared him as I had once feared an imaginary God, butI did not hate him. 

One curious little fragment of wisdom came to me as the result of myexperience--a useless fragment perhaps, but something that has in oneway altered my opinion of my fellow-men. I have learnt that a measure ofself-pride, of complacency, is essential to every human being. I judgeno man any more for displaying an overweening vanity, rather do I envyhim this representative mark of his humanity. The Wonder was completelyand quite inimitably devoid of any conceit, and the word ambition had nomeaning for him. It was inconceivable that he should compare himselfwith any of his fellow-creatures, and it was inconceivable that anyhonour they might have lavished upon him would have given him onemoment's pleasure. He was entirely alone among aliens who were unable tocomprehend him, aliens who could not flatter him, whose opinions werevalueless to him. He had no more common ground on which to air hisknowledge, no more grounds for comparison by which to achieveself-conceit than a man might have in a world tenanted only by sheep. From what I have heard him say on the subject of our slavery topreconceptions, I think the metaphor of sheep is one which he might haveapproved. 

But the result of all this, so far as I am concerned, is a feeling ofadmiration for those men who are capable of such magnificent approvalfor themselves, the causes they espouse, their family, their country, and their species; it is an approval which I fear I can never againattain in full measure. 

I have seen possibilities which have enforced a humbleness that is notgood for my happiness nor conducive to my development. Henceforward Iwill espouse the cause of vanity. It is only the vain who deprecatevanity in others. 

But there were times in the early period of my association with VictorStott when I rebelled vigorously against his complacent assumption of myignorance. 

II

May was a gloriously fine month, and we were much out of doors. Unfortunately, except for one fortnight in August, that was all thesettled weather we had that summer. 

I remember sitting one afternoon staring at the same pond that GingerStott had stared at when he told me that the boy now beside me was a"blarsted freak. "

The Wonder had said nothing that day, but now he began to enunciate someof his incomprehensible commonplaces in that thin, clear voice of his. Iwrote down what I could remember of his utterances when I went home, butnow I read them over again I am exceedingly doubtful whether I reportedhim correctly. There is, however, one dictum which seems clearlyphrased, and when I recall the scene, I remember trying to push theinduction he had started. The pronouncement, as I have it written, is asfollows:

"Pure deduction from a single premiss, unaided by previous knowledge ofthe functions of the terms used in the expansion of the argument, is anact of creation, incontrovertible, and outside the scope of humanreasoning. "

I believe he meant to say--but my notes are horribly confused--thatlogic and philosophy were only relative, being dependent always in agreater or less degree upon the test of a material experiment forverification. 

Here, as always, I find the Wonder's pronouncements very elusive. In onesense I see that what I have quoted here is a self-evident proposition, but I have the feeling that behind it there lies some gleam of wisdomwhich throws a faint light on the profound problem of existence. 

I remember that in my own feeble way I tried to analyse this statement, and for a time I thought I had grasped one significant aspect of it. Itseemed to me that the possibility of conceiving a philosophy that wasnot dependent for verification upon material experiment--that is to say, upon evidence afforded by the five senses--indicates that there issomething which is not matter; but that since the development of such aphilosophy is not possible to our minds, we must argue that ourdependence upon matter is so intimate that it is almost impossible toconceive that we are actuated by any impulse which does not arise out ofa material complex. 

At the back of my mind there seemed to be a thought that I could notfocus, I trembled on the verge of some great revelation that never came. 

Through my thoughts there ran a thread of reverence for the intelligencethat had started my speculations. If only he could speak in terms thatI could understand. 

I looked round at the Wonder. He was, as usual, apparently lost inabstraction, and quite unconscious of my regard. 

The wind was strong on the Common, and he sniffed once or twice and thenwiped his nose. He did not use a handkerchief. 

It came to me at the moment that he was no more than a vulgar littlevillage boy. 

III

There were few incidents to mark the progress of that summer. I markedthe course of time by my own thoughts and feelings, especially by mygrowing submission to the control of the Wonder. 

It was curious to recall that I had once thought of correcting theWonder's manners, of administering, perhaps, a smacking. That was afault of ignorance. I had often erred in the same way in otherexperiences of life, but I had not taken the lesson to heart. I rememberat school our "head" taking us--I was in the lower fifth then--in Latinverse. He rebuked me for a false quantity, and I, very cocksure, disputed the point and read my line. The head pointed out very gravelythat I had been misled by an English analogy in my pronunciation of theword "maritus, " and I grew very hot and ashamed and apologetic. I feelmuch the same now when I think of my early attitude towards the Wonder. But this time, I think, I have profited by my experience. 

There is, however, one incident which in the light of subsequent eventsit seems worth while to record. 

One afternoon in early July, when the sky had lifted sufficiently for usto attempt some sort of a walk, we made our way down through the soddenwoods in the direction of Deane Hill. 

As we were emerging into the lane at the foot of the slope, I saw theHarrison idiot lurking behind the trunk of a big beech. This was onlythe third time I had seen him since I drove him away from the farm, andon the two previous occasions he had not come close to us. 

This time he had screwed up his courage to follow us. As we climbed thelane I saw him slouching up the hedge-side behind us. 

The Wonder took no notice, and we continued our way in silence. 

When we reached the prospect at the end of the hill, where the groundfalls away like a cliff and you have a bird's-eye view of two counties, we sat down on the steps of the monument erected in honour of thoseHampdenshire men whose lives were thrown away in the South-African war. 

That view always has a soothing effect upon me, and I gave myself up toan ecstasy of contemplation and forgot, for a few moments, the presenceof the Wonder, and the fact that the idiot had followed us. 

I was recalled to existence by the sound of a foolish, conciliatorymumbling, and looked round to see the leering face of the Harrison idiotogling the Wonder from the corner of the plinth. The Wonder was betweenme and the idiot, but he was apparently oblivious of either of us. 

I was about to rise and drive the idiot away, but the Wonder, stillstaring out at some distant horizon, said quietly, "Let him be. "

I was astonished, but I sat still and awaited events. 

The idiot behaved much as I have seen a very young and nervous puppybehave. 

He came within a few feet of us, gurgling and crooning, flapping hishands and waggling his great head; his uneasy eyes wandered from theWonder to me and back again, but it was plainly the Wonder whom hewished to propitiate. Then he suddenly backed as if he had dared toomuch, flopped on to the wet grass and regarded us both with foolish, goggling eyes. For a few seconds he lay still, and then he began tosquirm along the ground towards us, a few inches at a time, stoppingevery now and again to bleat and gurgle with that curious, crooningnote which he appeared to think would pacificate the object of hisovertures. 

I stood by, as it were; ready to obey the first hint that the presenceof this horrible creature was distasteful to the Wonder, but he gave nosign. 

The idiot had come within five or six feet of us, wriggling himselfalong the wet grass, before the Wonder looked at him. The look when itcame was one of those deliberate, intentional stares which made one feelso contemptible and insignificant. 

The idiot evidently regarded this look as a sign of encouragement. Heknelt up, began to flap his hands and changed his crooning note to apleased, emphatic bleat. 

"A-ba-ba, " he blattered, and made uncouth gestures, by which I think hemeant to signify that he wanted the Wonder to come and play with him. 

Still the Wonder gave no sign, but his gaze never wavered, and thoughthe idiot was plainly not intimidated, he never met that gaze for morethan a second or two. Nevertheless he came on, walking now on his knees, and at last stretched out a hand to touch the boy he so curiouslydesired for a playmate. 

That broke the spell. The Wonder drew back quickly--he never allowed oneto touch him--got up and climbed two or three steps higher up the baseof the monument. "Send him away, " he said to me. 

"That'll do, " I said threateningly to the idiot, and at the sound of myvoice and the gesture of my hand, he blenched, yelped, rolled over awayfrom me, and then got to his feet and shambled off for several yardsbefore stopping to regard us once more with his pacificatory, disgustingogle. 

"Send him away, " repeated the Wonder, as I hesitated, and I rose to myfeet and pretended to pick up a stone. 

That was enough. The idiot yelped again and made off. This time he didnot stop, though he looked over his shoulder several times as helolloped away among the low gorse, to which look I replied always withthe threat of an imaginary stone. 

The Wonder made no comment on the incident as we walked home. He hadshown no sign of fear. It occurred to me that my guardianship of him wasmerely a convenience, not a protection from any danger. 

IV

As time went on it became increasingly clear to me that my chance ofobtaining the Wonder's confidence was becoming more and more remote. 

At first he had replied to my questions; usually, it is true, by no morethan an inclination of his head, but he soon ceased to make even thisacknowledgment of my presence. 

So I fell by degrees into a persistent habit of silence, admitted mysubmission by obtruding neither remark nor question upon my constantcompanion, and gave up my intention of using the Wonder as a means togratify my curiosity concerning the problem of existence. 

Once or twice I saw Crashaw at a distance. He undoubtedly recognised theWonder, and I think he would have liked to come up and rebukehim--perhaps me, also; but probably he lacked the courage. He wouldhover within sight of us for a few minutes, scowling, and then stalkaway. He gave me the impression of being a dangerous man, a thwartedfanatic, brooding over his defeat. If I had been Mrs. Stott, I shouldhave feared the intrusion of Crashaw more than the foolish overtures ofthe Harrison idiot. But there was, of course, the Wonder's compellingpower to be reckoned with, in the case of Crashaw. 

V

Challis came back in early September, and it was he who first coaxed, and then goaded me into rebellion. 

Challis did not come too soon. 

At the end of August I was seeing visions, not pleasant, inspiritingvisions, but the indefinite, perplexing shapes of delirium. 

I think it must have been in August that I stood on Deane Hill, throughan afternoon of fine, driving rain, and had a vision of myself playingtricks with the sands of life. 

I had begun to lose my hold on reality. Silence, contemplation, along-continued wrestle with the profound problems of life, werecombining to break up the intimacy of life and matter, and my brain wasnot of the calibre to endure the strain. 

Challis saw at once what ailed me. 

He came up to the farm one morning at twelve o'clock. The date was, Ibelieve, the twelfth of September. It was a brooding, heavy morning, with half a gale of wind blowing from the south-west, but it had notrained, and I was out with the Wonder when Challis arrived. 

He waited for me and talked to the flattered Mrs. Berridge, remonstratedkindly with her husband for his neglect of the farm, and incidentallygave him a rebate on the rent. 

When I came in, he insisted that I should come to lunch with him atChallis Court. 

I consented, but stipulated that I must be back at Pym by three o'clockto accompany the Wonder for his afternoon walk. 

Challis looked at me curiously, but allowed the stipulation. 

We hardly spoke as we walked down the hill--the habit of silence hadgrown upon me, but after lunch Challis spoke out his mind. 

On that occasion I hardly listened to him, but he came up to the farmagain after tea and marched me off to dinner at the Court. I wasstrangely plastic when commanded, but when he suggested that I shouldgive up my walks with the Wonder, go away . .. I smiled and said"Impossible, " as though that ended the matter. 

Challis, however, persisted, and I suppose I was not too far gone tolisten to him. I remember his saying: "That problem is not for you or meor any man living to solve by introspection. Our work is to addknowledge little by little, data here and there, for future evidence. "

The phrase struck me, because the Wonder had once said "There are nodata, " when in the early days I had asked him whether he could saydefinitely if there was any future existence possible for us?

Now Challis put it to me that our work was to find data, that everylittle item of real knowledge added to the feeble store man hasaccumulated in his few thousand years of life, was a step, the greateststep any man could possibly make. 

"But could we not get, not a small but a very important item, fromVictor Stott?"

Challis shook his head. "He is too many thousands of years ahead of us, "he said. "We can only bridge the gap by many centuries of patient toil. If a revelation were made to us, we should not understand it. "

So, by degrees, Challis's influence took possession of me and roused meto self-assertion. 

One morning, half in dread, I stayed at home and read a novel--no otherreading could hold my attention--philosophy had become nauseating. 

I expected to see the strange little figure of the Wonder come acrossthe Common, but he never came, nor did I receive any reproach from EllenMary. I think she had forgotten her fear of the Harrison idiot. 

Nevertheless, I did not give up my guardianship all at once. Three timesafter that morning I took the Wonder for a walk. He made no allusion tomy defalcations. Indeed he never spoke. He relinquished me as he hadtaken me up, without comment or any expression of feeling. 

VI

On the twenty-ninth of September I went down to Challis Court and stayedthere for a week. Then I returned for a few days to Wood Farm in orderto put my things together and pack my books. I had decided to go toCairo for the winter with Challis. 

At half-past one o'clock on Thursday, the eighth of October, I was inthe sitting-room, when I saw the figure of Mrs. Stott coming across theCommon. She came with a little stumbling run. I could see that she wasagitated even before she reached the farmyard gate. 

CHAPTER XVII

RELEASE

I

She opened the front door without knocking, and came straight into mysitting-room. 

"'E's not 'ere, " she said in a manner that left it doubtful whether shemade an assertion or asked a question. 

"Your son?" I said. I had risen when she came into the room, "No; Ihaven't seen him to-day. "

Ellen Mary was staring at me, but it was clear that she neither saw norheard me. She had a look of intense concentration. One could see thatshe was calculating, thinking, thinking. .. . 

I went over to her and took her by the arm. I gently shook her. "Now, tell me what's the matter? What has happened?" I asked. 

She made an effort to collect herself, loosened her arm from my hold andwith an instinctive movement pushed forward the old bonnet, which hadslipped to the back of her head. 

"'E 'asn't been in to 'is dinner, " she said hurriedly. "I've been onthe Common looking for 'im. "

"He may have made a mistake in the time, " I suggested. 

She made a movement as though to push me on one side, and turned towardsthe door. She was calculating again. Her expression said quite plainly, "Could he be there, could he be _there_?"

"Come, come, " I said, "there is surely no need to be anxious yet. "

She turned on me. "'E never makes a mistake in the time, " she saidfiercely, "'e always knows the time to the minute without clock orwatch. Why did you leave 'im alone?"

She broke off in her attack upon me and continued: "'E's never been latebefore, not a minute, and now it's a hour after 'is time. "

"He may be at home by now, " I said. She took the hint instantly andstarted back again with the same stumbling little run. 

I picked up my hat and followed her. 

II

The Wonder was not at the cottage. 

"Now, my dear woman, you must keep calm, " I said. "There is absolutelyno reason to be disturbed. You had better go to Challis Court and see ifhe is in the library, I----"

"I'm a fool, " broke in Ellen Mary with sudden decision, and she set offagain without another word. I followed her back to the Common andwatched her out of sight. I was more disturbed about her than about thenon-appearance of the Wonder. He was well able to take care of himself, but she. .. . How strange that with all her calculations she had notthought of going to Challis Court, to the place where her son had spentso many days. I began to question whether the whole affair was not, insome way, a mysterious creation of her own disordered brain. 

Nevertheless, I took upon myself to carry out that part of the programmewhich I had not been allowed to state in words to Mrs. Stott, and setout for Deane Hill. It was just possible that the Wonder might haveslipped down that steep incline and injured himself. Possible, but veryunlikely; the Wonder did not take the risks common to boys of his age, he did not disport himself on dangerous slopes. 

As I walked I felt a sense of lightness, of relief from depression. Ihad not been this way by myself since the end of August. It was good tobe alone and free. 

The day was fine and not cold, though the sun was hidden. I noticed thatthe woods showed scarcely a mark of autumn decline. 

There was not a soul to be seen by the monument. I scrambled down theslope and investigated the base of the hill and came back another waythrough the woods. I saw no one. I stopped continually and whistledloudly. If he is anywhere near at hand, I thought, and in trouble, hewill hear that and answer me. I did not call him by name. I did not knowwhat name to call. It would have seemed absurd to have called "Victor. "No one ever addressed him by name. 

My return route brought me back to the south edge of the Common, thepoint most remote from the farm. There I met a labourer whom I knew bysight, a man named Hawke. He was carrying a stick, and prodding with itfoolishly among the furze and gorse bushes. The bracken was alreadydying down. 

"What are you looking for?" I asked. 

"It's this 'ere Master Stott, sir, " he said, looking up. "'E's gotloarst seemingly. "

I felt a sudden stab of self-reproach. I had been taking things tooeasily. I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to four. 

"Mr. Challis 'ave told me to look for 'un, " added the man, and continuedhis aimless prodding of the gorse. 

"Where is Mr. Challis?" I asked. 

"'E's yonder, soomewheres. " He made a vague gesture in the direction ofPym. 

The sun had come out, and the Common was all aglow. I hastened towardsthe village. 

On the way I met Farmer Bates and two or three labourers. They, too, were beating among the gorse and brown bracken. They told me that Mr. Challis was at the cottage and I hurried on. All the neighbourhood, itseems, was searching for the Wonder. In the village I saw three or fourwomen standing with aprons over their heads, talking together. 

I had never seen Pym so animated. 

III

I met Challis in the lane. He was coming away from Mrs. Stott's cottage. 

"Have you found him?" I asked stupidly. I knew quite well that theWonder was not found, and yet I had a fond hope that I might, nevertheless, be mistaken. 

Challis shook his head. "There will be a mad woman in that cottage if hedoesn't come back by nightfall, " he remarked with a jerk of his head. "I've done what I can for her. "

I explained that I had been over to Deane Hill, searching and calling. 

"You didn't see anything?" asked Challis, echoing my foolish query of amoment before. I shook my head. 

We were both agitated without doubt. 

We soon came up with Farmer Bates and his men. They stopped and touchedtheir hats when they saw us, and we put the same silly question to them. 

"You haven't found him?" We knew perfectly well that they would haveannounced the fact at once if they had found him. 

"One of you go over to the Court and get any man you can find to comeand help, " said Challis. "Tell Heathcote to send every one. "

One of the labourers touched his cap again, and started off at once witha lumbering trot. 

Challis and I walked on in silence, looking keenly about us and stoppingevery now and then and calling. We called "Hallo! Hallo-o!" It was animprovement upon my whistle. 

"He's such a little chap, " muttered Challis once; "it would be so easyto miss him if he were unconscious. "

It struck me that the reference to the Wonder was hardly sufficientlyrespectful. I had never thought of him as "a little chap. " But Challishad not known him so intimately as I had. 

The shadows were fast creeping over the Common. At the woodside it wasalready twilight. The whole of the western sky right up to the zenithwas a finely shaded study in brilliant orange and yellow. "More rain, " Ithought instinctively, and paused for a moment to watch the sunset. Theblack distance stood clearly silhouetted against the sky. One coulddiscern the sharp outline of tiny trees on the distant horizon. 

We met Heathcote and several other men in the lane. 

"Shan't be able to do much to-night, sir, " said Heathcote. "It'll bedark in 'alf an hour, sir. "

"Well, do what you can in half an hour, " replied Challis, and to me hesaid, "You'd better come back with me. We've done what we can. "

I had a picture of him then as the magnate; I had hardly thought of himin that light before. The arduous work of the search he could delegateto his inferiors. Still, he had come out himself, and I doubt not thathe had been altogether charming to the bewildered, distraught mother. 

I acquiesced in his suggestion. I was beginning to feel very tired. 

Mrs. Heathcote was at the gate when we arrived at the Court. "'Ave theyfound 'im, sir?" she asked. 

"Not yet, " replied Challis. 

I followed him into the house. 

IV

As I walked back at ten o'clock it was raining steadily. I had refusedthe offer of a trap. I went through the dark and sodden wood, andlingered and listened. The persistent tap, tap, tap of the rain on theleaves irritated me. How could one hear while that noise was going on?There was no other sound. There was not a breath of wind. Only thatperpetual tap, tap, tap, patter, patter, drip, tap, tap. It seemed as ifit might go on through eternity. .. . 

I went to the Stotts' cottage, though I knew there could be no news. Challis had given strict instructions that any news should be brought tohim immediately. If it was bad news it was to be brought to him beforethe mother was told. 

There was a light burning in the cottage, and the door was set wideopen. 

I went up to the door but I did not go in. 

Ellen Mary was sitting in a high chair, her hands clasped together, andshe rocked continually to and fro. She made no sound; she merely rockedherself with a steady, regular persistence. 

She did not see me standing at the open door, and I moved quietly away. 

As I walked over the Common--I avoided the wood deliberately--I wonderedwhat was the human limit of endurance. I wondered whether Ellen Maryhad not reached that limit. 

Mrs. Berridge had not gone to bed, and there were some visitors in thekitchen. I heard them talking. Mrs. Berridge came out when I opened thefront door. 

"Any news, sir?" she asked. 

"No; no news, " I said. I had been about to ask her the same question. 

V

I did not go to sleep for some time. I had a picture of Ellen Marybefore my eyes, and I could still hear that steady pat, patter, drip, ofthe rain on the beech leaves. 

In the night I awoke suddenly, and thought I heard a long, wailing cryout on the Common. I got up and looked out of the window, but I couldsee nothing. The rain was still falling, but there was a blur of lightthat showed where the moon was shining behind the clouds. The cry, ifthere had been a cry, was not repeated. 

I went back to bed and soon fell asleep again. 

I do not know whether I had been dreaming, but I woke suddenly with apresentation of the little pond on the Common very clear before me. 

"We never looked in the pond, " I thought, and then--"but he could nothave fallen into the pond; besides, it's not two feet deep. "

It was full daylight, and I got up and found that it was nearly seveno'clock. 

The rain had stopped, but there was a scurry of low, threatening cloudthat blew up from the south. 

I dressed at once and went out. I made my way directly to the Stotts'cottage. 

The lamp was still burning and the door open, but Ellen Mary had fallenforward on to the table; her head was pillowed on her arms. 

"There _is_ a limit to our endurance, " I reflected, "and she has reachedit. "

I left her undisturbed. 

Outside I met two of Farmer Bates's labourers going back to work. 

"I want you to come up with me to the pond, " I said. 

VI

The pond was very full. 

On the side from which we approached, the ground sloped gradually, andthe water was stretching out far beyond its accustomed limits. 

On the farther side the gorse among the trunks of the three ash-treescame right to the edge of the bank. On that side the bank was three orfour feet high. 

We came to the edge of the pond, and one of the labourers waded in alittle way--the water was very shallow on that side--but we could seenothing for the scum of weed, little spangles of dirty green, and a massof some other plant that had borne a little white flower in the earlierpart of the year--stuff like dwarf hemlock. 

Under the farther bank, however, I saw one comparatively clear space ofblack water. 

"Let's go round, " I said, and led the way. 

There was a tiny path which twisted between the gorse roots and came outat the edge of the farther bank by the stem of the tallest ash. I hadseen tiny village boys pretending to fish from this point with a stickand a piece of string. There was a dead branch of ash some five or sixfeet long, with the twigs partly twisted off; it was lying among thebushes. I remembered that I had seen small boys using this branch toclear away the surface weed. I picked it up and took it with me. 

I wound one arm round the trunk of the ash, and peered over into thewater under the bank. 

I caught sight of something white under the water. I could not seedistinctly. I thought it was a piece of broken ware--the bottom of abasin. I had picked up the ash stick and was going to probe the deeperwater with it. Then I saw that the dim white object was globular. 

The end of my stick was actually in the water. I withdrew it quickly, and threw it behind me. 

My heart began to throb painfully. 

I turned my face away and leaned against the ash-tree. 

"Can you see anythin'?" asked one of the labourers who had come upbehind me. 

"Oh! Christ!" I said. I turned quickly from the pond and pressed a waythrough the gorse. 

I was overwhelmingly and disgustingly sick. 

VII

By degrees the solid earth ceased to wave and sway before me like arolling heave of water, and I looked up, pressing my hands to myhead--my hands were as cold as death. 

My clothes were wet and muddy where I had lain on the sodden ground. Igot to my feet and instinctively began to brush at the mud. 

I was still a little giddy, and I swayed and sought for support. 

I could see the back of one labourer. He was kneeling by the ash-treebending right down over the water. The other man was standing in thepond, up to his waist in water and mud. I could just see his head andshoulders. .. . 

I staggered away in the direction of the village. 

VIII

I found Ellen Mary still sitting in the same chair. The lamp wasfluttering to extinction, the flame leaping spasmodically, dying downtill it seemed that it had gone out, and then again suddenly flickeringup with little clicking bursts of flame. The air reeked intolerably ofparaffin. 

I blew the lamp out and pushed it on one side. 

There was no need to break the news to Ellen Mary. She had known lastnight, and now she was beyond the reach of information. 

She sat upright in her chair and stared out into the immensity. Herhands alone moved, and they were not still for an instant. They lay inher lap, and her fingers writhed and picked at her dress. 

I spoke to her once, but I knew that her mind was beyond the reach of mywords. 

"It is just as well, " I thought; "but we must get her away. "

I went out and called to the woman next door. 

She was in her kitchen, but the door was open. She came out when Iknocked. 

"Poor thing, " she said, when I told her. "It _'as_ been a shock, nodoubt. She was so wrapped hup in the boy. "

She could hardly have said less if her neighbour had lost half-a-crown. 

"Get her into your cottage before they come, " I said harshly, and lefther. 

I wanted to get out of the lane before the men came back, but I hadhardly started before I saw them coming. 

They had made a chair of their arms, and were carrying him between them. They had not the least fear of him, now. 

IX

The Harrison idiot suddenly jumped out of the hedge. 

I put my hand to my throat. I wanted to cry out, to stop him, but Icould not move. I felt sick again, and utterly weak and powerless, and Icould not take my gaze from that little doll with the great droopinghead that rolled as the men walked. 

I was reminded, disgustingly, of children with a guy. 

The idiot ran shambling down the lane. He knew the two men, whotolerated him and laughed at him. He was not afraid of them nor theirburden. 

He came right up to them. I heard one of the men say gruffly, "Now then, you cut along off!"

I believe the idiot must have touched the dead body. 

I was gripping my throat in my hand; I was trying desperately to cryout. 

Whether the idiot actually touched the body or not I cannot say, but hemust have realised in his poor, bemused brain that the thing was dead. 

He cried out with his horrible, inhuman cry, turned, and ran up the lanetowards me. He fell on his face a few yards from me, scrambled wildly tohis feet again and came on yelping and shrieking. He was wildly, horribly afraid. I caught sight of his face as he passed me, and hismouth was distorted into a square, his upper lip horribly drawn up overhis ragged, yellow teeth. Suddenly he dashed at the hedge and clawed hisway through. I heard him still yelping appallingly as he rushed awayacross the field. .. . 

CHAPTER XVIII

IMPLICATIONS

I

The jury returned a verdict of "Accidental death. "

If there had been any traces of a struggle, I had not noticed them whenI came to the edge of the pond. There may have been marks as if a foothad slipped. I was not thinking of evidence when I looked into thewater. 

There were marks enough when the police came to investigate, but theywere the marks made by a twelve-stone man in hobnail boots, who hadscrambled into, and out of, the pond. As the inspector said, it was notworth while wasting any time in looking for earlier traces of footstepsbelow those marks. 

Nor were there any signs of violence on the body. It was in no waydisfigured, save by the action of the water, in which it had lain forperhaps eighteen hours. 

There was, indeed, only one point of any significance from the jury'spoint of view, and that they put on one side, if they considered it atall; the body was pressed into the mud. 

The Coroner asked a few questions about this fact. 

Was the mud very soft? Yes, very soft, liquid on top. 

How was the body lying? Face downwards. 

What part of the body was deepest in the mud? The chest. The witnesssaid he had hard work to get the upper part of the body released; thehead was free, but the mud held the rest. "The mooad soocked like, " wasthe expressive phrase of the witness. 

The Coroner passed on to other things. Had any one a spite against thechild? and such futilities. Only once more did he revert to thatsolitary significant fact. "Would it be possible, " he asked of theabashed and self-conscious labourer, "would it be possible for the bodyto have worked its way down into the soft mud as you have described itto have been found?"

"We-el, " said the witness, "'twas in the stacky mooad, 'twas through thesarft stoof. "

"But this soft mud would suck any solid body down, would it not?"persisted the Coroner. 

And the witness recalled the case of a duck that had been sucked intothe same soft pond mud the summer before, and cited the instance. Heforgot to add that on that occasion the mud had not been under water. 

The Coroner accepted the instance. There can be no question that both heand the jury were anxious to accept the easier explanation. 

II

But I know perfectly well that the Wonder did not fall into the pond byaccident. 

I should have known, even if that conclusive evidence with regard to hisbeing pushed into the mud had never come to light. 

He may have stood by the ash-tree and looked into the water, but hewould never have fallen. He was too perfectly controlled; and, with allhis apparent abstraction, no one was ever more alive to the detail ofhis surroundings. He and I have walked together perforce in manyslippery places, but I have never known him to fall or even begin tolose his balance, whereas I have gone down many times. 

Yes; I know that he was pushed into the pond, and I know that he washeld down in the mud, most probably by the aid of that ash stick I hadheld. But it was not for me to throw suspicion on any one at thatinquest, and I preferred to keep my thoughts and my inferences tomyself. I should have done so, even if I had been in possession ofstronger evidence. 

I hope that it was the Harrison idiot who was to blame. He was notdangerous in the ordinary sense, but he might quite well have done thething in play--as he understood it. Only I cannot quite understand hispushing the body down after it fell. That seems to arguevindictiveness--and a logic which I can hardly attribute to the idiot. Still, who can tell what went on in the distorted mind of that poorcreature? He is reported to have rescued the dead body of a rabbit fromthe undergrowth on one occasion, and to have blubbered when he could notbring it back to life. 

There is but one other person who could have been implicated, and Ihesitate to name him in this place. Yet one remembers what terrific actsof misapplied courage and ferocious brutality the fanatics of historyhave been capable of performing when their creed and their authorityhave been set at naught. 

III

Ellen Mary never recovered her sanity. She died a few weeks ago in theCounty Asylum. I hear that her husband attended the funeral. When shelost her belief in the supernal wisdom and power of her god, her worldmust have fallen about her. The thing she had imagined to be solid, real, everlasting, had proved to be friable and destructible like allother human building. 

IV

The Wonder is buried in Chilborough churchyard. 

You may find the place by its proximity to the great marble mausoleumerected over the remains of Sir Edward Bigg, the well-known brewer andphilanthropist. 

The grave of Victor Stott is marked by a small stone, some six incheshigh, which is designed to catch the foot rather than the eye of theseeker. 

The stone bears the initials "V. S. , " and a date--no more. 

V

I saw the Wonder before he was buried. 

I went up into the little bedroom and looked at him in his tiny coffin. 

I was no longer afraid of him. His power over me was dissipated. He wasno greater and no less than any other dead thing. 

It was the same with every one. He had become that "poor little boy ofMrs. Stott's. " No one spoke of him with respect now. No one seemed toremember that he had been in any way different from other "poor littlefellows" who had died an untimely death. 

One thing did strike me as curious. The idiot, the one person who hadnever feared him living, had feared him horribly when he was dead. .. . 

CHAPTER XIX

EPILOGUE

THE USES OF MYSTERY

Something Challis has told me; something I have learned for myself; andthere is something which has come to me from an unknown source. 

But here again we are confronted with the original difficulty--thedifficulty that for some conceptions there is no verbal figure. 

It is comprehensible, it is, indeed, obvious that the deeper abstractspeculation of the Wonder's thought cannot be set out by any metaphorthat would be understood by a lesser intelligence. 

We see that many philosophers, whose utterances have been recorded inhuman history--that record which floats like a drop of oil on thelimitless ocean of eternity--have been confronted with this samedifficulty, and have woven an intricate and tedious design of words intheir attempt to convey some single conception--some conception whichthemselves could see but dimly when disguised in the masquerade oflanguage; some figure that as it was limned grew ever more confusedbeneath the wrappings of metaphor, so that we who read can glimpsescarce a hint of its original shape and likeness. We see, also, that thevery philosophers who caricatured their own eidolon, became intriguedwith the logical abstraction of words and were led away into awilderness of barren deduction--their one inspired vision of a stablepremiss distorted and at last forgotten. 

How then shall we hope to find words to adumbrate a philosophy whichstarts by the assumption that we can have no impression of reality untilwe have rid ourselves of the interposing and utterly false concepts ofspace and time, which delimit the whole world of human thought. 

I admit that one cannot even begin to do this thing; within our presentlimitations our whole machinery of thought is built of these twooriginal concepts. They are the only gauges wherewith we may measureevery reality, every abstraction; wherewith we may give outline to anyimage or process of the mind. Only when we endeavour to grapple withthat indeterminable mystery of consciousness can we conceive, howeverdimly, some idea of a pure abstraction uninfluenced by and independentof, those twin bases of our means of thought. 

Here it is that Challis has paused. Here he says that we must wait, thatno revelation can reveal what we are incapable of understanding, thatonly by the slow process of evolution can we attain to any understandingof the mystery we have sought to solve by our futile and primitivehypotheses. 

"But then, " I have pressed him, "why do you hesitate to speak of whatyou heard on that afternoon?"

And once he answered me:

"I glimpsed a finality, " he said, "and that appalled me. Don't you seethat ignorance is the means of our intellectual pleasure? It is thesolving of the problem that brings enjoyment--the solved problem has nofurther interest. So when all is known, the stimulus for action ceases;when all is known there is quiescence, nothingness. Perfect knowledgeimplies the peace of death, implies the state of being one--ourpleasures are derived from action, from differences, from heterogeneity. 

"Oh! pity the child, " said Challis, "for whom there could be no mystery. Is not mystery the first and greatest joy of life? Beyond the gate thereis unexplored mystery for us in our childhood. When that is explored, there are new and wonderful possibilities beyond the hills, then beyondthe seas, beyond the known world, in the everyday chances and movementsof the unknown life in which we are circumstanced. 

"Surely we should all perish through sheer inanity, or die desperatelyby suicide if no mystery remained in the world. Mystery takes a thousandbeautiful shapes; it lurks even in the handiwork of man, in a stone god, or in some mighty, intricate machine, incomprehensibly deliberate anddetermined. The imagination endows the man-made thing with consciousnessand powers, whether of reservation or aloofness; the similitude ofmeditation and profundity is wrought into stone. Is there not source formystery to the uninstructed in the great machine registering theprogress of its own achievement with each solemn, recurrent beat of itsmetal pulse?

"Behind all these things is the wonder of the imagination that neverapproaches more nearly to the creation of a hitherto unknown image thanwhen it thus hesitates on the verge of mystery. 

"There is yet so much, so very much cause for wondering speculation. Science gains ground so slowly. Slowly it has outlined, however vaguely, the uncertainties of our origin so far as this world is concerned, whilethe mystic has fought for his entrancing fairy tales one by one. 

"The mystic still holds his enthralling belief in the succession ofpeoples who have risen and died--the succeeding world-races, red, black, yellow, and white, which have in turn dominated this planet. Sciencewith its hammer and chisel may lay bare evidence, may collate material, date man's appearance, call him the most recent of placental mammals, trace his superstitions and his first conceptions of a god from theelemental fears of the savage. But the mystic turns aside with anassumption of superior knowledge; he waves away objective evidence; hehas a certainty impressed upon his mind. 

"And the mystic is a power. He compels a multitude of followers, becausehe offers an attraction greater than the facts of science. He tells of amystery profounder than any problem solved by patient investigation, because his mystery is incomprehensible even by himself; and in fearlest any should comprehend it, he disguises the approach with an arrayof lesser mysteries, man-made; with terminologies, symbologies and hightalk of esotericism too fearful for any save the initiate. 

"But we must preserve our mystic in some form against the awful timewhen science shall have determined a limit; when the long history ofevolution shall be written in full, and every stage of world-buildingshall be made plain. When the cycle of atomic dust to atomic dust isdemonstrated, and the detail of the life-process is taught andunderstood, we shall have a fierce need for the mystic to save us fromthe futility of a world we understand, to lie to us if need be, toinspirit our material and regular minds with some breath of deliciousmadness. We shall need the mystic then, or the completeness of ourknowledge will drive us at last to complete the dusty circle in oureagerness to escape from a world we understand. .. . 

"See how man clings to his old and useless traditions; see how heopposes at every step the awful force of progress. At each stage heprotests that the thing that is, is good, or that the thing that was andhas gone, was better. He despises new knowledge and fondly clings to thebelief that once men were greater than they now are. He looks back tothe more primitive, and endows it with that mystery he cannot find inhis own times. So have men ever looked lingeringly behind them. It is aninstinct, a great and wonderful inheritance that postpones the moment ofdisillusionment. 

"We are still mercifully surrounded with the countless mysteries ofeveryday experience, all the evidences of the unimaginable stimulus wecall life. Would you take them away? Would you resolve life into adisease of the ether--a disease of which you and I, all life and allmatter, are symptoms? Would you teach that to the child, and explain tohim that the wonder of life and growth is no wonder, but a demonstrableresult of impeded force, to be evaluated by the application of anadequate formula?

"You and I, " said Challis, "are children in the infancy of the world. Let us to our play in the nursery of our own times. The day will come, perhaps, when humanity shall have grown and will have to take uponitself the heavy burden of knowledge. But you need not fear that thatwill be in our day, nor in a thousand years. 

"Meanwhile leave us our childish fancies, our little imaginings, ourhope--children that we are--of those impossible mysteries beyond thehills. .. . "

THE END